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]

*~*~*

Chapter Six

It had been over three years since Giles offered his couch to William, and strangely, it still felt like habit. When he arrived that night, the vampire found everything prepared for him—Weetabix and telly alike. There was an even an ashtray on the coffee table. It looked to be an antique, and though he was tempted, he decided not to test that ‘no smoking in the house’ policy. Instead, he poured himself a glass of blood, heated it up while leaving a message for the administration to phone him at the Watcher’s flat, and flopped onto the settee to channel surf before inevitable sleep.

The lot of ‘em are going to think I’m a poof, he thought dryly, glad to have his mind occupied elsewhere, even if the material was not entirely engaging. See me and the old man together all the time as it is. Now they have to make bleedin’ house calls.

No rest would be found that night. Despite his attempts, William was too much absorbed in the knowledge that he would be home soon. The only place that had ever felt like home. He was dreading it; cold fingers spooling knots around his insides. What Ripper had said was right, of course, and in any regard, protecting her was more important than sparing his feelings. But it hurt. It made his body tremble at the mere notion of the days ahead.

He wished absently that his heart could beat if only to hear it pounding its terror.

Tomorrow was the commencement test of his personal progression. London had given him many things. A home away from home, an occupation, a friend—a true friend. He hadn’t had one of those since before he died. The coming days would be hard, quite possibly unbearable, but there was comfort in knowing he wouldn’t be alone. Giles wasn’t one to betray friends for the comfort of others. He knew he was foolish to believe that everything could remain as it was here with the mindset that it was only a change of scenery, but the old man had a history with these kids that he did not have with him. And then, likewise, so much had passed here. It would be interesting, frightening but interesting, to see how things would play out.

Work would undeniably resume. Instead of the library, there was the Magic Box—(assuming they still met there, given the condition of Red and all). And then there was Angel. The ponce. The poofter. Peaches. How he loathed the thought of seeing him again. He wouldn’t expect civility—couldn’t. Soul or no soul, the very thought of what the vampire meant to Buffy—all the things he could never—made him wrench with inward torment and hate. And rationally, no one would understand the Watcher’s bizarre allegiance with the demon they were supposed to hate above all others.

Unless they know about my Jiminy Cricket, he thought. And even then…it’s doubtful.

There were also aspects of innovation, despite the harsh circumstances of this journey. Beforehand when he traveled, he left everything—save Drusilla—behind. To actually have luggage and a need to take studies with him was a fresh experience. He felt needed. Helpful.

The next day would be a busy one. Aside from settling his affairs, there was hair to dye, books to pack and part with, a supply of blood to stock for the plane ride, and of course, the uncovering of the blanket he used to navigate during day lit hours. He had not needed it for a long time; Giles always brought his morning beverage to the curator’s apartment where they discussed the events for the day before going downstairs to open the library. Any external navigation was performed at night while the sun was safely away. There was no additional need for further travel. He had everything he needed in the library, from books to paper, smokes to Weetabix, and daily deliveries of blood. William had not been so bold as to lose his sunshine protector, and while he knew Giles was looking into night flights, the transatlantic trip could not go thoroughly daylight free.

The vampire heaved a breath, suddenly desperate for a smoke. Sleep had never come particularly easy for him, and the knowledge of what awaited the next day did little to aid his plight. However, it came little by little in small doses. A catnap here, a nightmare there. Anything to get him through until the sun arose—the scent tainting the air upon every upheaval. Around five, he finally succumbed to deep though easily disturbed slumber. He jerked awake the instant Giles’s chamber door cracked open.

“I suppose it’s needless to inquire as to your alertness,” the Watcher said in greeting, moving hurriedly through the kitchen and to his brewing coffee maker.

William grinned a tight, sleepy grin and stretched. “Morning to you, too, Ripper. You’re off early…” He sat up and squinted at the clock that hung over the telly. “I think.”

“We have a lot to accomplish within a short amount of time,” he agreed, coming into view. “Are you well to stay here today? Have you spoken with the library administration?”

“They’re calling me…sometime.” William quirked a brow, for the first time noting the man’s attire. He was set and ready to go, alert and jittery without caffeinated incentive. There was no actual need for coffee today, beyond habit. “Here. I gave ‘em your phone number, so I’m stuck ‘ere until they ring me up.”

Nodding, Giles slurped down his coffee, placed it on the kitchen table (off the coaster—he was in a hurry), and moved for the door. “Right. Then it’s best you stay here.” He stopped as his hand reached for the knob, and he turned thoughtfully back to his vampire roommate. “I don’t suppose, though, that you could run by the post office after your call and—”

“What do I look like? A bleedin’ delivery boy?”

Giles snickered, his features mischievous. William was glad to see it. In the beat of all this tension, they both would be lost without humor. “Buffy,” he said simply, waiting, gauging a response.

The name once upon a time would have enticed him to anything that was asked, and though it hadn’t lost its power, the vampire had grown to a state of diplomacy and self-control. He shivered as he chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, the magic name won’t work on everything, mate. I’m already hauling my pale ass across the ocean for her—but I won’t become your sodding mailman.”

There was a shrug of pure innocence. “It was worth a try. I will go by the library and put a sign in the window. ‘Family emergency’ or what have you.”

“Right then.”

“Here.” Giles reached to the stand beside the door and tossed a small box in the vampire’s direction. It was hair color; higher quality than the stuff he used forever ago. William blinked his surprise. “I picked it up last night. Thought you might find it useful.”

He grinned. “Covers up that pesky soul, eh?”

“So I’ve been told. I’ll be back this afternoon. And then we should really…”

“Leave. I know. I’m used to the idea, Ripper.”

“And you will be ready? To face everything?”

William snickered. “How can anyone ever ‘be ready’ for this, mate? Go back to the town that began and ended you to look the girl you love in the face while knowing you’re the source fer her pain an’ sufferin’? And it’s not just her. I’ll hafta face Nibblet an’ Red. Harris…I already know what to expect. That wanker never gave me the benefit of a doubt.” He sighed, running a hand through his dark strands. “Peaches…good god, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to talk to the ponce. I hated him before…I don’t think I’ll be able to bloody look at him now.” Another sigh and his head shook sullenly. “It hurts too much.”

“What does?”

“She…she loves ‘im no matter. I know she doesn’t anymore, but that’s a bloody hard thing to get over. I’ve always hated that. Knowin’ even if I got close enough, I’d still be number two.” William ran a finger over the hair dye and smiled softly. “Can’t do much about it. Don’t deserve anything else. Don’t—”

Giles rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated breath, coaxing the vampire’s gaze to his, tingling with surprise. “Honestly,” he muttered, “I know you have done many things that don’t deserve reckoning, Will. What happened in that bathroom might be one of them, but so help me, with each passing day, the less steady my conviction stands. The only way you don’t deserve to attempt for forgiveness—from all ends—is if you fail to desist this continuous boohooing. It is my belief that you have done enough good these past three years to deserve anything.” He wisely ignored the look of pure astonishment and shook his head, moving again for the door. “When we return to Sunnydale, I will make no attempt to disguise your goodwill, my value of your opinion, or what has occurred here since I took Willow back. Despite our many attempts, we have somehow managed to become friends, and I will not choose alliances. Nor will I stand for anyone suggesting my friend’s loyalties are not what they seem to be. I know better.” There was an honest smile as he stepped outside. “Be ready for the leave when I return,” he advised, leaving before the vampire could conjure up any form of an answer.

The morning was spent occupied with a variety of mundane activities. Lackluster and edgy, William devoured the rest of the coffee—flavored with his favorite additive. His stomach emitted several humanly rumblies and after a hefty investigation of the kitchen, he flipped a stack of flapjacks. There was an assortment of morning talk shows for telly entertainment, an episode of Passions to catch. He would never admit it, but he was so far behind on that show that he doubted any amount of watching would catch him up. When the television no longer claimed his interest, he flipped through whatever reading material was sorted about the flat—all things he had read before. Bored, he decided to test out the new stuff Ripper had provided him with on his full head of brown curls.

William took his place in the bathroom, staring at the space of nothing reflected in the mirror. After long minutes, he turned his gaze to the box, reading over instructions that he could have recited by heart. “Well,” he said, running a hand through brunette strands. “Here goes nothing.”

The process in itself didn’t occupy as much time as he would have liked. Within a half hour, he was bored again—meandering about the apartment in anticipation for the dye to set. He finished off his pancakes, dipping the last in blood and licking his fingers clean. Thoughts threatened to tread over territory he did not want to consider. In twenty-four hours, he would be back in Sunnydale. In twenty-four hours, her scent would taint the air with such potency that he would be surprised if it failed to provoke her to tears. He tried to tell himself that things had changed, summoning three years’ worth of memories. He recited his status: a curator for a well-regarded library, a demon researcher, a friend of Giles’s. A good guy. A—

Filthy rapist.

The growl that arose in his throat pained and stretched and nearly tore his vocals out. No, no, no, no! he warred. What have I just spent the last years doing? Proving that it’s not me…proving—

The demon would always be a part of him. No amount of earthly redemption could change that. In the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He had endured time and trial, failed more times than was worth mentioning and passed a few. Very few. He had kneeled before a demon a lifetime ago, asked for the restoration of his former self, to give him what he wanted, what Buffy deserved.

A soul. His soul. Had he truly wanted that? Could he want it? Could a demon rise above probability and ask for the one thing that would…

It was beyond reasoning now. Beyond the need to ask. Three years of progression had driven him back to the starting point. He never felt so lost.

A few minutes past noon, the silence of the apartment was perturbed by the sudden shrill of the telephone. The phone rarely rang when he was here—Giles had that cell that he kept handy, reminding William that one of the administrators was scheduled to call sometime soon. He released a needless breath, shaking his head and grinning tightly to himself. “You’re losing your edge, git,” he murmured, moving to push himself off the couch. “’Course, you’ve known that fer a while now.” He hauled to his feet, stumbling slightly and stubbing his toe on the coffee table just as he reached the phone. A sharp ache jittered up his foot, and he bit a menacing, “Oh, bloody hell,” before realizing the receiver was pressed to his ear. “Sorry ‘bout that, mate. ‘Ello?”

There was a long, startled silence on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath. William froze, his entire body growing numb. He felt it climb up his legs, his abdomen, until he was standing—unmoving, horrified, panged, and speechless. All humanly traits betrayed him; rendering him very much a standing corpse in the middle of the Watcher’s flat. Words rose within him, verses of long-forgotten poetry before all withered and died. He wanted to breathe—wanted to fill his lungs, but found not the strength.

Then there was a voice. A voice so heavenly, so hesitant that it made him jolt with pain. It was the closest he had heard that voice in three, long years.

She whispered one word. “…Spike?”

All sense of poetry abandoned him without warning. He was flabbergasted—at a new loss of words. A loud voice screamed just to answer her. After all, he would be seeing her soon. In a few precious hours, he would be under that inscrutable observation, pained with rekindled guilt and begging for another death. A wealth of angst could be spared with the acknowledgement of what was inevitable, and yet his will refused to allow his mind to take the easy way out. Not for his sake or hers. Instead, he cleared his throat, adapting his voice as Gilesy as he could manage before summoning the courage to speak.

“Ummm…who?”

He frowned at his imitation. It would be a miracle if she did not burst out laughing—or start screaming. Extended silence tautened, and neither happened. There was a huff of what could be construed as disappointment if one did not know better, followed by dreary recognition. “Oh. Never mind. This is Rupert Giles’s number, isn’t it?”

He wanted to deny the claim but knew she would call back. “Yes. I am…” he searched his memory palace quickly. Giles had given her a name long ago. Something… “Fitzwilliam. Yes. Rip…Rupert’s cousin.” Rip…Rupert…bloody brilliant. Very smooth, yeh wanker. “May I help you?”

It was quite possibly the worst English accent an Englishmen could portray.

“Yeah. If you…he’s not there?”

“No…he stepped out. To—uhh—run a few errands.” William squeezed his eyes shot. Was it too late to reveal his identity? He was certain she knew already. “Is this about…ummm…the family business?”

“Yes. This is Buffy Summers. He’s probably told you about me. If he hasn’t, he’s dead.” There was a fond pause. “Oh God. He has told you about me, hasn’t he?”

“Oh. Yes, yes.” Told him? William shuddered to think of the world where someone would have to tell him Buffy existed without knowing her. Really know her.

“Good. Got kinda awkward there for a minute.” Sweet Jesus, you have no idea. “Tell him I to talk to him immediately. Something…majorly wiggy has happened. Standard apocalyptic stuff.” She chuckled humorlessly, and he pictured her nervous grin and a roll of those beautiful eyes. He soared with painful adoration. “Pretty much the norm around here.” Another pause. “Have you ever been to Sunnydale? I can’t remember—”

“No…no…I believe.” Speaking was odd. He had never had to consider his vocabulary to such a degree as he did now. “I think Riii…upret’s planning a visit, anyway. He—err—expressed a…ummm…desire to visit soon.” Tha’s right. Stick to the big words.

“I know. Ang…my friend called and said he had talked to Giles and that something major was in the works.”

Great. Peaches was already implicated. That was swell.

“Yes,” William managed to croak. “That chap in Los Angeles, right? Angelus?”

“Yeah.” There was another pause. Darker. Suspicious. Then she sighed heavily, and it killed him to hear the fatigue in her tone. The weariness. The aspects of feeling deficient. “I don’t mean to be weird, but you really sound like a guy I used to know.”

“Oh?” he choked, reaching for the couch in support. “Who?”

The silence that followed was the hardest he had ever been made to endure. Every fiber scurrying across his flesh seemed to tighten across his bones, his muscles hardening in tension. When she responded with a quiet, “It doesn’t matter,” he thought he would break down into tears. However, he managed to hold onto his wits long enough to jot down a message for Giles, give his respects, and place the phone back on the hook. Then he could not stand it. Pathetically, he collapsed to his knees, long, hard sobs racking his body. He cried until he could force no more tears, hating himself for instability.

“How many sodding years have to pass?” he demanded the silence.

The dye was likely dry. When he felt he could trust his legs, he warily made his way back to the bathroom. There he crashed again—curling beside the shower, tearing at his vocals. The evidence was there and he could not ignore it. There was absolutely no way he would survive this trip. If a phone call winded him, seeing her, watching her, feeling her betrayed hatred would surely be the end of him.

He wanted to tell that to Giles. He had nearly convinced himself to when the conversation held the night before reverberated through an unwilling cavity.

I need someone I can trust her with.

As the last of his outburst finally subsided, William heaved a quaking breath from his chest and fought to his feet. No, there was no backing out. No turning back. No changing his mind. What he had to do was for her—and nothing, not this uprising evil, not the Scoobies, not even his selfishness would prevent him from doing his duty.

Even if it killed him.

Chapter Seven

She loved this time of night. It was perfect—archetypal. The sort of evening she had discussed in English class time after time. The ground limber beneath her feet, breeze whispering sweet nothings through barren tree branches—oh, and yes class, a lovely graveyard to our left. Stop and take a picture. Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times. Wouldn’t want to be caught by a nasty vampire.

This time of night, things were quiet, and she could pretend, if only for a minute, that Sunnydale was a normal town. That the bruises lining her body were in ode to fights or something as juvenile as falling out of a tree. That she carried stakes wherever she went because it was the latest fashion trend. That her sister made hobby of slaying demons and various creatures of the night out of boredom and not some ancient birthright.

Then, there was reality.

Thoughts drifted without direction. Friends were undoubtedly gathering at the mall, blowing cash—save those numbered few who cracked open the books in preparation for approaching exams. No one cared that she was meandering through a cemetery past dark, that any moment could be her last, that the harmless rustling over there behind the bushes was likely an immortal monster sent here to suck out her soul.

Of course, how could she hope to compete with the mall?

Even now, years later, it felt odd to be out here alone. Every grave she crossed was still, but at least two new fledglings were on the roster for rising tonight. Patrolling by herself didn’t happen often unless there was something as completely mundane as research as the alternative. And with recent development, there was a lot of research. So she was out here by herself as the rest of the gang busied themselves with text and what-have-you from the Magic Box, hoping to crack some ancient jigsaw puzzle.

Alone. Alone, and trusted with her ability. It hadn’t been that long since she was forbidden from watching rated R films, much less patrol these dangerous parts unaccompanied. Dawn was not a little girl anymore, but she knew society had kindly placed her as the permanent baby by big sister standards. She would likely be adhering sisterly advice until her teeth rotted out. But things were different. They really were. The world was hers now—unguarded, big, and nasty. And she knew how to fend. Dawn Summers.

She wasn’t afraid. And why should she be? After all, she was the slayer’s sister—well trained and most adept. Trusted now to walk these paths alone.

To fight that evil.

Dawn paused in stride, leering to peak over her shoulder. She would never master the art as Buffy had, but she was beginning to discern stomach growls from extra-sensory tinglies. Yes—she even had the tinglies. The past three years had molded her into a fighter none of the Scoobies could have fathomed or predicted. It was a rough start, of course. What wasn’t nowadays? But she had proved them all wrong—she had bested enemy after enemy, not as quick but pretty damn close to Buffy’s skilled speed.

She felt she was being followed.

Not that it was an unusual occurrence. Though such instances hadn’t found need to rise to the occasion for the better part of the past year, she would often find herself sharing company with a concerned Xander or Willow. Never Buffy, though. The numbered patrol nights when she manned the field alone went undisturbed by the one person she thought would react with the most indignation. Assurance was given with no quandary. Dawn was trusted.

Most nights, patrolling was a sister thing. A way to squeeze in some real quality time. Right now, however, things were too muddled to really worry about the vampire population. Two days before, three children had been born with their eyes facing inward. A week preceding, a cat became the happy mother of a littler of snakes. These things had happened before, of course, but for all the prophecy the Scoobies investigated, a viable source could not be pinpointed. It was a mystery.

She was glad Giles was here. Aside from it having been an ungodly amount of time since his last visit, Dawn couldn’t shake the little girl feeling of warm security when he was around. The past several years had been among the most difficult, and she always felt safe when he was around. She wasn’t fool enough to believe he had arrived with all the answers…but he was Giles. Giles! He always had a theory. An idea. A thought.

He had arrived the previous night without even calling of alert his flight number, much less the scheduled landing time. Instead, they received a knock at the door near midnight, only to reveal a very worn but smiling Watcher. They shared hugs, reprimands for failing to keep in better contact, and thoughts about the uprising evil. Secrecy was a large issue—Giles was himself though distanced. His tales of the past few years abbreviated to a quick sentence or two. The old man rarely had motive to hide anything, which made Dawn all the more curious. Something was up, she knew. She just wished she knew what.

However, she didn’t pry. Giles was here, and as far as she was concerned, that was all that mattered.

Still quiet. With a sigh, Dawn kicked a headstone and took seat. Maybe things were going to be inactive tonight. Perhaps the vamps had already arisen and she missed it. Perhaps—but honestly, what were the odds?

She still felt like someone was following her. Watching her.

The graveyard was a lonely place to travel alone. Not frightening—just lonely. Sometimes her feet carried her to places she knew were empty, yet investigated just the same. She passed Spike’s old crypt more often than she cared to admit. He wasn’t there—he was never there. He had been gone for a long time, and everyone was comfortable with the notion that he was never coming back.

Time was the great healer, conflicting and teasing until she didn’t know how she felt about what. There had been hatred—rage—for a long time. Toward herself. Toward Spike. Toward her sister. The thought that someone she admired so much, trusted so much had attempted to take such brutal advantage of the one person she was closer to than anyone angered her beyond comprehension. Sometimes he wished he would return just to have the satisfaction of ripping his head from his shoulders. However, once the fire withered, she was left empty. It was difficult to ignore the treacherous voice that whispered little nasty, “It wasn’t all his fault, you know.”

A very real part of her hated him. The rest just wished he would come back, or at least let her know that he was all right.

It was even more difficult to decipher her sister’s thoughts on the matter. Spike wasn’t mentioned often, but when he was, her expression drifted and her eyes cast away. She always seemed torn between tears and fury.

Perhaps she was.

Dawn froze suddenly, detecting some longstanding disturbance at last. Unhurriedly, she pushed herself to her feet, reaching into the lapels of her jacket and producing a stake with secondary reflexes.

Listen. Watch. Wait.

Two vamps were buried three spaces away. They were being considerate tonight; the first dust before the second had the time to battle through the dirt. Expertly, Dawn whirled to face her opponent—dead-set in method, adapted flawlessly from her trainer. The creature was a gangly thing—all fangs and leers. She was not nearly as agile as Buffy, but she was quick. Maneuvering with haste, she leapt atop a headstone, leaning out of clawing each and throwing herself into the air to deliver a swift kick to the face. The vamp growled, backtracked, and lunged. It made it halfway over the tombstone, black blood dribbling from its nose. Dawn made the observation without alarm. That was one thing they never told Giles. Though the freaky demon insignia never found occasion to repeat itself, vamps that pumped oil for innards were now regular occurrences. She heaved a breath and rolled away, jumping to her feet as the creature recovered and made a mad leap for her.

The events that accumulated the next few seconds happened too rapidly to make any logical sense. A familiar blonde head suddenly lunged in front of her, grasping the offending vampire by the shirt collar and issuing three good face punches. Wiry strength—she had seen that before; worshipped it forever ago. It was all there. All in front her, and her eyes refused to believe it so. She watched numbly as the peroxide blonde beat the newblood senseless and tossed him aside long enough to flash her a cocky smile.

“’Evenin’, Bit,” he said anticlimactically.

A second passed where all she could do was stare, then it was all business. She was too occupied and irritated to further acknowledge his presence. What had passed alone was danger enough. The discarded vampire had scrambled to his feet and was coming in for the kill. Her eyes widened and she wordlessly shoved Spike aside, wielding her stake until he was dust.

Heavy breaths escaped her heaving chest. She leaned over and rested her palms on her knees. It didn’t seem she had moved enough to work up a sweat, but it was dripping off her in cups.

The moment of recovery didn’t last. It was only then that she allowed herself to consider what had happened.

Just minutes before she had asked herself how she would react if she saw him again, and fist clinched, she had her answer. Dawn flexed her fingers and drew back to last Thursday; meeting his jaw with such blunt force it surprised them both. Her flesh stung but she didn’t betray herself by shaking the hurt away. It was good hurt. Justified.

The look in his eyes when he faced her again was heart rendering. Gone was the smirk and characteristic self-assuredness, replaced now with the gaze of a broken man who had awoken to the worst sort of comprehension. A hand absently caressed the burning skin at his jaw line but he did not attempt to put distance between them. Instead, he stood passive, welcoming another blow.

Dawn’s eyes narrows as her convicted anger began to waver. She wanted to cling to her rage—to look at this…thing before her and see a monster. And yet, the more she looked at him, the less the fire burned within her. Dying, dying. After all, he was still Spike. Despite the hurt and the heartache, he was Spike. Her once crush and, for a long time, her best friend.

An animal. A vampire. A man.

A thing that had attempted to rape her sister.

“You bastard!” she spat venomously. “Fucking rat! How dare you show your face here!”

The creature’s eyes softened with pain and her lower lip quivered in indecision. “You’ve grown quiet a mouth on you, pet,” he replied, breaking eye contact with a sigh. “You out ‘ere by yourself?”

“Yes.” Dawn’s resolve was breaking, but she would be damned if she let him see that. “Buffy’s trained me well.” Emphatically, she raised the stake to eye level, quirking a brow at him. There was no threat behind it. Both understood it was for show.

Spike eyed her weapon and nodded, stepping back. Was he trembling? She couldn’t tell—and didn’t care, of course. Why should she care? Instead, she shook her head, finding her voice yet again. “What are you doing here?”

“Got wind somethin’ bad was cooking up,” he replied, tone distorted and eyes unwilling to meet hers. He watched his foot draw lazy circles in the dirt. “Wanted to help.”

Dawn snickered. “Then trying to save me probably isn’t the best start.”

The vampire blinked and looked up, dazzled in confusion. “What are you…oh. Oh, no, luv. You. I want to help you, and the rest of the merry band. Not sure how long I’m back fer…don’t wanna—”

Coldly, she hammered in interruption, not wanting him the chance to explain. If he went all noble on her, she would forgive him, and that couldn’t happen. “What? Like you helped the last time?”

Spike flinched and at last his eyes gave way, losing their confident swagger. For a second, she thought he might cry, but he didn’t. The pain spawned from her remark said more than tears. She ached but was vindicated. It wasn’t enough. Before she could form another stinging retort, he had turned, he had turned his back to her, stalking away. “I won’t get in your way, Bit,” he murmured, barely audible. “Like your hair.”

Attentively, she reached to finger her the strands where they had been cut to her ears. It was a style she had sported for over a year now. His attention took her by surprise.

He was far away by the time she found her voice. Small, minimal, and only partially heartfelt. “Thanks.”

Then it was all business. Dawn was packing. She needed to get to Buffy. Fast.

It was quiet now.

The past few hours had traded space with silence and heated discussion. Long intervals at a time. Cut, slice, thrust and parry. A dance traded back and forth through fevered voices and warring opinions. And still, amongst the bickering, she was sure there were matters being evaded. Idle theories tossed back and forth, debated, researched, and retired.

He knew something—it was wrought with painful articulation across his features. He knew something and he wasn’t sharing.

She would get it out of him soon.

It felt like old times in that really awkward sense. The Magic Box hadn’t seen a meeting this high in attendance in what felt like a century. A sense of familiarity along with the tingly disappointment of foreign terrain. Though none of the furniture had been rearranged, Giles didn’t seem comfortable with any position he attempted. He would stand, listen, nod, then fidget and move. No chair could hold him. Very suspicious. Very uncharacteristic—and she was the only one who seemed to notice.

A change of scenery and it would have felt like an honest-to-god time warp. Xander was examining books behind the register as Willow fumbled around with magic terms, producing spontaneous definitions but nothing of definitive use. Usual. Nearly six years out of high school and they were still researching. Still the Scoobies. It amazed her to no end. In his customary corner was Angel. Angel. It was so weird seeing him now. He had arrived slightly before the Watcher, shaken by Giles’s beseeching phone call. An uncomfortable rift was set between them, and try as she might, Buffy could not see a road to reconciliation, even of their tarnished friendship. She had long ago abandoned the girlish fantasy of her one true love coming to his belated senses and whisking her away to some fairytale where the Hellmouth didn’t exist. Fate had placed her here, and inevitably when she did die—again and finally—it would be here. In the line of duty. For better or worse, Sunnydale was the only mate that hadn’t run out on her. Surprised or disappointed her. It was always there, poking its ugly face around every catastrophe, sneering at lack of insight and throwing her the tightest curve just before she saw what was coming.

No, she hadn’t thought of Angel in that way for a long time. In the past few years, her thoughts had wandered to him with less and less frequency. There wasn’t much to build on. Once they had shared something and now it was over. The tinglies she used to enjoy when enveloped in his presence had even faded to oblivion. She couldn’t sense him like she used to. When she tried to feel anger at his leaving so long ago, all she could conjure was understanding and gratitude. Gratitude! Had someone told Buffy that six years before, she would have burst into tears. And there he was—standing in the corner. Always in corners. Watching her, perhaps with the same acknowledgements of loss. Loss of their bond. Loss of their love. Loss of anything that had once described the never-ending cycle of Buffy and Angel 4-Ever!

God, had she ever been so young?

Drawing in a breath, the tired slayer’s eyes landed steadfast on Giles. He was staring off past her, hands ground into his pockets; gaze far and away, as though he were still in London. It wasn’t often that he was caught so off guard, and the implications surrounding such slips were usually cause for alarm. She had seen that look before and didn’t like it. Call it slayer instinct, quiet estimations, or sheer paranoia: something was up. Something big and bad and apocalyptic.

And he wasn’t talking.

Xander, predictably, was the first to break the silence. When he finished flipping through the latest text, he quietly looked up and cleared his throat. “I got nothing,” he announced. “And I think that just about finishes off the last book in the place.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Willow retorted. “I’m sure Giles brought some of his personal collection to peruse. So don’t take your study hat off, Mister.”

Buffy grinned.

“No…I’ve already researched all my books,” the Watcher replied unsteadily. “What I…found…” His eyes met hers with fleeting repose. There was something. It was as plain as black and white. He jittered uncomfortably when he read her gaze, turning away to rub the bridge of his nose. These minute reactions were beginning to worry. In all the years she had known him, the only time he had been shaken enough by an unfolding prophecy was the night she learned she had to face the Master and her imminent death. Clearing his throat, he broke his gaze. “How long have these…signs been appearing?”

“About a week,” Willow replied, tightening her arms around her torso. “I tried to call you but your cell never picked up. Might be low on batteries or something.”

The Watcher’s eyes widened briefly before he nodded his understanding. “Yes—I…at the library. Researching the books the Council finally decided to let me see. Will…Fitzwilliam and I have been looking through the old text and translating one language to another.” He stopped, smiling fondly. “I still don’t know how he pulled it off. These…books predate any sort of history. We dove headfirst into study. It’s fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Xander said shortly. “How about backtracking for the slow people. Who’s Fitzwilliam?”

“Giles’s cousin,” Buffy offered suddenly, speaking for the first time in over an hour. Her mistrustful gaze narrowed at the Watcher for confirmation. “I talked to him on the phone the night before you arrived. He knows his stuff.”

“Sounds like a carbon copy of the G-Man,” came an observant voice behind the registers, quiet but loud enough so all could hear him.

No one, however, was paying attention. Incredulous, Giles leaned forward and offered an ardent blink. “You spoke with him?” he repeated, surprising her with his disbelief. When she nodded, he shook his head and took a step back, attempting unsuccessfully to shake away the shock. “Oh. He didn’t tell me.” Secreted comprehension was pouring behind his eyes, more of that he would not share. Buffy frowned. Something was definitely up.

A warm voice emanated from behind, warm and distant. Her reaction to hearing him speak was disappointing. Listening to Angel did little to reassure her. Rather, she found herself constantly agitated when he spoke. He was perhaps the only one present who sounded further away than the Watcher.

Again, she reflected how drastically her feelings had changed for him. Once inseparable and now barely even friends. There was no want of loss tugging at her heart. He was Angel, he would always be Angel, but that was it. She was proud of herself, having long grown tired of regressing to a swooning teenager every time he was nearby. The reaction she once idolized was nonexistent.

More so, she could tell he felt the same way. There was a wealth of nothingness where affection once resided. What was more disconcerting was the lack of grief at the loss. She would not wish things differently for anything.

“So we know a dark evil is arising,” he said to the Watcher. “But you don’t know what? Even with all this research you conducted with your cousin?”

Oh, but he did. How was she the only one who could see that? Buffy bit her lip and jumped to her feet. If he wouldn’t tell her in front of them, she would get them out. There was no way he could keep something like this from her. “That doesn’t matter,” she observed. “What matters is he’s back now, and—”

The bell above the Magic Box entryway announced another arrival, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Buffy arched a brow as a visibly shaken Dawn stormed inward, eyes strained and grieved. Her hair was rustled in the telltale sign of recent struggle; drying black blood stained her sweater. A stake was coiled in her grasp; beads of sweat rolling down rugged splinters. She only came in a few feet, commanding everyone’s attention. When all eyes were on her, Dawn crossed her arms irately and sneered, “He’s not the only one who’s back,” with a discreet nod toward the Watcher, who had suddenly gone pale. “Ran into an old friend on patrol. Spike’s back in town.”

All movement abruptly ceased and the air grew thick with manifest bewilderment. Buffy was at a loss. She stood there, motionless, her heart freezing before beginning a wild palpitation. Suddenly her lungs had to be reminded that they had a job, her hands growing clammy as her body begged to break down into tremors. She sensed angry, startled words from Xander and was too numb to speak out first. Cold confusion from behind. Angel knew nothing of the past indiscretions. Giles didn’t speak.

Slowly, Buffy became aware of a hand at her shoulder. Warm and supportive. It was Willow. As though the touch engulfed a need for air, she finally drew in a quaking gasp, hand shooting to her mouth.

Back? How…

“He is a dead man!” Xander finally erupted, then paused. “Again. Wait’ll I get my hands—”

His invective was interrupted by Buffy’s sudden burst of tears. Thick breaths heaved from her chest, air constricting tightly as Willow guided her to the corner, making no attempt to calm her. She was aware of people staring and didn’t care. There was no room for thoughts or rationality—nothing but the sobs racking her body and the inward mantra that screamed, He came back he came back he came back…

Then her friend started again, voice coated in outrage even she couldn’t suppress. He was behind her, trying unsuccessfully to compensate neglected caresses on her other shoulder, convinced without suggestion that her tears were the product of similar fury and betrayal. “Don’t worry, Buf,” he murmured reassuringly. “We’ll get him. We’ll stake him so dead, he—”

“No!” she cried, surprising him with her insistence before realizing that her voice rivaled another in swift protest. It was Giles. For the life of her, he looked so panicked at Xander’s anger that she thought he might hogtie him to keep him from doing anything drastic.

As her body began to calm, all eyes fell dubiously on the Watcher. He offered no comment.

“No?” Xander repeated in disbelief. “No? Hello? Has everyone forgotten what that bastard did, cause I sure haven’t. I swear, the next time I see that bleached head, I’m gonna—”

“Tried,” Buffy corrected miserably, taking him aback. She was still sniveling. “Tried. He didn’t actually get anything done.”

“I remember.” Dawn’s tone was cold but torn. Inconsolable.

“What did he do?” Angel stepped forward in concern, attempting to intervene and comfort his former love, but she pulled away with fervor. The only person allowed to touch her was Willow. She was the only one who understood.

“Tried to rape Buffy,” Xander snarled through gritted teeth, nodding victoriously as the vampire’s eyes went yellow with rage. “That’s right! I’ll stake that evil dead sonofabitch so fast, he—”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” The Watcher was speaking with definitive albeit low force. “If anyone attempts to harm Spike, they must answer to me.”

A long beat of astonished silence engulfed the room.

“What the hell is this?!” Xander screeched. “You’re defending that—”

“Shut up!” Buffy’s voice had the most authority of all, and the room fell still. When she had all eyes on her, she sighed as the last of her tears dried to her cheeks. Three years and still no one but Willow had realized whose coat adorned her shoulders. Time was a hefty wearer, but on good days, the leather still smelled like him. It was bittersweet. Buffy had acknowledged her injustice long ago, even if she could never admit her love. Over time, the hole in her heart had grown too broad to deny she missed him. She missed him a lot.

Still her feelings were muddled. Old sparks of rekindled war fired within her. It was the same tune to the dance she had performed over and over in the duration of the past few years. She missed him—it had taken her long to admit even that. Long after she started wearing his coat, long after she started flicking her head in shrouded hope that the cigarette smoke wafting from a distance was him lighting up, long after she could enter her bathroom without flinching. Missing him was one thing; forgiveness was another.

It hurt her to think that forgiveness was not tipping the scale in just his direction. She had done her world of wrong. She had hurt him more than he ever hurt her.

And now…

Steadfast, Buffy pulled away from Willow’s protective presence and approached Giles, stopping before him and burning her eyes into his. “All right. What’s going on?”

The Watcher traded gazes with her for long minutes, his pupils contracting in apology but obstinacy. Slowly, a sad grin spread nether his lips and he heaved a breath of rugged displacement. “My words were misleading,” he said softly. “I would have told you sooner…but we agreed that everything was best left as it was. He never believed he would be back here again.”

“Giles…” Her voice was trained and patient, but she didn’t know how long that would last.

Releasing another sigh, he shook his head and closed his eyes, as though wishing himself away. “I have no cousin Fitzwilliam,” he confessed, looking to her sharply as comprehension dawned. “But an annoying coworker who occasionally assumes the alias William Ripper II. It was before I brought Willow back from England. I met Spike outside a café. He was…a little worse for the wear.”

“So instead of plunging a righteous stake through his chest, you took him in?” Xander yelled sharply. “How could you? You know what he did! He—”

Giles smiled wearily, not offended by the accusation. “I didn’t understand, either. For a long time…he never attempted to deny his fault. I—”

“But you hate Spike!” Dawn interjected violently. “You’ve never given him the single benefit of a doubt! Why start then?”

“He has helped me tremendously over the past few years,” he retorted, eyes growing dark with agitation. “And—”

“So you lied to us. All this time. Working for—”

“He asked—begged me not to let his intervention be known.” Giles sighed, turning to Buffy to avoid further interruption. “He didn’t want you to stop hating him, no matter what he set himself to do to make reparations. Whether or not you believe him is your regard. I will hear no more of it. Wi…Spike wanted to avoid returning for this very reason.” He took a throaty pause when he saw she was again close to tears. “He begged me to come without him, but I couldn’t. I need…we will need all the help we can get.”

Truth fell to deaf ears. With swift irritation, Xander stalked forward and nodded vehemently. “Yeah…didn’t wanna be staked. Knew what would happen to him, that ass! And you believed this? How—”

“It’s been three years,” Giles retorted shortly. “For God’s sake, don’t you think I realize what occurred? I know perfectly well. I nearly killed him when I first saw him in London, but I was able to see passed that. You must trust my judgment on this. I’ve worked side-by-side with him, hours on end. I’ve taken naps while he researched and he’s done the same. He’s had to endure the knowledge of his crimes this long; he fell to his knees sobbing when I told him we had to come back. So you see, Xander, I don’t give a bloody damn what your motives are. Spike is here as a favor to me, and he leaves when I do.”

A sensical voice rose again, dark with anger and the promise of vengeance. As though he had tuned himself out of the room for the past five minutes and was still focused on the heartland of duplicity. “You forget,” Angel growled. “You all somehow forget that he’s a demon. He—”

“He won’t hurt Buffy any more than you would.”

“Hurt? Hello?” Xander was pacing now, firmly ignoring the expression coloring the Slayer’s face or the way Willow had wormed her way back to her side to continue the reassuring pats to her shoulder. “He tried to rape her!”

“That’s enough!” Buffy screamed. “If anyone’s to decide what happens to Spike, it should be me. Not Giles, not Xander, and definitely not Angel. Not like this.” Willow squeezed her shoulder as she ignored the questioning looks being fired from all angles. “I…no one’s going to do anything. I want…” Breathing harshly, she turned to her former watcher. “I spoke with him, then. That was him on the phone when I called?”

A resolved nod. “Yes. I was wondering why he was so gutted when I arrived that evening.”

Buffy pursed her lips and nodded, tears welling again. “How could you not tell me?”

“It was for the best. He was consumed with…” The word ‘guilt’ formed effortlessly, but he did not want that association. Not yet. “Wi…Spike has been extremely helpful to me. He will not bother you if you don’t seek him out. Once this is over, we will return to London and resume our studies. You won’t see him if you don’t want to.”

Pain engulfed her at the thought, but she could not allow herself to express such emotion. Not here. Not in front of the scrupulous eyes of her former love and best friend. Excreting a breath, she nodded, tightening the duster around her torso. “All right,” she agreed.

Xander opened his mouth and was silenced before he could speak. “All. Right,” she repeated with force. “No more discussion. I’ll…I can’t deal with this right now. I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Please.” Giles seized her arm with such raw insistence it sent a shudder up her spine. “If you’re thinking of hurting him…leave it be. It took him three years to progress this much. I—”

“Hurting him?!” Xander shrilled, unable to help himself. “But—”

“All right.” With as often as that phrase had escaped her lips within the past two minutes, one might think it could not continue to elicit such a response from the peanut gallery. However, she didn’t pay attention. Something screamed behind Giles’s eyes hat implored her to obey. “Where is he?”

“Staying in the graveyard. Not his old crypt—something temporary.” He sighed. “I was worried…I tried to put him up in a motel. He hasn’t had to sleep somewhere so…vampiric in quite a while. He declined, of course. He has the most insufferable pride.”

“You were going to give him money?” Xander repeated in disbelief. “Was he living with you?”

“Whether you like it or not, Spike is a friend. He has helped me efficiently for some time now. I would not have those books without his assistance.” Another pause. “No. I wasn’t offering him money. He has enough of that on his own. And please—some credit. He is a terrible pain sometimes. I couldn’t stand to live with him. The very notion offends him. ‘Won’t look like a sodding poof’ is what directly comes to mind.” Angel flinched, angry but immotile. “No, he has his own flat.”

“An apartment?”

“Comes with the job.” Giles sighed, shaking his head in the mocking imitation of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “That’s all. I’m not breathing another word. I’ve said too much as it is. Good night, everyone.” Then he was gone, just like that, disappearing in a blaze before the bell above the door could signal his departure.

For long seconds, all she could do was stare at the place her Watcher had vacated, cold and empty. An eternity could have passed and she would not have noticed. The ridges tears had carved into her face felt deep, slightly swollen eyes shutting once with pain and opening with resolution. Willow was to her left, watching her carefully. Thank God there was someone there to turn to. Someone who had long ago bore into her protective psyche to scare out what was infinitely bothering her.

It would be Willow. She was the only one to trust with such dark secrets.

Buffy dimly expected Xander or Angel to begin another onslaught of accusations, but neither moved—too stunned or angry to do much of anything but stand and stare at her. Perhaps at another juncture, such blatant ignorance would have annoyed her had she not remembered that her own viewpoint differed little when Spike was around.

A night in an alleyway meant many things to them. Heat or rage, resentment and desire.

"You don't have a soul!” Punch. Hit. Punch. That’s it. That’s a good slayer. Make the nasty, evil, adorable vampire bleed. “There is nothing good or clean in you. You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! I could never be your girl."

Was she really beyond that?

A flinch coiled inwardly at the revival of another memory.

His body, so heavy on hers, hands prying at her bathrobe, ignoring her throes and cries of protest. Something terrifyingly feral sparked in his eyes. He has lost control. “I’m gonna make you feel it!” And he doesn’t hear her, doesn’t realize what he’s doing until she’s pushed him off, kicking him to the far side of the room, watching unsympathetically as realization dawns and self-implied horror seizes command. “Oh God, Buffy. I—”

She had never feared him, truly feared him, until that night.

Buffy released a quaking breath and tried desperately to summon some form of anger. Violation. Betrayal. She had only cried over it once, after he left, sat there in dim confusion and hurt until Xander found her. How long had it taken? But after all was said and done, after Willow lost herself to magic, after the world had nearly ended at the hands of her best friend, the one thing she couldn’t make herself feel was hate.

She had waited so long for him to return and grew each minute with that horrible understanding that the day would never arrive. And why should she mourn his loss?

To say ‘I’m sorry.’ To admit I was no more right than you were.

But to love him? That day was even further away. While Spike, against all probability and forbidden hope had defeated logicality, admittance of love might never come.

He’s evil. I can hate evil, kill evil, toy with evil, kiss evil, even sleep with evil. But I can never love evil. If I love evil, it makes me evil. And I am not evil.

That argument sounded less convincing every time she rehearsed it.

Willow had moved next to her, surrounding her in the protective silent sheath, guarding her from prying eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.” Buffy heaved a sigh and turned at last, a cold space following her with every step. They were watching her; Xander and the vampire, but she didn’t care. The sparks flying behind Angel’s eyes were as outraged as she had ever seen, with or without a soul. It frightened her: the sort of look that delivered the vague conception that he would finish off his childe regardless of her will. And he would, because he was Angel and that was what he did. Protected her to a fault while claiming that a slayer should attempt to have a normal life, masking the knowledge that such would never be. A normal man simply wasn’t…man enough.

“I have to get out of here,” she announced suddenly. “I have to—”

“I’ll walk you home,” Angel offered. There was fire in his voice. He was just itching to run into the peroxide vampire along the way.

“No. I’m going to the Bronze. Anya said she was going to meet us there later, anyway. I…I can’t be home tonight.” The implications sounded horrible, and she paused, coming back with a swift rejoinder. “Listen to me. No one touches him. Understand? I’ll find him tomorrow and talk to him. I’ve earned that…no one else.”

Xander scoffed, features twisted with rage. “What? Gonna let him—”

“That’s enough!” Buffy turned to him violently, accompanied by Willow’s glare. “Listen. I know you hate him. I know you never understood why. I know you felt he took Anya away from you. I know everything is my fault. All right? I get that. You can’t guilt me into not seeing him, Xan. He won’t hurt me. You know he won’t hurt me.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied impatiently. “And—PLEASE!—this has nothing to do with Anya. So over that. It’s you. Don’t you get it? It’s always been you. I saw what happened to you. I was there, remember? I…I can’t stand the thought of you like that again. You actually trust him? After everything?”

She swallowed hard, provoked to tears again. Xander was stubborn and critical, duplicitous in every sense, but still…Xander. Xander was Xander in a way separate from Angel was Angel. Xander in a wonderful way. Xander in a best friend way. Xander in an I’ll-Always-Be-Here way.

“No,” she replied at last, sighing heavily as relief seeped through his gaze. “But I trust Giles. He wouldn’t have brought Spike along if he thought there was the slightest chance—”

“There’s always a chance,” Angel growled, his tone contorting her insides with a flash of disgust. Here it came. The ‘I’ve been there and you haven’t so shut the hell up and listen to the expert’ speech. “He’s a demon, Buffy. No matter how good he may seem to be, he can’t deny his nature too long. And if it’s been three years, I’d say the animal is ready for a break.”

Eyes glittering with conviction, she clocked her heel and spun to face him, teeth grinding with impervious resolve. “He. Won’t. Hurt. Me.”

“How can you be this blind? After everything…”

“What? Just because you’re a prick when you’re without a soul, every vampire has to follow that?” The hurt that flashed across his eyes was almost worth the stab her heart took in turn. “You weren’t here, Angel. You weren’t here when he endured torture to protect Dawn, or cleaned me up after I clawed through my grave. Or was there to hang on to when life became so hard that I felt like killing myself.” Little good it did, she added inwardly. “I was the only one who was there when he tried…the only one who saw his face. I’m the only one he hurt, so I get to talk to him. End of discussion.” The only one who knows he hurt himself more than he hurt me.

But those words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she brushed passed the two warring alpha males, tossed a concerned look to a confused Dawn—visibly ripped between loathing and sorrow—before approaching Willow and guiding her into the corner.

“Do me a favor,” she whispered. “Find him. Talk to him. I need someone to—”

“It’s done,” her friend replied with a smile. “Now shoo. Off to the Bronze with you. No more thinking allowed tonight.”

Buffy nodded and forced a smile. “Right.” She turned to the rest of the gang, noting Xander and Angel exchanging a few words while her sister continued her relentless stare, engaged in deep, bellicose thoughts.

“Now,” she said, commanding attention with her completely altered tone. Everyone stared at her, unnecessarily dumbfound that she could regress with such ease. They should know better by now. “We’re going to party. Really. I need to get a good night out before the apocalypse. No more mention of Spike…is that understood? I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Reluctance sheathed Xander’s eyes as he muttered his agreement, but she knew not to get the same promise from Angel. He was hurt and he sensed something. The conversation she always dreaded having with him began to fester and would soon be unavoidable. How much he understood already was in the eye of the beholder.

He pressed his hand dictatorially against the small of her back, guiding her outdoors as they fell into pace—the walk long ago etched in their memories. Magic Box to the Bronze. Truly like old times. “You will explain all this to me someday, won’t you?” he whispered.

Damn him. Damn that sotto voce of his. Damn that sensory that warmed up by instinct rather than reaction. Damn the tugging at her heart that led her not to this vamp, but to another. Damn the knowledge that she couldn’t hide her past forever. Nope. Tried that with Riley. Didn’t work out too well. “It’s none of your business,” she retorted.

“Oh no. I don’t think so. I believe I am entitled to know what my childe did to my former girlfriend, and why she insists so firmly on defending his goodwill when she knows just as well as I do what he is, and what he will never be.”

Buffy shuddered, pausing alongside Angel, pushing more space between them and the two ahead, talking quietly. When Willow had slipped away, she did not know. She was glad, so glad to have a friend who understood.

“Because,” she continued a second later, “he loves me. And whatever he did that night…I’m not sure I hadn’t hurt him more than that.”

To that, her vampire companion hardened but did not reply. She read his silence glumly—familiar and unwanted heartache setting in. The confirmation she never wanted, never needed. Demons weren’t supposed to love—sure. The year Angel had spent as Angelus had proved that in the worst approach. However, he knew Spike better than anyone, and understood the capacity for love. He had witnessed his loving care when Drusilla needed him, his harsh dedication and surprising monogamy. He had endured a lot where love was concerned. No one could ever rebuke Spike’s permanent stature as love’s bitch.

But that wasn’t enough. It didn’t excuse anything.

“You’re saying by avoiding him you hurt him enough to deserve what he did to you?”

“No.” Buffy paused in stride. “I’m saying by using him the way I did…selfishly, like I did, I hurt him worse than he could have ever attempted to hurt me.”

Then she walked away, leaving Angel to stand in the dawn of comprehension, horror and disappointment. She expected to feel cold, but didn’t. The good opinion of her former lover was something she no longer craved.

You see…now that was evil.

But it had to be said. No one could understand.

No one except the two people who had been there.

Chapter Eight

It was odd to think of Sunnydale as cold, but the autumn nights could get downright chilly. Perhaps it was the ambiance - the feel of an arctic front. Soon the cavalry would come rushing in. They always did. Prepared with crosses and holy water to give him another death. A pack of wolves, they were. Talk and conspire: preparations before the hunt and inevitable kill.

He hadn't been surprised by Dawn's reaction - just hurt. Like he lost his best friend in the world.

Yes, they would be coming soon. Giles would likely attempt to stop them but they wouldn't listen. Why should they? He was a monster. An untamed animal that committed a horrible crime. A beast that deserved to be put down.

Such knowledge, however, did little to convince his feet to stop their course and run hard in the other direction. She had reached them, he knew, and his time ran short. Every step signified furthering his own death warrant. But he had to do it. Just once. He had to see her.

Revello Drive was just as he remembered, the air dry and unwavering, teasing him remorselessly with her scent. It was difficult to breathe. He smiled wryly at the irony. A century spent without a need for oxygen, and a few years practice could make him miss the thrill. The feel - the necessity to just once be human.

William was unaccustomed to feeling cold, to shivering as it collided with his skin. When the house was in view, he stopped dutifully in his approach. The windows were dark and no sound escaped the walls. A car was parked in the driveway but he could tell without needing confirmation that no one was home. For a minute, he didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment. The gap of emptiness filling his heart broadened to the point of intolerability.

What if she had seen him? What could he have said? What could possibly come out of his mouth to make petty justification for his misgivings?

Nervously, William reached for his cigarettes and flipped open his lighter. His feet commanded him to move, but he remained stationary. They weren't coming home anytime soon. It was Friday night, after all. Why come home when there was the Bronze as an alternative?

Especially with the information Giles had undoubtedly shared.

William exhaled a long puff of smoke. He hadn't needed a cigarette this bad since that first horrible guilt-filled morning. A few more years in London might have seen the end of the addiction altogether.

Right now, though, it was exactly what he required to keep from leaping out of his skin.

The air suddenly stirred with a hint of breeze, sending a familiar scent his direction. William froze; fag dangling between his lips, knowing whom it was without needing to see her. Amazing how sharp the senses had developed in recent years. There was no doubt in his mind.

Dimly, he understood this was likely to be a repeat of Dawn's hurtful onslaught. William's eyes fogged, but he refused himself the much-desired tears. Though he knew it was not possible, he had to contend the chance that he could do his promised help and leave without anyone becoming any more the wiser of his altered condition.

No - it wouldn't happen. Couldn't.

So they would come in turn. After Red would be Harris, then Peaches, and finally Buffy. Maybe Buffy and Peaches together, to make it all the more vengeful. A pain constricted in his chest and he cowered. Without taking his eyes off the approaching figure, he began to back away, slowly at first but with ongoing haste.

Red had other ideas. Without so much as a quirk of the eyebrow, she extended her hand and authorized a controlled, "Stay."

Then he couldn't move. His legs locked in place and held even as his torso attempted to keel forward. With guarded emphasis his feet plowed into the cement, sending a cloud dust and debris to battle wafting cigarette smoke. It was over. Over before it began. There was no point in arguing with a witch.

She was approaching slowly and he allowed himself a shiver of fear. The past few years had filled his head with unspeakables, things Giles told him about his Red - things he hadn't allowed himself to believe. Now, with that look in her eyes, he saw where her power had derived. Anger. Hatred. Emotions he used to feed on with such regularity. An enemy from all sides.

But he couldn't let her see his understanding. It was time to slip into character. Puffing a deep drag off his cigarette, he flashed the loudest grin he could manage and drawled a saucy, "'Evenin', Red. How-"

He realized too late that the spell on his legs was uplifted, and for the second time that evening, William found himself with a faceful of angry fist. The impact of the blow was more powerful than he would have expected from Willow - blunt with no magic behind it. Just the need for strong, old-fashioned retribution. He wondered absently if Anya were still lurking around. Without ceremony, he was sent harshly to the pavement, a loud, "Oh, bloody hell!" escaping his lips.

"That's for what you did to her!" she snarled. Good Lord, he had never seen her so angry. He had never seen anyone so angry. His past was all anger - colorful, angry, and bloody. It was what he fed on once upon a time. Not now, though. Willow's eyes flashed with malicious intent, as though willing him one mistake. One reason beyond the list of misdemeanors she could derive to send him straight to hell. He didn't dare.

As he struggled to his feet, another merciless blow caught his jaw, sending him back with forthright insistence. He had seen that one coming but hadn't the will to protect himself.

"That's for running out of town!" she spat, circling him with predator's instinct.

The next would be the last, he knew. Sod the lot of them, Red was going to finish him off now, before Harris or Peaches got a say in the matter. She was welcome to it - it was fitting. A sort of poetic justice.

However, nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. Willow advanced again, eyes shooting daggers as the words came, harsh and ground through her teeth. "And this is for coming back." He drew in a quaking breath and waited for the final blow that never came. Instead, he was sent back to the pavement, body suddenly crushed against an armful of Rosenberg. She was still for only a minute, her hands coaxing his face to her neck, so trusting that he could not help the lump that grasped his throat, tears springing to his eyes before he could think of stopping himself. They were still for long moments - timid and quiet, as though he expected her to yet finish him off. When she felt his body stiffen and relax, she tightened her embrace, encouraging participation in a hug, chaste and comforting. "This is for coming back," she repeated soothingly.

It was too overwhelming to tolerate. William felt himself dissolve, no longer willing himself to hold back. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, arms drawing her as close as possible. In so many years, it had never occurred to him that what he needed was a good hug. He heaved his frustrated agony on to her, and was rewarded with a constricted cuddle. Never before had he experienced something that offered more reassurance.

But it was wrong. It was so wrong. Willow should have killed him. She should not be holding him, cradling his head with faith of his goodwill, hushing his tears and gently rocking him back and forth. There was no reason for civility.

Oh God.

With sudden force, William tore himself away, falling backward onto the pavement, eyes heavy with relentless sobs. "Oh Jesus," he gasped. "What did Ripper tell you?"

"Ripper?" Willow frowned in confusion, then brightened with a spark of memory. "Oh! Giles! Right. I knew that. He said that you've been working with him. That you helped him get those mega important books, and that you've been really mopey about what happened... no matter..." Suddenly, she stopped and her hand shot to her mouth, pupils going wide with awful comprehension. "Oh God..." she gasped, looking at him as though she had just seen him. "Oh God..." Timidly, she reached to him, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes, catching the brown roots he had missed from the hasty dye job. William flinched at the tenderness, insides screaming for release. "What did you do?"

He dropped his gaze with a sigh, pulling away from her touch. "Did it for her," he whispered. "Least that's what I tell myself, nowadays."

"H...how? A curse?"

"No. Got myself to Africa." His voice was so soft, so hesitant that he even had difficulty hearing himself in the dead of night. "Went there right after. Thought I'd deprogram myself. I was so... I'd buggered things up for everyone, and I knew it. Was hurtin' too much with knowin' what I did to her, knowin' that I shouldn't... it was so hard loving her when I knew I shouldn't. Wanted to chase the other puppies again. Thought so, anyway." His vision clouded with tears once more. "Bloody well nearly killed myself. Probably should've died there. Wish I had at times. Like now. But I passed. By George, I passed. Got told I could have what I wanted. Turns out I wanted this." He took her hand in his, marveling at her unquestioning trust and placed it over his heart, grimacing his pain. "It burns, Red."

She nodded as though she understood, feeling before retracting the touch quickly as though scathed. "Oh God," she murmured. "The pain... I can..."

"Y'aren't supposed to be workin' mojo," he berated softly, drawing back. "Ripper told me what happened. He-"

"It's just for show, this no magic policy." She offered a soft, sad smile. "Keeps the Scoobies from wigging out too much. It overpowers me, Spike. I don't use it much - I can't - but I also can't get rid of it. It lives in me."

"Like a demon. You're wicked powerful."

"Instead of just wicked." With a huff, she pulled herself to her feet and helped him do the same, wiping dirt and pebbles from the creases in her clothing. "I was so upset when I came home and Buffy told me you had split." His brows perked in surprise. "Then she told me what happened."

William closed his eyes. "How?" he choked. "How can you be so... understanding? You're supposed to hate me, luv. I buggered things up so badly. I-"

"Yeah... but... this makes sense. Too much sense." Willow shook her head, looking mighty confused for someone who insisted she had it all worked out. "Maybe if things were different...but you have a soul. So it wasn't you. We've been through this once with Angel. Don't make me recite the whole vampire/soul logic."

He sighed, shaking his head. "No, you don't get it. It was me. Maybe not completely, but-"

"I came to find you, Spike. You - soul or no soul. Really thought it'd be no soul. You threw quite a curve at me. Regardless of what happened, it's in the past. I would be here with you even if you were all bumpy and saying you hated us, because I never believed that." When his brows perked dubiously, she rolled her eyes and continued, "Well, granted when you tried to bite me, I believed you. And when you sold us out to Adam. A-and when you wouldn't help us get Faith because...and..." She stopped when she saw his face, eyes going wide with the decency to look sheepish. "All right. You hated us. Big whup. You also loved us, you know. Not just Buffy. Don't think I don't know how many times you helped her. Even before you were all chips ahoy, you were like that... ultra-cool vamp you wouldn't wanna stake unless you were cornered. You've always been different from the other vamps. Like a buddy-vamp. A best friend vamp, in a way Angel never was. Even more still, a lot has happened since then." Willow shook her head. "Don't you get it? She's missed you."

Those three words nearly killed him. All at once, the world was spinning too fast for him to catch up, a nauseous growl rumbling from his stomach. He felt like sinking forward, like melting into the concrete, like setting himself aflame if only to forget the throbbing in his chest. The hot white ache that stretched the length of his body with the burden of guilt and the false hope of eventual release. Missed him. Missed him? How was that possible? After everything that had passed, everything she had put him through, ever said to him, everything he had done to her...

"Why?" he gasped at last. "Why would she ever have missed me? After what I did? After-"

"I don't know," Willow answered truthfully. "I honestly don't know. She doesn't, either. All I know is everything was fine when I got back. Normal - or as normal as it gets around here. Then I saw her wearing your duster. Well, I kinda noticed that it was yours. I mean, I'd never seen you without it or her wear it before...or anyone but you wear it. I asked her and she just started crying."

William's eyes watered again and he turned away before she could see. He had wept only a few minutes ago openly on her shoulders, but he couldn't let her see these tears. "God," he whispered. "Damn screwy world we live in. Things'd be so less confusing if everyone just hated me like they're supposed to." Desperately, he turned back to her, uncaring of the tears that glittered his eyes, and seized her by the shoulders. "Why doesn't she hate me? Why... how could she have ever missed me? Sod it all, Red. I can't do this."

She blinked in surprise. "What?"

"She's supposed to hate me! Understand? She's supposed to hate me forever for what I did."

"You'd think so. You'd also think that you'd hate her for what she did to you."

With a flash of anger, the vampire growled and retracted his grasp. The very insinuation almost provoked him to release his demon, just in raw frustration for her utterly blind misconception. "How can you say that?"

"Just as easy as you can say she should hate you." Red stepped back and allowed him space. "There's... we talked about this, Spike. A lot. Buffy was angry for a long time. With herself - not you. She wanted to be angry with you. I think she was hurt, sure, don't get me wrong. Wouldn't be human if she wasn't. But I don't think she was ever angry. Not with you."

A sob. "Why not?"

"You'll have to ask her." There was a long pause, wearing and traumatic. Never had he thought his return would initiate anything but further resentment. It hurt more than he could bear to think all this time she might have willfully forgiven him. Coping with Giles's pardon was difficult enough. In this state, hers might duly destroy what was left.

When Willow spoke again, her tone was low, perhaps soothing, perhaps impatient. He couldn't tell anymore. "Come on," she said, once more grasping his arm and pulling him toward the house. "I want to show you something."

William's eyes widened and he attempted in vain to jerk back. "No, no!" he cried pathetically. "I can't go in there."

"Don't make me force you." There was danger behind her voice. "Don't be a coward. You don't deserve her if you're a coward."

"I don't want to deserve her, pet. I don't deserve to deserve her."

A sudden flash. He sits up, wincing in pain, looking his reward in the eyes. "So you'll give me what I want. Make me what I was, so Buffy gets what she deserves."

The vampire exhaled deeply, shaking his head. He tried unsuccessfully to push his fear aside, but it came back and in greater numbers. And yet there would be no turning back. Part of braving the world was facing what one didn't want to. This was what he asked for, regardless of consequences. What he deserved.

"Then you won't," Willow replied, releasing him. "And she won't deserve you. You'll go through time just... not deserving each other. What a waste. Don't you get it? She hurt you, too. You hurt each other. Seems to me if you've been this miserable so long, and if she's missed you - whether she admits it or not, neither one of you will ever get what you want."

"And what do I want, Red? You seem to know a bloody lot."

"You want forgiveness and love. You came to the right place. Forgiveness And Love Central." She beamed proudly, then frowned. "Unless you're you and the welcoming committee is Xander. But you do... it's what you want. Forgiveness and love. And her."

"How can you be sure? I'm not Spike, luv. I don't know who I am."

Willow snickered and rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Like anyone couldn't look at you and know how much you love her? Geez, you're worse than Angel." Wrong thing to say. When she saw the look on his face, she stumbled over herself, stuttering a quick recovery. "I mean... your lovey-doveyness. You did things for her he never did. Things Riley couldn't do. Besides, you're not as secretive as you might think, Buster." She stepped forward again and placed her hand over his chest. They both winced. "I can feel you. I can feel your love for her, and the torment you put yourself through. It wouldn't hurt you like this if you didn't love her." A thoughtful pause. "You understand what... you killed people, Spike. I killed people. We're the same." She stopped again, trailing off. "I needed you here so much when I came back. Someone who'd been there, who could understand what I was going through."

William smiled softly, running his hand across her cheek. "We're not the same, Red. You might have been a bad dog, but we're not the same. Never think that. We're not the same." He sighed and cast his eyes to his feet. "I'm sorry, pet," he whispered. "I'd've been here if I wasn't so bleeding selfish. I mean, looky. Went to fix myself up because of what I'd done. To me, it was always about her."

Red sighed and returned his grin, just as humorlessly. "It still is." She took his hand once more, then dropped it, nudging him toward the house. "Come on. I want you to see this."

Reluctance clamored under every step, but he followed - hands free and stuffed tightly into his pockets. It was a path he could have taken with his eyes closed. The sensations welling in his chest were enough to make him burst.

Willow no longer lived there, he knew, but she still possessed a key. When the door was open, she disappeared inside, leaving him to himself. When she came back and saw his indifference, she frowned and crossed her arms. "Well... what are yah waiting for?"

"You don't live here any more, pet."

"So?"

"I need an invite from someone who-"

"Spike." Firm insistence flashed behind her eyes. "Try it."

His eyes narrowed skeptically, unwilling to admit that had it been beating, his heart would have leapt at the implication. With precision he stepped forward, wanting to prolong this moment of faith before willing it to be shot down. At the doorway he paused, looked up once more, and placed one foot inside, waiting to be thrown back by the ever-present invisible barrier.

It never came. Astonishment filled him whole. Then he was inside - inside the house he had not seen since that night. The air was so overwhelmingly her that he had to stop and breathe in appreciatively. Besides filling every last dead nerve in his body with agonized guilt, her scent brought him bittersweet pleasure. He had missed this.

With all his remorse, at times he forgot how much he missed her.

His eyes traveled to Red, not masking his touched surprise. "She never hoaxed the house? Never took my name off the guest list?"

"Never."

A growl lodged in his throat, coming out with smaller force than he intended. It sounded like a plea. However, he read her answer before he could croak the redundant question, resigning grudgingly to rugged acceptance. "I'll never understand, will I?"


"Who can say?" Willow sighed. "Listen, I don't wanna get your hopes up. Buffy missed you - right. But she's Buffy. She may never admit it. She may say she hates you long after she's in the ground." A slight pause. "Permanently, that is. But she doesn't. I know. She's my best friend - she couldn't hide anything from me if she wanted to. I just wanted to show you this. The invitation thingy and something upstairs. Just so you know that she...she feels for you, Spike. You're going to get it rough. Xan and Angel looked ready to kill when Dawnie told us that you were back. So... yeah... things for you are going to get pissy. Especially with the soul and all... that's a bummer. But at least know that she..."

"Don't." God, after so many years, one would think he was beyond crying over it. "Don't say she...cause she doesn't. We both know it."

"Yeah. But there is something."

"I get that."

Willow nodded to the stairs. "Seriously, I gotta show you this. Buffy has this book. Well, I got it for her... but... ah, you're just gonna have to see it. It's mega weird!"

He grinned. "Ah... creepy old book? Someone's singing my song."

"Not so much old as... not even really creepy. Just weird. And it proves my point." She was in Buffy's room before she realized he had stopped again at the doorway, familiar pangs shooting behind his eyes. "You know... once you're in the house, I don't think they can disinvited you from specific rooms."

"Oh, they can, luv," William replied. The jest was out of his voice. "Garlic and all that."

"There isn't any-"

"I know. I can't go in there. It's..."

"Big baby, good god!" Willow turned and outstretched her hand to him. "I know you're not Spike anymore. Don't make me wish you were. But golly, I never thought I'd see the day when you're timid to look into rooms because of something someone who wasn't technically you did." She frowned at her logic, then straightened, convinced of her argument. "Come in here before I have to go resort to-"

There was danger shooting behind her gaze, and he took the warning well. Without further ado, he stepped inside, flinching as Buffy's scent intensified. It was so thorough, so completely her that he nearly curled up. He wanted to lose himself. "What is it?" he choked, stepping forward. "Whaddya want me to see?"

"This." Red held up a thick navy book, one he had seen a thousand times. His mouth went dry and something seized hold of his insides, wrenching them into a tight knot. "Xander and I took Buffy to the mall for her birthday. After so many years, we finally took your advice and decided not to celebrate, you know? Avoid the calamity? Anyway, we hit the usual places before remembering Dawn needed some book for her class. We were there for like... a half hour. Lost Buffy in the poetry section, if you can believe it. I found her looking at this." She handed it to him. "She wasn't crying or anything... just looking at it in an all funny, I-wish-things-were-different kinda way."

William was at a loss for words as he stood there, cradling the book of poetry he had spent hours pouring himself in to, the very one Giles had published without his knowledge. Every verse in there was an inspiration of his past dealings, all involving her in one variation or another. He traced the place his name was embroidered in gold lettering, voice hoarse as he held back another outburst of emotional release. "She likes it?" he whispered.

"Likes it? Hell, I can't get her to read anything else." Willow beamed proudly, flipping the front cover open. "See? The pages are all worn and stuff. We'll have to get her another one before long. She was short on cash and decided that's what she wanted for her birthday. Even made me take back the pumps I'd gotten her at Payless so I'd have enough money."

Buffy returned shoes for a book? This was serious.

William smiled sadly, a genuine smile, releasing a quivering breath. Eyes shining, he turned to her, a look of odd complacency overcoming his features. "They're all about her, you know," he muttered. "Every single one. In one way or another. Granted, some are about endless guilt an' self-punishment, but even then, she has a say." The look on Willow's face had dropped from victorious to stunned. He didn't notice. "I don't think I've ever written anything but her."

"Wait... wait a sec." The volume was snatched from his grasp quickly, tossed to the bed and forgotten. Her gaze commanded him. "You... you wrote that?"

"Bloody right I did. You think there's another ponce calling himself 'William the Bloody' waltzing around London?" His eyes narrowed at her skeptically. "Wait a tick... you thought I didn't? Why'd she want it if you thought I hadn't-"

"Well, Spike... yah gotta admit. When someone thinks of you, they don't automatically make a poetry connection." The look on her face was torn between surprise and adoration. "I got it for her because of the name. She wanted it because of the name. We never thought it was you... just a really, really freaky coincidence." Excitement surged behind her eyes. "I had no idea you wrote poetry! It's gorgeous, Spike. I've read it all. Absolutely-"

"Slow down, luv," he said softly, smiling with tight ego-stroked satisfaction. "I'll admit...my old self isn't the type to sit down and pour his bleeding heart onto paper. If my heart was bleeding, I'd usually go take it out on some poor unsuspecting. Rip out another bleedin' heart to feel better. Stupid git. Before I was changed, though... poetry was sort of my thing. I was never really good at it. 'S how they started callin' me 'William the Bloody.' Bloody awful poetry an' all that. I started writin' again after I got the job. Ripper found all my work, that nosy wanker, and took it upon 'imself to get it published." The smirk on his face melted away without provocation, replaced with familiar glinting behind eyes that had cried far too much for one or a thousand lifetimes. "An' she likes it? Really likes it?"

Willow smiled and stepped forward. "She loves it. I...I can't believe I never made the association."

"I can't either. It does seem kinda obvious," the vampire teased. "But I can make sense of it. Bloody hell, pet, I never thought it'd come this far. Any of it. Ripper had me workin' in a sodding library...and I liked it! Couldn't get enough of it. Hell, I even miss those old ponces that hired me."

"You... were working... in a library?" The irony was too much, and when he nodded in confirmation, she burst out laughing. "Oh God! Xander wasn't kidding when he said that the mysterious 'Fitzwilliam' must be a carbon copy of Giles."

"That wanker called me what?!" Abandoned grief gave way to innocent tease. "You know, pet, I really oughta go. She'll be back eventually, and I don't want 'er angry with you for bringin' me 'ere. Until I've..." He swallowed audibly, "talked with Buffy, you shouldn't be around me."

Willow grinned. "Yah big dope. Who do you think asked me to find you, huh? She wasn't having much success trying to warn off Xander or Angel from going out and causing some major damage. Shoulda seen her. She got real mouthy with them."

"What'd she do?"

"Told them that if either of them touched you, they'd have to answer to her." Her grin broadened at the shock in his face. "See? She wants to keep you protected... says she's coming to see you tomorrow."

William's eyes widened, constricting with a sudden diversion between fear and anticipation. Tomorrow? That was so soon. Not that he had been expecting a long period of preparation, but... oh god, the walls were closing in. "Are you sure it's not to stake me good and proper herself?" he asked weakly, dizzy for a minute.

"Oh no." Red shook her head ardently and sighed. "You didn't see her. She burst into tears when Dawnie told her you were back." The vampire flinched. "No, no, no. Good tears. Really. Oh, and when Xander tried to comfort her by saying he'd go out and kill you, she and Giles both screamed out: 'NO'! It was awesome." There was a thoughtful pause before she took his arm, prying him toward the door. "Come on. We're going to the Bronze. You need to see her."

Predictably, the words succeeded in turning William's feet into granite. He wrenched his arm free and pushed her away, shaking his head with insistent fervor. "No. Too soon."

"Not to talk to her, dummy. Just to see her." At his dubious expression, she rolled her eyes. "You have to get passed this, Spike. If you're here to help us, eventually you'll have to see her. No matter what Giles says. Fact is, she's going to come looking for you. She wants to see you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Yeah. That either she's off her rocker, or she really wants to stake me." William snarled and turned away. "I can't do this."

"Yes. You. Can. You have to." When he didn't face her, Willow emitted an exasperated breath, grasping his arm and forcing him to look at her. "Hey - all right. I'll admit it. You messed up. You totally messed up. You did something really bad. Here's the kicker: so what? No one's perfect. Everyone messes up. Everyone deserves a second chance. You're a vampire, in case you haven't noticed. Vampires are all about the mayhem and carnage, so when you mess up, it's expected to be BIG. Demons are evil and whatnot, but you were good to us. I mean, not at first, no, but later. Buffy asked you specifically to watch after Dawn. AND after I..." She sighed again and looked away, ashamed. "After I went all crazy, she told Xander that Dawn'd be safe with you. That was after you'd left town, though. She had to stay with Clem."

"Buffy took Dawn to me?" His voice was nearly inaudible.

"Yeah. So there. Point proven. Listen, part of this human gig is screwing up royally. I mean, look at me. I was so... out there... my humanity was driven from me. I tried to end the world. I kicked the crap out of Giles for fun. I did... horrible... horrible... things." The look in her eyes drifted and was replaced with an onslaught of tears. Without hesitating, William came forward and took her into his embrace, comforting, as though it were second nature. Chaste hugs were new to him. Drusilla had never been much for cuddling, Harmony - well, he had only kept her around for sex, and Buffy had rarely stayed after their moments of intimacy, fleeing after kicking him in the head only to return hours later ready for more. Outside was the first true moment of real neediness, and Willow, dear sweet Red, had comforted him in the most elementary way. He hadn't been lying when he noted he wished he could have been here for her when she came back those years ago. She needed someone then, someone who had seen both sides of the world and come back, stronger built. Someone in need of as much forgiveness as she was.

"But..." she said when she found her voice. "They forgave me, you see. I tried to kill them and they forgave me. I can't imagine what I put them through... when I do, it feels all... confined inside, and I don't want to think about it. You..." She pulled away, smiling lightly. "You're the same, Spike. Sure, you messed up, but she'll forgive you. She might never say it, but she will. Maybe she already has. It'll hurt like hell... her forgiving you, because you won't forgive yourself. I know I haven't... forgiven myself. But time heals things. For that, you're going to have to get over this thing and be strong. I know you're strong - I've seen it."

William's mouth tugged in a subtle grin. "It already hurts like hell, luv. You oughtn't worry about my strength. I've got plenty. Past couple years 'ave taught me that it's'all right to shed a tear or two here or there, s'long as you got the stones where it counts"

"Yeah." She pulled back completely, heaving another breath, final. "I'm so glad you're here."

"'S'good you are," he retorted. "I just hope you're not the only one."

"That's why we're going to the Bronze. You need to see her." At his hesitation, Willow bit her lip and considered. "I bet she's still in your duster, if that helps. Rarely takes that old thing off."

"What about Peaches? He'll be there, won't he?"

"Angel? More than likely. Don't worry, though. She hasn't been exactly friendly to him since he came back." Willow snickered. "I think the magic's finally gone. He has a kid, did you know? Had one with Darla, of all... vamps."

William quirked a brow and chuckled softly, finding no humor behind it. "It's a bloody weird world we live in, pet. Peaches is out there doing the wacky without even losin' his soul. Buffy doesn't hate me when she should... and me, blubbering every step I take like a sodding fool."

Red chuckled, pretended to consider, then nodded. "Yup." With conviction, she grabbed his arm again, pulling him down the stairs. "Now we're going to the Bronze. No fussy objections. I won't take 'no' for an answer. There we go. Forward march."

He laughed - a good, honest laugh, but didn't fight her. "You drive a hard bargain, Red. You know that?"

"Part of my charm."

At the bottom of the steps, he turned back to face her. Another unlikely friend with even further unlikely insight. His insides shivered at the thought of what was to come, but she was right. It was time enough. To say her words had charged him with hope was a falsity, but they did shed new light. Comforting in a strange, almost painful way. Buffy didn't hate him. She had missed him. She owned his book. She had read his book. She liked his book. If everyone else in the world decided it was garbage and wanted to burn every copy, he wouldn't care. The three people whose opinion he did esteem had already passed their good favor. Giles, Buffy, and Willow - all here. Willow behind him, locking the door as they stepped into the night once more. Willow, offering him this incredible chance, an opportunity more vivid than the Watcher could have ever provided. Willow, who should not be here with him, but was.

Willow. His darling Red. She was healing. Three years was short compensation for the pain she had experienced, not only for the world, but also for losing the person she loved. They had both progressed in their respective states - not much but enough. Her words were true. Time did heal things. It had healed Giles and Buffy, preserved Willow's good opinion even as she suffered her own misgivings, and had brought him here. Sunnydale. Time would continue and would eventually soothe all its past indiscretions. It was just a matter of waiting.

William stopped suddenly in stride. "You won't tell her, will you?"

There was no need for elaboration. "About your soul? No. I figured it was something you wanted to keep secret as long as possible. Giles woulda told us if it weren't. Besides, it's your place to tell her - not mine."

"Guess I should be worried 'bout being found out before I can manage to tell 'er myself. You seemed to know right off the bat."

Red grinned. "I could feel you a mile away. Didn't know it was your soul until I saw you, but I felt it. Witch's powers, and all that. I'm just good."

"You are." He returned the smile as they resumed walking. "I never got to tell you... I'm so sorry about Tara."

He expected her to stop walking again, or to hitch in breathing, or do something to display her grief. Instead, her hand shot out and seized his, squeezing in assurance even as her face fell impassive. "I know," she whispered. The night shone on them, encompassing with surviving comfort. They continued side-by-side, the wary path to the Bronze.

No more words were exchanged. There was no need.

Chapter Nine

The Bronze.

In so many years, the scene before him had not changed; never truly changed. With as often as it was fumigated, renovated, and remodeled, the atmosphere inevitably stayed the same. The crowd had aged and added younger faces, but they danced to the same music, laughed loudly at the same bad jokes, endured the same come-ons and put-downs as every generation before them. The place had seen more action than likely any one location in Sunnydale, and rightfully so. Where else would a demon find such a lively crowd of unsuspecting victims?

One would assume the populace would wise up as the years passed.

They were standing side-by-side on the balcony, eyes mirroring each other's as if they had been born to stand and observe. The long ends of the upper level were occupied by necking lovers, as was the norm. A respective crowd danced to the music of the visiting band, vivacious and full of life.

William snickered. A room full of happy meals with legs, and he felt not the slightest desire to nab himself a midnight snack. That might have been the chip, but he didn't think so. Even after so many years, it was bizarre not to crave human from a live source. He bought it, sure, and drank without hindrance. But not to crave destruction; that was something that would take years to overcome.

"Lead singer's cute," he said, indicating the visiting band with a nod. "Looks a bit like you. Who are they?"

"The Annoying Pedestrians," Willow replied, her face reddening at the slightest suggestion of a compliment. "They play here a lot. Really popular."

The corners of his mouth tugged in a bittersweet smile, registering her self-consciousness before turning back to the crowd. It was hard to estimate how many things had happened here. Buffy dancing before Sweet, almost burning to a cinder until he rescued her. Outside they had shared a passionate kiss—the first of their destructive rapport. The occurrence in itself had been so singular up to that point. He recalled his thoughts with painful articulation. It was the first kiss out of desire: not a spell gone wonky conjured up by Red, not gratitude for saving her sister. No—because she had wanted him, truly wanted him. Strong and without repression.

William shuddered. Ripper was right, of course. The relationship had damaged them both; leaving him with scars even an eternity could not heal.

A hand grasped his arm and pulled him to the present. He glanced to Willow, her eyes alight, pointing excitedly to a table in the foyer. "There!" she cried gleefully. "I was right!"

His gaze followed her direction, and his entire body went numb. For the first time in three years, he saw her. The music slowed, blossoming discussion subsiding to long withering drones, even the people making their way across the dance floor alternated to a sluggish pace. And it was just her. Sitting there in all her flawed perfection. Sitting there. Glowing. She looked so…good. Words filled his throat, racing mind composing a hundred verses of poetry that would never know paper. She was lovely: so much stronger than he remembered her. William forced himself to release a breath, and smiled. Good—she needed to be strong. That year had been their worst. Buffy, but not Buffy: the girl—woman—he loved no matter.

However, on further inspection, he noticed a burden set beneath her eyes. Nothing of heavy consequence, but he could tell her thoughts were of him. Considering. Conspiring. His duster complimented her in a way he could not have appreciated before. It was there; it was all there. His Buffy—not plagued by the past. At peace.

Not yours, an inner voice forewarned. She was never yours.

William frowned, flushed and exhausted, needing air like never before. "Oh Red," he murmured, surprised when she heard him.

"What?"

"She's…she's just…" Adoration filled him whole, for the first time swallowing the stronger side of him that ached with reminders of constant sorrow. "Cor, she's so beautiful."

No sooner had the words left his lips did the scene change. William watched, fascinated, as her face dropped, heavy with distaste, eying the tall, darker form coming into view. It took all of him to hold back a snicker. Angel was like all other demons, though he would be the last to admit it. As always, his eyes were full and brooding, body language precise and movements diminutive. He had before been called an enigma—a person thoroughly impossible to read. The storm behind his gaze was an aggressive one; battling centuries' worth torment, the massive wrongdoings by a hand that mimicked his, and yet was not. However, the grand-sire was not so ambiguous to his childe. Without needing to inquire for confirmation, or even place other possibilities on the table, he knew that their past conversation had concerned him, and that Angel's words were less than encouraging. It didn't surprise him; didn't anger him; didn't concern him, really, in any fashion. It was Angel, and such behavior was expected. Such bias judgment on things he claimed to understand. Things he wished he understood.

Like how I could be good when he's such a bloody prat when he's bad, William reflected bitterly, pausing, and shrugging in concession. 'Course, I'm no Mother Theresa myself, but by gum, I did try. Isn't trying worth anything anymore?

Conversation did not resume immediately. Angel slid Buffy a drink that she tapped her fingernails against but didn't sample. Another grin threatened to tackle his lips, the words that's my girl forming effortlessly. He flinched and bid himself back a step.

Not yours. Not anyone's. But really, really not yours.

Ah, they were talking now. William squinted and peered closer. One did not have to be within earshot to catalog her aversion. Buffy's features were always animate when she talked, whatever the conversation might entail. If she were discussing horned snails with a professor, then by golly, it would be the most fascinating venue of her day. The same with her anger and frustration; he had seen enough of that to spot it coming weeks in advance. Her eyes were screaming as her body rolled in momentary repugnance, Angel too enthralled with his own fuming disapproval to really take notice. However, it was not so much an argument as a heated discussion. Their voices never raised, and neither truly lost their patience. William watched her mouth form his name more than once.

Drawing back, he sighed and nudged at Willow. "They're fighting about me." It wasn't a question—rather an astute observation.

"I'd say that's a good guess," she agreed. "Angel was so thrown when Dawn came in and told everyone you were back. Things have been kinda awkward since he came back to town, anyway. Adding you to the mix took the cake."

"Awkward? Why awkward?"

Willow shrugged. "Buffy just doesn't see him the way she used to. It's creepy. They're not even really friends. Or talking buddies. Or any kind of buddy. I know it's been years, but I'm so used to seeing them all over each other." She turned red when he shot a pained look her way, ducking away from his scrutiny and mumbling, "Hard to get used to something else when he leaves town, yah know."

When William withdrew his gaze and looked back to the unfolding scene, Angel had pulled away from the mix, returning to the bar. It didn't appear he would be joining her anytime soon, and judging by the expression coloring her face, there was nothing she would like better. She reached to take a drink before remembering who brought it to her and pushing herself away from the table in disgust. The vampire grinned tightly to himself, not out of pride as much as the pleasure of watching her rawest emotions unfold. There was something about her at the brink of utter frustration that was unreservedly exquisite.

Buffy had only taken a few steps away when she stopped suddenly—awkwardly, a frown creasing her brow. It was a moment of instant recognition. He knew that look all too well. A slayer at her best always sensed a vampire nearby, and he knew she had finely tuned the tinglies to pinpoint specific demons. If he stayed much longer, he would be cornered. Something told him whatever rift had settled between Buffy and Peaches was capable of being placed on hold if a more trying matter arose. Though even as his better senses commanded him to leave, he watched her beats longer, willing her to see him, wanting despite the dryness of his throat. Never had he thought the night would bring together such a forage of conflicting emotions. Now that he was this close, he understood it would be impossible not to stray himself further, even if she wished it so.

Chances were he would never see her again.

With pained restraint, he pulled back. “She knows I'm here, luv.” Willow looked at him strangely without voicing her confusion. “Slayer thing—strongest around vamps she knows. I better get my ass out of 'ere. Things could get hairy, specially with Peaches lurkin' about.”

"Yeah," she agreed. "You did what I wanted, anyway. You saw her. Feel better?"

He grinned tightly. "Lots, actually. Never thought it possible, but I do. Thanks for draggin' me along, pet." With that, he withdrew from the edge of the balcony, missing the slayer's eyes as she completed her stationary scan. That wasn't all. If she didn't find a target by looking, the hunt would infinitely resume on foot. "For the best. Not sure how loopy things are going to get 'round 'ere once we 'ave our heart-to-heart. It'll go one way or the other. There is no in between with me and Buffy." His gaze caught hers and she offered a small smile but no reply. "Promised Ripper I'd check in to be sure I'm still all not-staked and dusty."

"All right." Without warning, Red grabbed him and pulled him in for the third tight embrace of the evening. "Hugging good," she whispered. "Thanks for coming."

Hugging also becoming an odd second nature. It didn't bother him; he squeezed his arms around her. Hugging relaxing. Hugging reassuring. "Not a problem, luv. Can't ever resist a girl in red." He tugged playfully at her hair, a somewhat humorless chuckle rumbling through his body.

"No, I mean coming back." She smiled against his shoulder, constricting her grasp on him in the unspoken need for further comfort. What was it that was so…nice about this? It occurred to him that with all the help he could have given her when she came back from London, tired and filled with remorse, she could have helped him just as easily. Whatever had to be done was always simpler when you weren't alone, and with as surprisingly supportive as Giles had been in the heart of all this drama, there wasn't anything like going through something with someone. "You're late, but at least you're here. Don't run off like that again."

William's lips tugged in a sad smile. "Can't promise you that," he said. "Going back to the old country an' all, once the wackiness is over. But I'll let you know how to reach me. It's tough, Red. I know. I understand that."

With a sniffle, she pulled away, heaving a breath of dry release. "Yeah," she agreed. "You're the only one who does."

Five minutes between upstairs and the ground floor. Buffy saw her immediately and grinned. A genuine grin. Willow was happy to see those. Their conversations of the recent didn't initiate too many genuine grins. It was difficult being the best friend who knew everything but couldn't say a word, or even pretend like she knew what was going on behind the scenes. A sigh heaved through her body. If she wasn't consoling one bleeding soul, it would be another.

The Slayer's features were still wrought with colorful dissatisfaction. By the relaxing of her shoulders, Willow could tell the tinglies had passed. Spike was wisely far and away, delaying the inevitable as long as he could. It was understandable. With all that had passed, following three years' silence would be difficult.

How much easier things would have been if he had simply come back.

Without passing a greeting, Buffy stormed over to her, eyes dark and cloudy. "Big prick," she growled, nodding to the place Angel sat watching her. "God. Will he ever understand that when he leaves someone's life, he loses all right to a say in what happens in it?"

"He's protective, Buf. Always is." Willow's eyes followed her direction but didn't linger long. Her thoughts of Angel were unchanged in the years they had known each other. No more juicy 'what-happened's itched her curiosity. The conversations between the two formers were now a matter of delicate privacy, often eliciting some sort of wan, unsettled frustration. A sense of caring but being so aggravated that they cared that it was better to pretend the other didn't exist. "Did you tell him? About Spike?"

Buffy scowled and rolled her eyes. "Tell is such a strong word. Forced into talking was more like it. When, exactly, did my personal life become a world-class show and tell? Especially in the past sense? God. I said some things I probably shouldn't have, but garrr…he makes things so difficult!" Willow nodded sympathetically. "He wouldn't even try to understand."

"Well…he does know Spike better than anyone," she replied slowly. When she was challenged with fully perked eyebrows, her voice dropped. "Or thinks he does." Silence threatened them. Odd that silence could ever be an issue when they were surrounded by so much noise.

Needling voices pinpricked the back of her neck, pressuring her into confession.

That was all it took. Suddenly, she couldn't hold back. "He's here, Buffy." The words required little time to settle. Willow's eyes widened at the hope that flickered behind her friend's gaze. "Or he was. When he saw that you could feel him here, he left."

"You found him?"

The Witch grinned self-consciously. "It wasn't too hard. He was outside your house—not evil or anything, not even thinking about going in. I think he wanted to see you. Not talk, just see you. Physically. Make sure you were all right and all."

There was a nod of empty understanding, contrasting the variety of conflict sprouting behind Buffy's eyes, so intensely vibrant that Willow nearly flinched. She hadn't been lying when she told Spike she could feel him a mile away. She had—she felt him still—she just hadn't realized it was him until seeing his eyes. Standing beside her friend now, it was nearly impossible to decode whose soul was screaming the most.

"You talked to him?" Buffy whispered. It was impossible to hear her above the music. With a nod, Willow seized her arm and pulled her into a corner. Not too much of an improvement, but some.

"A lot," she replied at last. "He just left. We spent most of the evening together."

"How…how was he?"

A breath caught in her throat before the truth could escape. Which side did she tell? The part where the distressed vampire had clung to her the in the midst of his grief? How he begged her not to make him go inside? How she had discovered the poetry book was indeed verses composed at his hand? How she had shared her own grief and been comforted in the arms of the one man she shouldn't trust? How now her feelings on the matter were almost as confounding as the star-crossed lovers that she was, too, wobbly on the ground she stood on?

There was one thing she couldn't do: lie. Spike hadn't been just fine; though she happily admitted that his mood had improved drastically as the night ensued. Smiling slightly, Willow drew in a breath, piecing together words out of thin air. "He was…different. Really different. So different, I—" No souly, remember? That's his job.

"Like Giles said?"

"Oh Buffy, you wouldn't believe it." Her voice dropped. "I took him into the house."

"You what?!"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." Willow took hold of the lapels of Spike's old duster and gave a good demonstrative tug. "You can't fool me, Missy. And…it wasn't like he wanted to. I kinda forced him."

Buffy blinked, pulling away and absently caressing the leather, as though she had nearly ruined the face. "You forced him?"

"Just a little. He was so…I'd never seen him like that." By golly, I coulda sworn he was sporting a new fancy SOUL. Geez, Buffy. And all this time, I thought I was dense. "The things he said. You know—normal Spike things only different. Like—" Like a souly guy with a soul. "Like…it was eating him up. I had to take him inside to show him you didn't hate him enough to revoke his invitation." Her voice dropped. "I also showed him your poetry book."

"Will!" The Slayer's tone was coated the venom. "I don't want him getting the wrong idea. You know how Spike can be. I mean, sure, I've missed him. Big whup. Too much has happened for me to just—"

"What exactly is the wrong idea?" the Witch retorted. "That every time he's mentioned, you go off into BuffyLand and don't bother sending a postcard? That every time you smell cigarette smoke, you get a look in your eyes that's all 'Oooh…I wonder if that's him!' followed by immediate disappointment when you understand he's not coming back? Or, or—how about the time you nearly flipped when you left that ratty old duster at Xander’s and thought he'd recognize it and burn it if I didn't keep it safe for you until you could get it back. That every time you read his poetry book, you hafta leave the room before you burst into tears? Or are you still telling yourself that you don't give a rip because he's too evil for words and you're too Buffy-esque to stop and smell the cigarettes, because honestly, I'm a little fuzzy on your definition of 'the wrong idea.' Seems to me like what I did was feeding him the right idea of what's been going through your head these past years."

There was nothing for a long minute. When she did speak, her voice was small and disbelieving. "Wha…what do you mean…his poetry book? He—"

"What it sounds like. We're dummies, Buffy." Willow adorned her renowned resolved face, the one that never lied or took no for an answer. "Every word…he was so…he couldn't believe that you owned it. He said it was all about you."

Tears clouded the Slayer's vision and she choked back a sob, turning away quickly. Willow allowed her a few seconds before sighing and conceding to comfort. Everyone was getting their share of the huggies tonight.

"God!" Buffy finally cried. "What am I supposed to do? Things are so…messed up. I was so…terrible to him. And…not…how am I supposed to look at him? With everything that happened… How can he—"

"No one said it was going to be easy," Willow retorted. "In fact, he said himself that chances are, things are going to get pretty crappy. I don't think he's expecting anything. Hell, I know he's not. You would, too, had you seen him. But there's nothing wrong with forgiving him. You'll both feel better if you do."

"That's just it." Buffy's voice was barely above a whisper. "I have. I forgave him a long time ago. Well, maybe not a long time ago. It took a while. I had to grow up, Will. I had to realize what I was doing was wrong, and that if you provoke a demon the wrong way, he'll go all demony. That much was my fault. I give. But the rest...things are complicated beyond that. Forgiveness isn't the answer here. Forgiveness doesn't equal trust. It's just an act. It doesn't change anything." She sniffed audibly. "But I've missed him so much! How is that? He's evil, Will. Angel's right about that. No matter what happens or what changes, he's just…evil. He tries and I never admitted it, but, GOD! Why are things so messed up? I missed something evil, something that tried to hurt me…something I hurt… Something that caused more hurt than love." The words but that was my fault were written plainly across her face even if she never spoke them. "Between the hurt and the…hurt…I don't know what I missed."

Willow heaved a breath. "What do you want to say to him?"

"I'm sorry." She spoke so bluntly it startled them both. "But…as far as everything else…I don't know. He hurt me too! I'm so…"

"Settle with the apologies for now," she said simply. "I don't think he'll accept that he's forgiven, anyway. And after that…"

"After that, it becomes a matter of him forgiving me," Buffy concluded, eyes going distant. "But no smoochies."

Chapter Ten

Things were so confusing right now it was difficult to breathe. Warring emotions fought for the inward pedestal, one never triumphing over the other. Images arose in support of conflicting debates, dying without offering a half-hearted provocation. The air was desperately thin—her lungs, it seemed, had not struggled this much since her first death, and even that seemed too far in the past to be reality.

She had never felt so lost.

Coming to terms with her feelings for Spike was comparable to taking every exam she had ever studied for in the entirety of her life in ten minutes with the expectation to pass, only not as simple. Their relationship had presented more than an array of complications. Unlike those in the past, there was no way to summarize her feelings in one word. Angel seemed best defined by angst, Riley with over-reactive, (did that count as one word or two?), but Spike stood in a category by himself where no humanly syllables could apply.

Things would have been so much simpler had the cursed Initiative never put that chip in his head. He could have been dust years ago instead of a mooning vampire who followed her wherever she went. That, or, she could have been killed in turn. That was one of the exciting things about him. While she was an expert slayer, his own abilities were never outshone. They were each other's worst enemies. There was no one she enjoyed fighting more. Before him, no one else was worthy of killing her. If she were to be done in, by gum, she'd be done in by the best.

But no. Things don't work out the nice, smooth, easy way when one resided in Sunnydale. He had to get all chipped up. Chip's Ahoy, as she had often jested. Chipped up and progressing from an annoyance, to a colleague, to daresay a friend, and finally to a lover. Things were never pleasant between them, but there were the good times. The great times. Those two second-intervals she took to enjoy herself instead of focusing on the inward mantra of thisiswrongthisiswrongthisiswrong!

Stupid vampire had to go fall in love with her.

No, not love, she warned herself. It was far too dangerous to define anything a soulless demon could feel as love. She conjured the image of his fierceness, the way he had felt pushed against her that night. It worked to a degree - before her treacherous mind showed her the look of self-horror he had displayed before her biting though justified remark. He was never really…in—

That was what was commonly known as denial. Buffy heaved a sigh, slumping in stride as her hands found purchase in her pockets. Night cocooned, wrapping her in a protective embrace. What a night. What a long night.

Matters weren't made any simpler in knowing what feats awaited her tomorrow. A part of her welled with insatiable excitement—the end of a long three years. How often had she wished he would return—a hidden desire she kept in shame. Granted, it hadn't spawned immediately, rather growing in secret until it could no longer be tamed. And even then, Willow was the only one she could turn to. The only one who had ever looked at her and not judged with the hasty decisions made in her personal life. The only one to keep quiet if she found something objectionable, offering her opinion, of course, but never trying to actively interfere. She had been, she was, the only one to know of the hidden want for that nasty vampire.

Buffy had tried hate, but there was nothing to hate. Nothing but herself for such blind intolerance. Once upon a time, her hatred was justified. They were mortals enemies, to be sure. They had hated each other with the same drive that made them yearn, lust, and bleed. Then he had to be a prat and fall in love with her, and out of her outrage that the one demon she never wanted could love her so conversely than the one that had left her heartbroken, her hatred had doubled with frightening potency.

Then there was no hatred. As her feelings slipped from abhorrence to desire, her self-disgust established a violent persona. Maybe if she abused him often enough he would return to wanting her dead. To realizing his place and the absurdity of his claims. To not loving her with such steadfast dedication that he put mortal men to shame. That had backfired. His willingness to forgive and forget was overwhelming, so much more than hers. All for the impossible love of a woman who could never truly love him back.

Because, underneath all that, he was still a monster.

And beneath her well-guarded layers of self-scrutiny and disgust resided a monster lover who wanted to make things right.

Her words cut more deeply than any blade. She had led him to that moment of desperation. Playing with the fire meant you got burnt. Maybe not the first, second, or thousand times, but eventually the flame would flare and scorn your skin. Growing comfortable around a killer, even a neutered killer, was never a good idea. And yet, while she was hurt, it was more directed at herself for such a lack of insight.

He had been wrong, of course. There was no doubting that. He had been so wrong it hurt to consider. What's worse was, in all her actions, she had never been above it. What was wrong to her was similarly wrong to him. Hurt. Kick. Punch. Over and over. The tedium of endless cycles.

Loving her did not rationally constitute being physically abused every time he was near simply because she could not cope with her misplaced feelings. Nor being used for love when she knew reciprocation of any kind was impossible.

She had broken it off. Tried to do the right thing. It wasn't a clean break—she hadn't been nice about it, but that was how it had occurred, and virtually where her fault ended. What they had could never be pretty, but it had been real.

That was one thing she had never credited him with. The capacity for genuine human emotion. Down to the gritty. Ugly. True. Real.

She could admit it, now.

There had been heat. Passion. Need. Love? No. She always saw it in him, of course, but never offered kindness or concern in return. Even when he proved himself capable of authentic feeling. A year before their ill-fated coupling, he had saved her and her sister from Glory. Willingly. Even if she was not-so-pleasant. Even if the hell-god tortured him right into the earth.

That was real. It was all real, regardless of how fervently she wished to deny it.

It was real now, and to her grief, her ecstasy, her inward torment and utmost respite, he was back. The next few days promised hefty conversation: heart-breaking confessions, apologies, and conclusions. There wouldn't be kindness, just understanding.

Buffy stopped shortly outside Giles's motel room, her thoughts sharply perturbed by the thick emanation of a Cockney tenor. For the second time that evening, her heart stopped. Dull numbness tingled across her skin and she forced herself to draw in a heavy breath. He was there. Of course he was there. After all, he was in Sunnydale at the Watcher's request. It was only natural for him to visit.

Now, though? At this hour? What time was it, anyway? Buffy checked her watch, eyes darting quickly to the door, daring the fates to shove him through at that moment.

They didn't. When the better half of her motor abilities returned, she heaved a second breath, darting out of eyesight for the bushes while her eyes gazed fixatedly on the window visible beyond drawn curtains and two parked cars. There she stilled to perfection, close enough to hear. Close enough to gauge their conversation wasn't ending anytime soon.

He passed the window, and she saw him. She saw him! How little—or how much—he had changed. Instead of the confident sneer lacing his eyes and mouth, he was frowning, features taut with concern. Lips were in full motion, speaking intelligible words of prophecy, head buried in a book, of all things. His shoulders looked smaller without his duster. The duster she instinctively tightened around herself. She had seen him in much less, of course, but it looked different all the same. So different, and yet not. He was still Spike. Spike and not Spike. Spike never rubbed his chin in thoughtful speculation. Never spoke with understanding and patience. Never researched.

This was the Spike that left her three years before? He was. He wasn't.

He was speaking.

"Bloody weird evenin', Ripper." That was definite Spike-speak. Different? A breath shuddered passed her lips. "Harder than I thought it would be."

"Mmmm…yes." Giles suddenly crossed the scene, head also studiously delved in ancient text. "Dawn related that she had run into you. Her tone was…less than civil."

Spike flinched and rubbed his jaw again, though more out of pain than guesswork. A shadow of a punch sparkled in his eyes, and she saw it. "Yeah. Nibblet let me 'ave it. Never thought I'd see the day. Good fer 'er. Even if it does hurt." He wasn't referring to the blow. "Little tike really grew up."

"If facing Dawn was that hard for you, then I fear the coming days will not improve."

"Oh no; Rips, it wasn't that." He looked so human, a sigh rolling off his shoulders as he took a seat beside the windows, back facing her. Though she was in no danger of being spotted, Buffy instinctively slinked further into the shadows. "That I was expectin'. Bit's all loyal to her sis. The way it should be. I just…"

"What is it?" Odd to hear authentic concern in the Watcher's tone when Spike was implicated.

"Red. It was Red." Emotion choked in his voice, and she had to bite back a sharp jolt of pain. "She…found me. Went to go see Buffy." A pause, probably following an incredulous look. "Not to talk to her, mate. I'm not a bleedin' idiot. I…wanted to make sure she was all right. Mighty dark mojo about to start, after all." Another silence. "All right, you ponce. I wanted to see her. You knew it. I'm not fool enough to just walk up and say 'ello. Wouldn't, anyway. But stake me, I was just…pulled there."

"I hesitate to think how Buffy would have reacted if she'd seen you."

A third hefty pause. "Yeh, mate. Me, too. But she wasn't there. Red was. Tried to move away, but…" Hesitation. "She's…all right, innit she? No dark—"

"Perfectly."

"Thought so. Cor, she 'as a mean right hook." Buffy blinked. Willow had hit Spike? "Knocked me to the sodding ground twice."

Confused silence. "She seemed rather impassive at the Magic Box," Giles offered. "Buffy's reaction to your being back in town was not what I thought. Willow said little, but I didn't think—"

"Bugger, she wasn't vicious. After she hit me, she hugged me tighter than a bloody guitar string." A breath. Emphasized. "I never thought I'd feel rotten for leaving town. I've felt pretty rotten, Ripper. You've been there. Don't think I've felt it as badly as I did tonight."

"Why?"

"She's been hurtin'. I'm not talking little shards of guilt, neither. She knows what 'appened was beyond her control." A sigh. "Jus' like I know what 'appened 'ere was beyond mine. Doesn't take the burn away."

At that, Buffy's eyes darkened, a cold shudder trembling down her spine. It wasn't like him to pass of guilt like that—not if he was truly remorseful. He lied endlessly to save his hide, sure. But there in the company of a man he trusted, she was deadened with fleeting betrayal. To accept her share of the blame was harsh, but to haul it all was blunt and ghastly unfair. Her defenses flustered.

Giles said not a word.

"Still smarts like hell. She cried on my shoulder, I cried on hers. She bloody well forced me into that house." He shifted, demeanor changing. "She hasn't locked me out, Rips. The Slayer, I mean. Walked right through without needin' to doubly check the welcome mat."

"That ought to be reassuring."

"Yeh. Oughta." He lurched his platinum head into waiting hands. "Won't, though. It gets harder with every sodding step. Red forgave me. Hardest thing…even harder than when you did."

"She forgave you because she's in need of forgiveness, herself," he said softly. "You've been there."

"Still am. Probably always be."

"No." Firm disagreement. Buffy knew that tone. "You'll always feel it, I know. Time has helped you progress this far.” A sigh. Through the crack separating Spike from the curtain, she saw Giles roll his shoulders in ever-present concern. "You have an eternity to get over it. She only has this lifetime."

The platinum head dropped in acknowledgment, a hand coming up to caress his brow. "Don't I know it," he replied. "Poor Red. Too much for her to handle. If I can't bloody take it, I don't know how she can." He looked up then, catching Giles's eyes. "She's a fighter, Ripper. So much stronger than I am."

Buffy swallowed hard, eyes clouding with tears. The pure admiration in his voice touched every irritated nerve in her tired body. It was so honest, so true. For the life of her, she had never heard him so...

What had happened? Why was he back now? At Giles's discretion, perhaps, but something was undeniably different. And why did the Watcher trust him? What had concurred to initiate that sort of blind faith? Something was definitely different. Something had happened. There was no other explanation. The Spike she knew would never have waited this long. The Spike she knew would have either come around within days to express his remorse or never shown his face again. The Spike she knew didn't compliment people's strength unless he was trying to impress her with his nonexistent humanity.

"She has to be strong," Giles agreed. "This is all the time she has."

"Yeah." Spike drew in a sharp breath, picked up his discarded book and resumed flipping through it, though only half-hearted. "Not certain which one of us got the bad half of the deal. Live for bleedin' ever like this or eventually be put out of your misery...assuming the Slayer doesn't stab me with one of 'er pointy sticks before we blow this scene."

Buffy arched a brow in syncopation with her former Watcher. "You did not see her then?" he asked.

"I saw her." Her heart abruptly tore. "Saw her...Red dragged me to the Bronze. Saw her chattin' with Peaches." At last she saw his face. She didn't realize how much she needed to until his head turned in her direction. As he thought of her, his eyes turned upward, a wistfully sad smile on his lips. "She's beautiful, mate. A little...cor, I don't have words."

There was a chuckle. "You mean she silenced William the Blabbering Bloody? Impossible."

Spike shot Giles a wry glance. "Don't want to use the wrong words and go all the way back to 'bloody awful', do I?" The smile on his face brightened a bit. "She has it. My book, I mean. Red showed me."

"Not surprising," Giles retorted as though unimpressed. "It's excellent work, Will. Probably speaks to her. It speaks to a lot of people."

"You'd think. It's all bloody about her." Buffy's eyes widened, her mouth running dry. It was one thing to hear it from Willow, but straight from the horse's mouth was almost more than she could bear. Her feet commanded her to turn and run home but her will would hear none of it. Spike shook his head, aghast. "Still such a sodding shock."

You have no idea, she answered dryly. As their conversation resumed, she toyed with idle thoughts of intervening, none of which she would follow through. Unanswered questions plagued her stubborn mind, replying to all with a steadfast I'm not ready. Neither was he. All they could do was watch each other from a distance, reaching but never touching.

It was so frustrating to be willingly at arms length and still lacking the punch to go through with action.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. A likely empty promise. The morning, after all, was only hours away. Did she really believe one sleep would energize her for the conversation looming ahead?

That arose a new foray of questions. What was she going to say? She promised Giles not to hurt him. Hah. Funny thought. It was Spike. She always ended up hurting Spike, even in those numbered instances where pain was not her motive. They hurt each other, over and over, eventually begging for a little more because it felt so good.

A surprisingly stern voice conflicting with the lighthearted conversation she had left drew her sharply back to the present.

"Did you tell her?" The gravity in Spike's voice was disconcerting, and a shiver raced down her spine.

"No," Giles replied with a sigh, equally serious. He removed his glasses for an undoubtedly unnecessary polish session at the hem of his shirt. The body language was indisputable. He was nervous about something. Long ago, she had deciphered that code of unspoken thought, and apparently Spike was as talented in Watcher-speak as she was. The look on his face was frustrated but not angered. Another oddity. To see him frustrated without the drive to kill sparkling behind his eyes. "I couldn't. Not with everyone there."

It was amazing to hear disapproval in the vampire's voice—genuine disapproval. Other than obvious components, she had never thought of Spike as old. He lacked the maturity typically gained with age. However, the moment he spoke, she blinked as though first seeing him. A man with considerable experience and more knowledge than she would ever verbally credit. A creature who had seen and created history. For the briefest second, he looked old, older than Giles, older than her great-uncle who had passed the year before. Hidden streaks of wisdom blazed behind those passion-filled eyes.

A different person...

His words were unremarkable, but spoken with such vehemence it made her shiver in affect. "You lost your nerve? Good God, Ripper, you can't put it off forever."

"I know." There was no emotion behind Giles's tone. Just dead understanding. "But think of what she's dealing with. You're suddenly back in town, and for reasons beyond her, I'm taking your side. That alone will be hard enough to cope with until you share your own little secret. It's hard, I understand. Lord, I've been there through it all. A lot longer than it seems. You're my friend, and I have yet to say otherwise, but she's like my daughter. You just can't—"

"Slayer's got bigger bads to worry about than how to deal with me." The venom in his voice sent ripples across her skin. "Can't be dainty because of outstanding circumstances. Best to tell her and get it out there."

"I can't...not until we—"

Buffy jumped as the vampire roared, demon emerging with sudden fury. The Watcher was visibly shaken but not surprised, nor frightened at the implication. Even Spike had to reach and feel his face in shock of his reaction, but he made no attempt to draw it back in. "I won't stand for it, Rips. This is bloody bad business. All bad. I won't let things fester while she sits there and doesn't know what's about to hit just because you got a case of the jitteries." Gradually, his face relaxed and faded back to human. "Sod it, then. If you won't tell her, I will."

Giles's brows arched incredulously. "What?"

"You dragged me to this bloody parade because you wanted me to watch out for her. Seems that's your job, but I'm ready and willin' if it means protecting her while she's punchin' me into the sodding earth."

The gaze reflecting the Watcher's eyes was firm and disbelieving. Buffy herself was beyond astonished. Reacting so violently, so authentically to whatever evil was arising was one thing—it was familiar in a way, but she had never seen him like this.

"You really think waltzing over there right now is your best option?" Giles asked softly. "Think she'll listen?"

"Doesn't matter if she listens," Spike replied gruffly. The motel door opened. "You hafta tell her sometime. Least now she'll be on the lookout." Buffy gasped and backed further into the darkness, her tinglies going mad as he passed. The simplest thing she could do right now was emerge and demand answers, yet her body would not cooperate. Instead, she watched him leave. He performed an involuntary spaz as he crossed her, as though similarly sensing her proximity. Not wasting the opportunity, he paused and turned around. "I can deal with her dyin' again, Rips. It'll bloody tear me apart, but at least I'll know she's at peace. But you're a sodding quack if you think I'll stand 'ere and do nothing to prevent it."

The Watcher's shadow darkened in the doorway, glasses caught again in the hem of his sweater. "Then you're a braver man than I am," he murmured to where only she could hear. "And you have so much more to lose." His voice rose again, although Spike was out of earshot. "And don't call me Rips! One overused nickname is bad enough."

"Giles." Buffy's breathing had regulated as she stepped into the light cast by a street lamp. It was safe now, the coast was clear. A part of her was torn but she would not follow. She hoped he would be gone by the time she was home.

The Watcher jumped in surprise, stumbling over himself as his eyes went as wide as saucers. "Bu..." A steadying breath as he tossed a panicked look down the path where Spike had disappeared. "Buffy, you just...ummm..."

"I know. Missed him." She followed his gaze fleetingly before drawing her eyes home. Giles's mouth thinned as he released a sigh and nodded. "I heard everything. And I think it's time we talked."

Every step weighed with less conviction as the space narrowed between him and Revello Drive. Fury at the Watcher's hesitance conflicted the ever-present sympathy. He understood he had no right to presume any part of Giles's role. Buffy was his responsibility even if no one admitted it. It had been years since she had an active watcher, needed one, but the bond developed between the two was impossible to break. This was his place. It had always been his place. And William had no right.

"Not supposed to interfere," he murmured with a flinch. "Badness comes from it. Can't make Ripper angry. Can't afford to lose his friendship."

For the second time that evening, William found himself standing outside her house. For the second time that evening, he received the chilling confirmation that she was not home. He could not feel her inside. Not like he had at the Bronze. Funny how that was—he could feel her now if he willed it so. It was a sixth sense. A special Buffy tingly. He had suspected it activated as he left Giles's, but credited it to his frustrated train of thoughts. What if...

His mind would not allow him access to that path. All he needed to know was that she was not home. The house buzzed with life, but not hers. Dawn was likely upstairs or in the living room. She was a responsible chit when she put her mind to it, and even so, things had changed.

Dawn. He ached at the thought of her. It was right, he knew, that she reacted as she had, despite how it stung. Forgiveness hurt more than spite. A pardon from Dawn might likely be the end of him.

Another shudder quaked through his body, and he wished Red were beside him.

No use lounging about here. He was willing to knock on the door but not wait for her to come home. She wouldn't listen if she thought he was stalking her.

"Call her then, Ripper," he growled as he turned, walking away with resignation. "Bloody well call her. Tell her what's going on."

Something rattled in his stomach and he found himself overwhelmed with familiarity. William froze in place, predator eyes shooting upward. No one was in sight, but he knew better than to trust elementary senses. Too much had happened in the past to suggest otherwise. Interior radar was shooting off the charts. He waited a beat for identification, relaxed, then tensed again. "I know you're there," he said finally. "No use lurking about."

"I could say the same to you." That voice! Once upon a time, he would have coiled with hatred so thick it would make the devil squirm, but the affect had abandoned itself to empty sorrow. "They might believe you, Spike, but I don't. They're mortals and they're quick to forgive, even quicker to forget, despite what's happened in the past." A pause. "I know what you are. How you gained Giles's trust, I'll never—"

"Oh, sod off, Peaches," William finally growled, glaring as Angel came into the light. The rage blazing behind his grand-sire's eyes did little to disturb him. They had hated each other far too long to start with retribution. As demons they were rivals, as men they were strung by jealousy. Now, as two souled vamps, little progress could be expected. However, he was family in that way both loathed to acknowledge. And oddly, the only family he think to begin to trust. "I came here to tell the lady what Ripper forgot to mention—that's all. No need to masquerade in your less-than-white armor. He called the cavalry for a reason. Do you really think I'd be 'ere otherwise?"

The flame died into barren nothingness, a black pit deepening enraged pupils. "Yes," he accused softly. "Because you're Spike, and against every rational fiber of your being, you never know when to quit. When enough is enough. Even if it means befriending the slayer's watcher to gain everyone's undeserved trust. Do you honestly conceive that you have any right to be here, after what you pulled?"

Pain shot through every numb limb, tingling across dead skin and tickling useless arteries to further useless sparks. "No," came the barking reply. "O'course not. Bloody hell, I told Ripper the same. Got on my sodding knees and begged the old git not to bring me along. But he told me something true—what she needs now is more important than that. 'S why I could understand him calling you 'ere. Because she needs you, too." William's voice was low and menacing, lips curled in an animalesque snarl. "But sod it all to bloody hell. If you hurt her, Peaches, I'll kill you."

"Hurt her?" Angel drawled. "More or less than you hurt her, Spike? Where, in your consensus, do you draw the line of reasonability?"

That was it. All he could take. In an instant he was two seconds away from ripping the poofter's head off or sinking to his knees in tears. Somehow, however, he managed to restrain himself, instead biting back and swallowing strangled sobs by offering a gracious nod. He could not help the wealth of feeling that poured through his eyes. "Right then," he replied hoarsely. "I'll be on my way. Be a good chap and don't tell Buffy I came by. Better off not knowing." Without awaiting a response, ignoring the blunt surprise with which he was regarded, William turned and began an unhurried walk toward the cemetery.

He heard Peaches following within seconds and made no attempt to quicken his pace. He knew he was found out. One by one they would all find out, either until he was dust or until there was no one left to surprise. When his arm was grasped, he was astonished at the lack of force—direct counterpoint to the fierceness of their brief exchange. Likewise, the fire had quenched behind Angel's eyes, replaced by reverent light. For a minute, all he could do was stare.

"What did you do?" he demanded a raspy beat later. "I...I can..."

"See it? Yeah. Figured you would if you got close enough," William retorted, voice low and plagued. "Never should have mocked you, Peaches. Never should have doubted your stability. Takes a mighty strong bloke to endure it." His eyes closed his tightly. "To take all this..."

"Pain?" The venom had disappeared from Angel's voice, instead laced with sympathy and understanding, though never quite releasing his patronizing superiority. It didn't surprise William as the others had. After all, the vampire had lived this. Was living it. He had seen both sides to evil and walked away.

There was a moment's pause. "The pain is unbearable," Peaches finally acknowledged.

"Demon doesn't bother me," he retorted, and was rewarded with a curiously arched eyebrow. With a shrug, he conceded. "All right. Doesn't bother me much. Wasn't me, mate. Learned that by watchin' you brood all those years. It hurts like hell, but I gotta face facts. Angelus carried your face, but he wasn't Peaches." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Though it's there, all right. Sometimes it screams. Sometimes it screams louder than I can bear."

"You learn to accept," Angel replied softly.

"Yeh." William snickered and backed away, voice climbing an octave and tainted with bitterness. "Now, answer me honestly—aren't you proud? After so many years makin' you squirm, I finally got mine." He huffed ineffectually. "Went out and got it myself, in fact. Got what I asked for. Got what she deserves." The other vampire's eyes went wide with comprehension, taken aback by a violent affirming nod. "That's right, ponce. Fought for it. Earned it. No curse. Not given to me as a punishment, though by God, it feels like it. Went out and fought for it. Defeated the baddies. And this is my sodding reward."

"You...asked for this?"

"Must have. Does it hurt, Peaches? I was a better demon than you. Knew who I loved and just what I needed to make her hurt go away. To make sure I never..." His eyes watered and he looked down. "Hurt her so much. Never...never meant to..." William drew an angry arm across his face and wiped the tears away. "Don't be offended, mate. You're a prat when you're bad, sure, but you're a better man than I am. You would never—"

"You didn't." Angel's tone was soft but assertive. Astonishment had not quite run its course. He was staring off, the sidewalk suddenly the epitome of fascination. "And everything I said tonight was wrong. Everything I told her..."

"Was right, if it was to stay away from me." He wasn't sure when they started walking, but somehow his legs were carrying him, every step a comfortable pace away from Revello drive. Almost as though they were old chums instead of two souled vampires who had spent the better part of the past century hating each other. "Still don't fully know why Ripper made me come. I get it, sure, but I'll likely cause more damage 'ere...just bein' around her."

For a minute, he thought he had heard Angel take a breath. No. The vampire rarely breathed. It had never been second nature with him. He rejected all association with humanism—steadfast in his unworthy demonhood. "He trusts you," he observed. William didn't have to look at him to verify an inward replay churning through the grand-sire's mind. He hadn't been there when redemption was granted, but he knew there had to be a point in time when Giles forgave him to his face for everything he did as Angelus. The Watcher had almost seen the worst part of that year. It hurt to think about now. He hated the thought of anything of that magnitude happening to his friend. “This makes sense. Why didn't he tell us?"

"Didn't want him to. Wanted no one to know." A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Too late for that. Red knew right away. So did you. Saw me, you did."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Angel replied. Their walk slowed as the graveyard came into view. "You ran into the two people most likely to notice you. I don't think Buffy will come to that conclusion consciously unless every other option is retired. She won't want to." He sighed and indicated their stop with a nod. "You're still staying here?"

"Feels wrong to be anywhere else." William shrugged simply and reached for his smokes. "'Sides, me in a bleedin' hotel room? Dead giveaway. Ol' Spike'd never stand for that." There was a long pause, the tenor of the conversation melting into further seriousness. "I don't expect you to like me, Peaches. Hell, I still can't bloody stand you." He shuffled uneasily as he lit the cigarette, drawing an exaggerated puff. "I've been a right stupid git through most of my life...undead, or whatever. But I won't hurt her. Didn't mean to in the first place." He tapped his chest. "Sodding demon an' all. Didn't know when...I didn't realize I was hurtin' her. Sick prat." There was nothing behind the other vampire's gaze. Emptiness could be construed in whichever fashion the beholder wished to see it. Understanding or further outrage. Whatever the case, it wasn't important enough to worry with now. "Right. Well, wanted you to know that. Don't know why. Don't expect you to believe me."

"It's hard." There was no elaboration, nor any alleviation on the deadness behind his gaze.

"Yeah. Fuckin' hard. It'll get worse, too." William blew out a long stream of smoke. "I don't need to ask you not to tell her. You know better, right?"

He blinked and nodded absently. "I won't. It's your place." A beat as he took a dramatic step forward, eyes flaring with intent. "But you should tell her. You owe her that."

"With the cat out of the bag all over the soddin’ place, she'll eventually figure it." William sighed. "Red said she's comin' to find me tomorrow. She'll know, Peaches." They waited in unmoving silence until the cigarette butt was flicked to the ground and smothered under a large boot. "Still love her?"

Another silence. Shorter—speculative. "I'll always love her," Angel answered honestly. "But there are others. She doesn't love me." His brows perked. "Do you still love her?"

The words reassured him in the secreted implication of his demon-feelings. William smiled. Yes, Peaches knew. If he were standing here soulless, the admission would not come with near as much ease, but it was still tangible. There was no denying it. "I'll never love anyone else."

Angel smiled softly and nodded, turning wordlessly and leaving him standing alone. And that was it. Three encounters in one evening. Three different faces. A secret twice revealed. William sighed and turned inward. Had he always taken for granted how people could surprise him? He supposed so. For all the indiscretions committed in the past, he had been forgiven time and time again. Remained unstaked. It hurt now. It would likely hurt forever, but he was coping.

And Angel. Most astonishing though correspondingly oddly expected. Their conversation soothed him with reassurance. The road ahead was long but not unknown. Others had traveled its course before him, and come out on top. With all his time with Giles, he had never fully grasped that he was no longer alone.

He understood that now.

Never know how I'll thank the bloody poof, he reflected as he was devoured in shadows. Still hate him, though.
 

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