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 Forty-One

The library was ill-equipped with consecrated emblems and crosses. In the years of their working together, William and Giles had been expertly on guard to preserve a vampire-friendly environment. The days preceding their leave of Sunnydale had not found reason to bring wooden stakes and vials of holy water. No one could ever accuse Buffy of being unqualified in her preparations—however, the thought simply had never arisen. They were not here to slay vampires; they were shooting for permanent soul restoration.

The bindings he had her in were not going to hold. That concerned him on a purely minimal level; it was the way her eyes followed him that had him rattling in apprehension. The chain around her neck was acting to the fullest of its potential, weakening her to the point where her struggles were unproductive.

But that would not last.

William didn’t allow himself to stop and think. He knew he would lose all resolve if his thoughts caught up with him. If the reality of the situation he had inadvertently worked himself into combusted in aluminous knowledge, he was sure to break down in the forfeit of all hope.

And he could not allow that.

“Phone, phone, phone,” he muttered hurriedly, diving over mountains of comforters and pillows. He felt the creature’s eyes boring into his back and did his best to ignore it. “Where’s the bloody phone?”

Porphyria sat solemnly in the corner, bound to a chair, cross burning around her neck. The smoke rising off her skin emanated the most abysmal scent he had ever had the misfortune to endure. He wondered if Angel’s keepsake would wear a hole through her chest cavity. Wondered how long it would hold her docile before the pain became too much.

The voice that echoed resoundingly in her sweet tone killed him all the more—he could not help himself. William collapsed as the world crashed around him. He could not look at her. The face of the thing he created. A creature constructed out of his own shortcoming. Someone’s idea of a cruel joke to respite the release of such pure ardor.

It was the suffering she wanted. The suffering she was waiting for. When the tide crashed effectively behind his eyes, Porphyria leaned toward him as far as her constraints would allow. She was simply beaming with the prospect of a new toy; collecting it like church collapses. “Poor Spike,” she drawled nastily. “Now then. Don’t you see what love does to people?”

He refused to grant her his eyes. Anything that insinuated he was listening. The never-ending crusade to locate the phone occupied his full attention.

“I told you once that the power of your charm was enough to make me disgusted with myself,” the creature continued mockingly, delighting in her victory. “To think…the power of your love was enough to yank away my poor soul. Not even the fun way, you spineless coward.”

William’s eyes brightened in discovery, and he leapt for the phone as it shifted soundlessly under one of the goose-down pillows. Once in grasp, he knew he could not keep his back to her. Not under such circumstances. Drawing in a breath, he turned, dialing, and fixed a trained dead-set gaze on her disdainfully spiteful grin.

The volume was loud enough for the entire library to answer. “Hello?”

“Ripper! ‘S Will. Somethin’—”

“GILES!” Porphyria screamed. “Giles, he hurt me! Oh God, GILES!”

That was it. William growled maliciously and hurdled to his feet. “Shut your gob!” he barked. “You stupid bitch! I’ll—”

Separated by an ocean as they were, he saw the look on the Watcher’s face fall as clearly as if he was standing before him. The creature continued crying her insolent pleas in a shrill that could undoubtedly be heard throughout the neighborhood. The visage she presented was so achingly horrific that he felt he would go blind with the weight of self-degradation if he lingered another second.

William stumbled into the hallway outside his bedchamber, panting harshly into the phone. “She…Ripper, she—”

“I can tell,” came the solemn, desolate reply. “Oh dear. Our friend is back. Quickly…how did it happen?”

“I…” His eyes fell shut in sore responsibility, and the dull pain harbored in his chest screamed for release. “I din’t mean to. I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘f I’d known. God, you gotta believe me. She…I…”

A cold note of lasting familiarity struck Giles’s tone. One that he had not heard in years. One he had hoped never to stress again. It washed his aching muscles with an artic storm. He understood then. Everything came to light with painful simplicity. Despite what happened now, what they decided to do from here, things would never be the same. Never. The library was tainted to him now. A place of ill-conceived hopes and ideals. He had destroyed the woman he loved with the burden of declaring his own. He could not hope to keep her for the world.

And yet there was still Africa. Somehow, some way, they had to get to Africa.

Porphyria screamed madly from the shadows of her seclusion. “LOOK AT THE BLOOD!”

“I can’t believe you would do something so foolish,” the Watcher snapped. “When you’re so close. When you know what is at stake! What were you thinking, Will? What possibly—”

“We didn’t shag,” the peroxide vampire said softly. “I knew enough not to do that—thanks ever so for the confidence. Y’really think Buffy woulda done somethin’ so stupid with the way she was feelin’? When she knew what would happen? ‘F you don’ trust me, at least trust ‘er.”

A note of tangible remorse hung in repose. The affects of apology were immediate. “God, Will,” Giles replied. “I’m sorry. I…I believe I’ve been speaking with Xander quite too much as of the recent. How did it happen, then?”

“I…I told ‘er…I told ‘er before we went to sleep that I loved her.” William sighed heavily. “Don’ fall off the wagon so soon, mate. ‘S my fault. I shouldn’t…I—”

“You told her you loved her?”

“I ‘aden’t…I’ve been such a blind idiot. I ‘aden’t at all—”

“GILES!” Porphyria screamed in the background. “Giles! He did it! He did this to me! Baby hurt me bad. No biscuits for baby.”

There was a painful, relenting pause. “She…tell Red to try the curse again. I can’t do this. Tell ‘er—”

“She’s not here,” the Watcher replied, his voice rising octaves. “She went with Angel back to LA. Wesley received a phone call from their associates…they needed as much help as they could get. I’ll do my best to get a hold of her…Will: you must get Buffy to Africa. Perhaps there—”

The peroxide vampire’s eyes bulged. “Because she’s gonna fight for her soul now? Ripper, p’raps you don’ get the entire gig. But—”

Giles continued as though he had not spoken. “If I cannot contact Willow before you arrive…William, I’m entrusting this to you. You can do it, can’t you?”

No forethought was required. The reply was instant, coated with conviction and the strongest strings love could afford. “Of course I bloody well can!” he sniped. “But goddamn, Ripper, you gotta get a hold of Red. I don’ know how the hell I’m gonna get her there without ‘er jumpin’ into a stream of sunshine or somethin’. Or ‘er breakin’ free an’ runnin’ a stake through my chest. She has Peaches’s necklace on now an’ that seems to be balancin’ her…God, you—”

“There’s a drug you can administer,” Giles said hurriedly. “You say you have her incarcerated for the time being?”

“’S not gonna hold, mate…”

“Then you best hurry. I have supplies and mixtures at the flat. Are you listening, Will? The normal dose will not be enough for her. A slayer bred with vampiric abilities…no, no…not enough at all. You’ll have to give her two, perhaps three—”

“Jus’ tell me what the fuck to make an’ I’ll make it!” The sounds stemming from the bedchamber were increasing in frequency, cries made with torturous contempt. “How long before you can get—”

“You’re not hearing me,” the Watcher berated sternly. “You cannot wait for Willow to perform the curse. I’m not even sure if it would be affective at our proximity. Angel was never specific in the…there’s every chance that it would, but you have to get her to Africa. Do you understand? You have to get her to that demon before she does something she’ll never forgive herself for.”

The world tumbled to a hauntingly low reality. William felt the room spinning and fought to maintain balance. The safe hold was gone. There was no reliability to depend on. It was just him. Him and Porphyria. Him and Porphyria…and Africa.

“I’ll do my best,” Giles was saying. “But you can’t wait. If she gets out and does more damage…Will…you must get her out of there. Do whatever it takes. Just do it.”

“I understand,” he replied catatonically. “Get ‘er to Africa. I can do that. Where…what do I need?”

“A bit of everything. There’s a book there. You know the one in Greek? It’s called…God, I’m not going to pronounce this right…it’s Äáßìïíåò äçëçôçñßáóçò. You remember it? The one that deals with mixtures and spells to use on demons. The potion is called Áíéêáíüôçôá ôïõ èáíÜôïõ. You do understand Greek, right?” He did not wait for verification. Questions were rolling off with such rapidity that he had no time to stop. “Of course you do. Yes. Do you think you can manage to knock her out? You need to keep her incapacitated as long as possible.” The Watcher paused, a heavy note settling in his tone. “Good God,” he said. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this again. If I could be there—”

“Don’t.” William glanced to the closed door, flinching as another high-pierced accusation flung to a crowd that was no longer listening. “Don’t even, old man. We both know this is the last place anybody would wanna be.”

He hung up without awaiting a reply. There was nothing else to say.

“Hold the phone, luv,” he said, speaking to no one.

“Spike?” Porphyria cooed distantly, the notes of horrid despair leaking away from her voice. “I realize I’ve been terribly naughty, and I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t ever kill a slayer again. That’s your job. I get that now. Be a dear and untie me so I can go all Buffalicious on you, okay?”

The platinum vampire shivered and turned, making the long march back into the heart of his endless purgatory. He saw the eyes of the creature that was not his girl. The face he had created on an act of whimsy. She was right…too right. His love had destroyed her. Here she was: a monster of his own making.

But there was no way he could have known.

“I gave you happiness,” William observed blandly.

“You wanna make me really happy?” the Buffy-creature retorted suggestively. “Let me go, lover, and I’ll show you what—”

“I gave you happiness.”

“So you noticed this too, eh?” She was wriggling now, the cross rubbing tantalizingly against the blackened mark in her chest. “And now you’re killing me, baby. You don’t want that. You don’t want to kill the woman you love. Let me go and—”

“How?”

Porphyria arched a brow. “Well, I’m no expert, but I’d think you’d start by—”

“How did I give Buffy happiness?” It was beyond the brink of believability. He knew she loved him, but happiness was not something the Slayer came by with a man in her life. If anything, it often caused her more grief than release.

And he had given her happiness.

“By being a careless motherfucker who said the goddamn wrong thing!” she screeched, straining forward in her bonds. “Let me the fuck go, or I swear, you won’t know what pain is by the time I’m through!”

“Daddy’s got to go out.” He was not aware of who was speaking, but the voice sounded remarkably like his own. All sense of substantial veracity was gone, rendering him at an absolute loss. “But he’ll be back soon enough. Be a good girl for Daddy.”

Then he hit her. Hard. A nice firm slam to the back of the head as she collected her thoughts, strong enough to cause extensive damage to one of lesser stamina. The creature growled a dying threat before falling limp. Where the fuel behind his strike had originated, he did not know. He barely felt the aftereffects. Barely felt anything beyond the knowledge that he had precious little time.

The sun was still hours from rising, but that wasn’t enough.

“Make things right,” William murmured, moving for the door. His words were a reflection of his earlier promise, repeated subconsciously for an unknowing audience. “’F it bloody kills me, pet…”

At that moment, it seemed it would.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon by the time the concoction was prepared. A quick trip to Giles’s apartment supplied him with everything he needed, and despite his inner will, he knew the actual preparation needed to be done where he could keep any eye on the creature harbored in his bedroom. He spent the entirety of that time in the foyer of the library, there and not there. So far beyond himself that the only consistent thought to maneuver through his conscious was the repetition that the potion had to be made. That he would fail her, Giles, everyone if this one deed was not done right.

And still, the knowledge that he—William the Bloody—had provided that one moment her true happiness had yet to firmly sink in. It was not in character with a man of his nature. Despite everything that had happened, everything to suggest the opposite, such reality was so far beyond him that the mere thought was too much to grasp.

How could he have given her happiness with words? Just words. Nothing more. Nothing less. Words were an intangible entity—one could not grasp a sentence or promise and coddle it in their arms. Words were nothing beyond the expression of oneself. She had known he loved her. She said so time again.

And yet…

William shook his head heavily, tears blurring Greek terminology into a massive inkblot. The Watcher was not mistaken in his understanding of the foreign idiom, but it had admittedly been years since the need to sit down and read had arisen. There were a thousand languages he was exposed to, fluent in many and well rehearsed enough in the rest to get through changing society. Greek had been offered in his boyhood days, and his mother had insisted he learn every form of verbal communication possible.

He did not know how to thank her.

Every half hour, he made himself cover trek up the stairway to check on his unsolicited dozing guest. There was no sure way to tell if she was still unconscious or performing a wondrous mirage of such based on sheer appearance. William walloped her steadily with each visit and received no reaction. She remained submissive and silent, not arising to any temptation, however wicked. Resoundingly still and suspicious.

The potion Giles suggested would be strong enough to hold her for at least two days—hopefully more. William kept brewing until he ran out of surprise, refusing to let himself stop until he had enough servings to accommodate four vampires at best. The instructions recommended insulin shots for dependability but assured that drinking straight from the mouth guaranteed the best results. He filled two vials and poured the rest in rich helpings of blood. Best to keep her fed and maintained—killed two birds with one stone.

Passenger flights to Africa were booked until the end of the week, though William kept constantly ahead of the game. A cargo plane was due to leave that afternoon, and he would be on it. Reverting to old habits for such lengths. It was an odd feeling.

Porphyria was still dormant when he approached with the treatment. She had slumped over—her eyes peacefully shut, a look of pure contentment spreading her features. It was an expression that belonged steadfast to the Slayer. She had no right to attempt its claim. A rush of pain and anger tackled him blindly, and he hissed a seething breath through his teeth and drew in another of cold, tasteless air.

“You bloody bitch,” he murmured. There was no reply.

Several paces forward presented no change. A few more and she remained neutralized. It wasn’t until a mug full of drugged blood was under her nose that the creature finally stirred.

“Mmm…that you, baby?”

William released another breath, his resolve hardening. “Drink up,” he commanded roughly.

“You’re feeding me, now?”

“Can’t very well ‘ave you dyin’ on me, now can I? Come on, Porphy. Open wide.”

At that, her eyes opened. Narrow slits of lifeless merriment that nearly doubled over in joy to see the barren look on his face. “You don’t want me to die, then?” she replied saucily. “Have something better in mind?”

“Enough of that. Drink before I force you.”

“Gee. Why does that sound familiar?”

The reaction was immediate. He drew his hand back and hit her hard, menacing gaze never leaving her. When she looked back, he felt his insides engulf with cold reassurance. Every glance simply did more to prove the same. That was not Buffy. That was a creature that he could kill if he had to. If it came down to it.

By God, it would not come down to it.

The infliction did little to wear Porphyria’s dark sense of humor. She chuckled to herself, flexing her jaw and offering a helpless shrug. “Go ahead, Spike. Beat on me all you want. Sure, it’s easy for you now. I almost had you before, and I can do it again.” She glanced at the cross around her neck. It was smoking still but seemed to have lost its power over her. He knew better. A battle of stamina was all it was. She was an expert at maintaining self-discipline. “You don’t play by the rules, you bad boy, you.”

“Sure, luv. Keep treadin’ down that road. I’ll be sure to let you go right quick.”

She flexed her brows suggestively. “Why don’t you do it, Mr. Big Talk? Force me to drink. It’ll be funny.”

William grinned poignantly. “’F tha’s the way you want it.”

Whether or not she ever saw it coming was in the eye of the beholder. She had not the time or space to defend herself; the shot came from the right and dove elegantly into her arm. Before she could react, pull away, or even throw him a menacing glare, he pumped the dosage in full.

Then it was over. Her muscles went pliant and limp and she expelled a slow moan before slipping from consciousness. The noise was so Buffy that it nearly made him flinch.

Nearly.

William reached for the cup filled with pig’s blood, arched her neck for a convenient and ran his forefinger over her lips. A sigh compressed tightly against his body. The need to breathe had never been as potent when he was alive.

It was not time for such reflections.

“Sleep tight, kitten,” he whispered. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Pain was a funny thing. For over a century, he had enjoyed inflicting it on every being to cross his path. He bathed in it. Cherished it. Welcomed every sting that came with an initial punch. Pain was another way to make love. A ballet only his demon could enjoy.

He remembered distinctly feeling an aching rush like none other attack his weary muscles when he awoke that first day, so long ago. A sensation he had long taken for granted, as though every beating his body had ever endured was coming to aluminous light with a thousand times the impact. Something he had tolerated time and time again but never felt.

He certainly felt it now. Porphyria’s strong backhand consigned him against a harsh slab of cold rock, jagged edges biting through layers of skin. Not a break. It would not do well to snap his limbs in two. That would rob her of hours of fun before the ultimate slam.

Where the demon had disappeared, he did not know. It was suddenly inconsequential.

William sat up slowly, hand going to his eyes, blackened with forceful brunt. A long scar, freshly bleeding, etched a highway down his cheek. Wearily, he clamored to his feet, wrought determination blazing through battered muscles. And she was advancing. By the gleam in her burning pupils, he understood that the game was only beginning and he had already lost.

It was her words that bit with unbearable venom. Words spoken in the voice he loved so much. Words constructed to deride every strain of purity the world had to offer. “‘I’ll do it for you, luv,’” she drawled in a mocking imitation of an empty promise. “‘Even ’f I ‘ave to tear you to pieces to do it.’ Sweet, Spike. Really. I’m touched. Had no idea you cared so much.” She ran for him, leaping in a cat-like lunge, tackling him victoriously to the ground. “And here you are. You have to kill the woman you love to win a soul for her. Not sure what good a soul will do to a pile of dust.” Furiously, she yanked Angel’s cross from her neck, not reacting to the sizzle in her hand. The mark against her skin screamed in pain without making a single utterance. It was difficult to look at. “Of course,” she continued coldly, lowering the pendant to his skin, skating it across his forehead and offering a smile as he started to wriggle. “We can always find out.”

William’s teeth clamped tightly on the inside of his cheek to wan the pain away, but a mangled cry defiantly fought its way through his throat.

“You know,” Porphyria continued, dipping the cross into the front of his shirt and pressing down with inhuman force. The reaction came slowly, a smile spreading across her face as he released his resolve and screamed in glorious agony. “About this humanity thing…I’ve decided one taste is enough to keep me full for an eternity. So, thanks for the thought, sweetie pie, but I think I’m happier with things as they are.”

He gasped to find his voice against the searing throbbing at his chest. “’Course you are,” he hissed bitterly. “’S all free livin’ from where you’re sittin’. You aren’t her, pet. No matter how you try.”

At that, she balked, using the cross chain to tear his shirt down the middle. The pain was gone the next instant, and William battled for a breath of air. Porphyria did not look pleased. “Gee, you don’t say? Why would I want to be Buffy? Buffy is miserable. Buffy is whiny. Buffy is too busy feeling sorry for herself to take a look at the world around her. Get it, Spikey? I’m the real deal. I know how to live and enjoy it. I’m happier now than ever. And all thanks to you, lover boy. You wanted to make me happy, and by gum, you succeeded.”

With desperation, he tried to sit up once more and was punched back to the ground. She grinned wickedly and took a seat astride him, clinching him tightly between her thighs.

“I’ll rip your bloody head off,” he rasped without conviction.

“Don’t lie to me, you worthless prick. Useless…” She licked her lips and reached between them, exploring her favorite method of torture. The platinum blonde strengthened his resolve, refusing to gratify the reaction she sought. It was the first strain of control he had touched all night. When her advances were ignored, she frowned and released him. “Useless and limp. Not much of a combination. What are you gonna do? Tell me. I dare you. Gonna kill Buffy and win us a soul, are we? Manly William to save the day!”

He growled in respite and attempted once more to sit up. Porphyria tsked and pinned his wrists to the rock ground, nipping at his mouth with cold, contemptuous affection.

“Admit it,” she implored. “You like me like this. The full of demonhood. Everything you wanted finally at your fingertips. No hesitation.” With that, she smiled saucily and sat up, running her hands down the expanse of his chest. When she received no reaction, she leaned forward and lapped at the mark she had engraved with the sacred emblem and earned a very reluctant moan. William instantly clamped down and went completely impassive. She pouted. “Of course, I could try to do the good girl thing, if that’s what’ll get a rise. How’s this? ‘Ooohh, I’m Buffy. Ooohh, I have a soul. I loooooovvee you William. Won’t you kiss me, William? Want me to ride your big thick cock, William?”

Another roar tore from his throat, and with menacing reprieve; he forced her upward at last. “Stay the bloody hell away from me.”

Porphyria shrugged and took a defiant step forward, arching her brows in challenge. “Can’t the fuck your brains out from a distance,” she observed before allowing her eyes to drift downward. “Can’t either if you don’t get it up.”

A faint smile played across his lips. “Sorry, baby. You jus’ don’ do it for me.” He ran for her, driving her to the ground with a series of powerful blows and strings of incomprehensible profanity. The assault didn’t last long; she kicked him against the cavern wall once more, grumbling as she rose to her feet.

“Okay, you’re beginning to get on my nerves,” she said, dusting herself off. “I told Faith that she couldn’t take me before, and you know how that turned out. What on earth makes you think you’re man enough to kill me now, whereas you couldn’t, oh let’s say, every single time we fought?”

“This time, I want to,” William replied. “Sure, it woulda been fun in the past, but fightin’ the Slayer ‘s a pleasure I wouldn’t give up for the world. Not a problem now. You’re not ‘er. You I wouldn’t cry over.”

“But you would for her?” Porphyria retorted, placing her hands over her heart with sardonic sentimentality. “That’s sweet. You know…in a pathetic kind of way.”

“You bloody bitter bitch.”

“But you forget, lover…” With a strain of ferocity, she shoved him against a particularly jagged rock, nostrils flaring when the skin pierced. “You can’t kill me. And even so, lose me and lose her, too. Then you will have nothing but that old, rotten spontaneous-combustion-waiting-to-happen library to your worthless name. And you’ll have an eternity to know that you destroyed the only being on this planet dope enough to love you.”

“Blind-aimin’,” William growled. “Say what you like. I don’ care.”

She domed a brow. “You should. Think about it, Spikey. It only took me—oops, sorry, Buffy—what, five years to give you any? And four years later to admit it meant anything to her. The first time hurts, doesn’t it? You were with Dru for a century and she never—”

“Finish that sentence an’—”

“You’ll what? Get knocked down again?” Porphyria smiled maliciously. “What are you afraid of? The truth? And now you’re threatening to destroy the one person aside your mommy who ever had it in her to feel something…at all. I mean, sure…Dru was as amorous as she could be when she wasn’t drooling over Angel, or fucking him right under your nose. But she never loved you, you whelp. I’m it, babe. Are you seriously prepared to destroy Buffy any more than you already have? Ready to gut me?”

The words stung with more malice than any wound she could inflict. It was devastation at its finest. A wealth of pain beleaguered oversensitive bearings, and he felt himself expel a pitiful whimper at the blatant truth. Her eyes beheld conquering success, and she took a sip of his pain and found it exquisite.

“There, there,” she continued after a minute. “It doesn’t have to be that way. It really doesn’t. We could have it all. Think about it. Every fucking joy in the world—nothing to hold us back. All the tasty people out there. Happy meals, remember? A nice—”

“Nothin’ to hold me back?” William gasped. “Luv, you really are thick. You stupid bint. Even ‘f I wanted to, even ‘f I was slightly tempted, there is that annoyin’ soul of mine. You can’t cheat me out of—”

“Right. You’re not Angel. Whatev.” Porphyria batted her eyes and crossed her arms behind her back. “But we could ask the demon here…real nice. I’m sure he’d take care of your little…problem right away.”

“To get the old Spike in action?” He couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed a cold, hard chuckle. “I already told you once, you aren’t her. Neither myself or my demon side would—”

“Yeah. I heard you the first time.” She rolled her eyes, evidently disinterested. “And, I gotta tell yah, what a crock of bull. It was Spike that kept reminding me that I was a part of the darkness. To try on his world and see how good it feels. I did and I must say: baby, it feels like coming home after a long trip. Fucking good. You can think and say what you want; we all know the truth. You wanted me here, and here I am.”

William shook his head and drew an arm back, unexpectedly sending her to the ground with a blunt, powerful blow. “I loved the good in her,” he spat. “Me. The whole me. The demon an’ the man. That was what I fell in love with. Buffy. Try as you might, you’re not ‘er, an’ you never can be. You’re jus’ another bloody bot, but not ‘alf as interestin’.”

Something red flashed across her eyes, and he knew understood that he had finally hit a mark. A deep, personal mark. Something that went beyond surface insults and remarks she could blow off with ease. It was something that hurt, and it felt terrific.

Victory at long last.

The platinum vampire understood that he had to act while the ball was in his court. Her recovery would be speedy and painful in the reimbursement. Acting quickly, he slammed her to the ground again, then ran like hell.

A spider-web highway of mazelike tunnels led him deep into the cave, further than he had ever been, had ever dared to venture. And she was hot on his heels, roaring in fury. Vamping before the lunge.

There was a flash of red, and he went down.

It had been years in the implanted figments of her artificial memory since she last saw the glow of Los Angeles at night. However, the sensation was lost on her. There was no time for sightseeing. Xander had caught Giles on his cell phone when they were halfway to their destination, reporting that Willow had called back and was awaiting their arrival. From there it was a matter of reaching Angel’s place of business and preparing everything for the curse.

There were people she didn’t know. Names to apply to faces and Cordelia to become reacquainted with. She looked nothing like Dawn remembered, but there was no doubt that she was Cordelia. Cordy. She met Conner, though the introduction was brief. Their respective references surpassed ‘Angel’s ex-girlfriend’s little sister’ and ‘Buffy’s ex-boyfriend’s miracle child.’ They didn’t have much to say.

Fred and Gunn seemed nice, but didn’t say much to her. It was more of a mutual nod, a friendly greeting, then discussion for the big kids.

“I have to go over this again,” Cordelia said as Willow and Giles prepared to retry the spell. “Buffy’s a vampire. A seriously desouled ‘I’m out for blood’ vampire. And she’s…”

“We told you as much when we got back,” Angel said softly.

“I know, I know. The thought is just creepy. I can’t picture her like that.” Emphatically, her eyes widened. “But definitely not as disturbing as the entire ‘she’s been sleeping with Spike’ thing. I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine.”

“If we could skip four years ahead, that’d be super,” the Witch said dryly. “As I tried to explain, Spike left town, got a soul, and has been working with Giles ever since. Buffy got vamped, got souled, got unsouled, got souled again, and was trying to get permanently souled when Will gave her true happiness.”

Conner snickered and glanced to Dawn. “Say that five times fast.” His only answer was a menacing glare.

“That’s another thing I don’t get. Buffy was never happy, at least to my memory. How’d he manage that?” Cordelia asked.

“Told her he loved her,” Giles replied softly. “Poor Will.”

“Guys…if it’s not too much…the curse, please.” Willow nodded to the Watcher. “I’m not sure how well this is going to work. I can’t…I can’t feel her. At all.”

“Well, she is on the other side of the planet,” Gunn offered unhelpfully. “Call me crazy, but that might have something to do with it.”

The Witch’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “I felt everyone when I was in England four years ago. Distance has nothing to do with it. It’s all about the connection. Wherever she and Spike are now, they’re at a place where I can’t feel them.”

Fred bit her lip. “What does that mean?” she asked, though no one needed a drawn out conclusion.

“It means that the curse might not work. If I can’t reach them, magic might not be able to, either.” Willow met Giles’s gaze with communal concern. Neither wanted to say what they were thinking. “But we gotta try.”

There was a brief, foreboding silence. The Watcher nodded in comprehension. “Very well then. Let’s try and hope for the best.” Without waiting for a response, he turned his attention to the indicated text and began to read. “Quod perditum est, invenietur.”

The Witch drew in a breath and began. “Not dead...nor not of the living. Spirits of the interregnum, I call.” Something fluttered in the air above her, fleeting and light, but something nonetheless. Dawn’s eyes widened in immediate premonition. That wasn’t right.

If anyone else noticed, they did not mention it. “Gods, bind her. Cast her heart from the evil realm. Return. I call—”

It happened in a blur—too quick to stop, too random to anticipate. Willow gasped loudly, her hands clutching at the desk to hold herself in place with futile effort. She was forced violently to the other side of the room by a pair of unseen hands; smashed into the wall and collapsed wantonly to the ground.

Several people shouted her name in alarm, but they were far away. Too far to speak to. She panted again and saw. Saw William running through a series of dark tunnels. Saw the creature behind him. The creature she had only seen twice. The creature carrying her best friend’s face. The foundation they relied on quaked in affect, but the curse was useless. Barren to the demon’s home.

They were castrated from civilization.

“Too late!” she cried, vaguely aware that Angel was pulling her to her feet. “It’s too late. The demon…wherever they are, has some sort of protection spell around the…place. Something that blocks curses from, well, me. And others.” Willow looked dangerously to the Watcher, stumbling out of the vampire’s reach. “He’s in trouble, Giles,” she said. “Big trouble. I’m afraid she’s…she might kill him.”

It was very dark.

That was all he knew. All he felt. Darkness. A big swell of nothing that engulfed him thoroughly. Every imaginable nerve in his body seared with endless pain. He sat up, fatigued. When he had fallen asleep, he did not know. It took several seconds to realize the particulars of his surroundings. The foundation he relied on was a wedge of cold stone. A vast nothing lay beyond the gloom.

He remembered then, and blinked with extended assessment. There was nothing to see. A frighteningly literal nothing: blackness that stretched forever. As if the stars themselves had winked out of existence.

Though he couldn’t possibly know that.

Then there was Porphyria. Porphyria. Where was she? Waiting, undoubtedly. Lurking. William strained his eyes and ears, desperate for some sign to reassure himself that he was alone.

He was still in existence. She had had the chance to dust him and ignored it.

Why?

Then she was there. Not there one minute and right beside him the next. William balked and started to scramble to his feet, but the aches searing up his legs rendered him coldly to the ground. There was no escape.

Slowly, she reached for his shoulder. The touch was soft and reassuring, and without saying a word, he warmed up to her immediately. Relief coursed through every pained nerve. With desperation, he turned and grasped her shoulders. It was Buffy. The Buffy he knew and adored. He wanted nothing more than to see her. The darkest part of his soul told him it would be the last time.

Her eyes were heavy and burdened. Never before had he seen her so stressed. So remorseful. So…

William drew in a breath. “Am I dreaming?”

The Slayer smiled movingly and placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t talk.” Her eyes were strained and concerned, sad and terrified. However, that didn’t stop her from leaning in and claiming his mouth with ardent fervor. It was swift and unpredictable, and frankly rendered all chance of comprehensible thought to complete nonexistence. She pulled away shortly. The light of lasting penance shown brightly in her eyes. “I can’t do this. I just can’t. William...you have to...” She waited until she was sure he understood. “You know what you have to do.”

A plea for ignorance. He didn’t want the weight of such responsibility. The thought made him sick. “What is it, luv? What do I hafta do?”

Buffy smiled at him, and his heart fell to pieces. “You know. And you know that you must do it before I lose control. It’s slipping, Will. You have to do it now.”

Desperately, he shook his head, trying to break away. “No. I promised you. I’m not goin’ back on that now. I told—”

“William…”

“Go away. Get outta ‘ere now. Go.”

But she wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, she moved closer. He felt her against him but the sensation was dimming. Their time was limited, and she faded further and further out of reach. “William, I must tell you. No matter what happens…you got to know…I do…” Buffy looked to the ground and took a deep breath. “I don’t believe you know how much I love you. I don’t know half the time. You need to. You need to know before you do it.”

It nearly broke him, but he stood his ground. “Stop. Don’—”

“It’s almost over,” she whispered. “When it comes down to it, you know what you’re going to have to do. And when it’s over, you mustn’t doubt yourself. No matter what happens.”

“Buff—”

“Do it.” The Slayer glanced up, features overwhelming with anxiety. “Okay, Will. This is it. She’s coming. You got to get up. Get up now. Get up!”

William’s eyes flew open and the apparition vanished.

Porphyria was nearing.

Cold realization swept through every aching muscle. With a muffled grunt, he sat up, too weary to continue running. He was where he had fallen; the scent of his own blood tackled somnolent senses. It must have only been seconds.

“It’s time to stop, sweetheart,” the Buffy-creature drawled. There was eerie and oddly peaceful serenity about her features. A similar knowledge that this was it. That the battle was nearing its end. Her eyes were blank yet fiery at the same time—every visage of her former self dissolved forever. Her hands were bare; the handle of a long blade exposed from its hiding place in her leggings. When she noticed that he saw, she smiled ominously and drew it into view. “Great thing about demons,” she said. “Lots of warriors come by and leave nice surprises.”

As if to accentuate her point, William’s foot collided with something that rattled with wooden construction as he paced stealthily backward. He didn’t even glance to it; whatever it was would do. Without breaking their locked gazes, he leaned forward and enclosed his fist around the object at his disposal. A spear. A wooden spear. Something deep fell in his stomach. He wondered if it was a part of the demon’s twisted sense of humor.

Porphyria’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Intimidating,” she observed. “Are you actually gonna use it?”

A muscle in his face ticked. “Try me, bitch.”

She pretended to consider, shrugged, and grinned. “Oh, all right. But only because you asked nicely.”

That was it. The all and final it. There was no going back. William tightened his grip on the spear, wearing sawdust off the dilapidated surface. He charged bluntly and was answered with a kick to the chin. Porphyria remained unmoved though highly amused, her eyes doing all the talking needed to interpret her victorious chuckle.

It had grown frighteningly simplistic to consider her the enemy.

The crazed vampire roared, flashing her incisors, and ran for him. William took a blind swing at her midsection that lacked effort. Porphyria dropped to the ground and rolled to a safe proximity, whirling to her feet in a second and lunging her blade-arm at his head. The teeth caught a chunk of shoulder, erasing old forgotten battle scars that were to remain embedded in his skin forever in a swipe of red. He felt nothing—his body absorbed pain as fuel. There was no other place for it now. He turned wildly, knocking the blade from her grasp as he pivoted the other end and sliced a bloody streak down the image of his lover’s face. He screamed and she screamed, biting his inner cheek to keep tears away.

Porphyria came at him again, black blood dribbling down her chin. She caught him off guard, allowing him one swift smack across the face, buying time to reclaim her dagger. William charged again, spear raised, target aimed. The Buffy-creature was ready. In a hasty movement, she forced the knife upon her opponent’s defense, drawing in brute strength and reveling in the victorious sound of wood popping before breaking altogether. Two pieces of cypress fell away, and he was vulnerable.

She seized the opportunity and lashed the blade at the first skin she saw: the cut at his shirt, blackened with the impression of a cross that mirrored her own. The other vampire fell back, hand immediately seeking the dampness at his midsection. At once, he felt nauseous—prime to fall over and simply concede. But that wasn’t an option anymore, and he understood. The realization from which he could not turn back. His eyes fell on one of the stray ends of the broken spear, and he reached for it, empowered by conviction.

It was time.

In a flash, he faced Porphyria, who frowned to see him still pliable. She began to advance once more until catching sight of the weapon ready in his hand. Tears streamed down William’s face, and he knew he had to do this before he backed out. A wave of dizziness struck; the pain in his gut was becoming unbearable. With a face distorted in agony, he managed to choke, “Buffy...”

She looked at him strangely as the name was mentioned, eyes clearing as a familiar face came into view. It was a trick played by fatigue and weariness, he had no doubt. For a split second, the countenance of humanity seemed to bear resemblance in the depths beyond reason.

Then the moment was over, and Porphyria was back.

It was now or never. If only someone else were here to make the decision.

With lasting thrall, William lunged the elongated stake forward. A gasp sounded through the air as she fell, bone and blood gushing a river over his hand. She rested forward, the point millimeters from her heart, and she had passed out before he could see her eyes.

The platinum vampire released a heavy breath and withdrew the stake from her chest carefully. Bubbles of blackness oozed from the opening, but he could not bear to look at it. Shaking his head, he positioned his weapon above her heart and held.

“All right, then!” he shouted, voice echoing through endless tunnels. “To the bloody death. She’s as good as dead. One second more, an’—”

The demon was there without further prompt, showering him in the green glow of his eyes. How long he had been watching, William didn’t know or care. All he understood was that it was over, and he had to be granted this final leave.

“The Slayer is not yet dead.”

A painful, humorless chuckle rumbled through his body. “Tha’s where you’re wrong. She’s as dead as a doornail. Several times over.” He strained forward. “’S over then. ‘F I stake her, she’s dead. To the death. I came here to save her. You’ll give me what I want.”

“You were informed,” the demon retorted, “that the creature must desire a soul before one is granted.”

A void of desperation engulfed him. Desperation, strained fatigue, and more fury than he ever imagined. “I did what you wanted!” the vampire roared. “I did everythin’ you wanted! Please…” He hoisted her into his arms. “Jus’ give her back to me.”

The sprite was unyielding in its decision, and loss of hope like he had never felt flushed through his system. “Only one of you entered with a soul,” came the retort. “Only one may leave with one.”

William blinked, grip tightening on the lifeless being in his arms. “Do you hold your word to that?”

“We are unmoved in our conclusion.”

Then he had to be, too. In those few, precious seconds before he lost control on rational thought, it finally occurred to him what love was. The basic. The fundamental stages. He knew. He was consumed and driven to the pivotal edge of his stamina, body threatening to collapse with each beat. Love was standing at the beginning and knowing it was the end. Love was endurance and faith. Love was overcoming all obstacles, no matter how great. Love was seeing beyond prejudices. Love was realization of fault, and how right it could feel to be wrong just for a second. But most of all, love was knowing when to say goodbye.

But not to her. To himself.

“Fine,” the platinum vampire said. “Take mine, then. Take mine, an’ give her’s back. ‘F tha’s the way it is, take the sodding thing back. Take it an’ give her back to me!”

There was a stunned pause, and he felt a rush of hope. The demon—despite appearances—had not seen the barter coming. He was contracted, now. There was nothing to do but comply.

“You understand,” he said, “if your quest is granted, our business is done.”

“Yeah. Whatever. She needs it more than I do.” William ducked his head before he could start crying again. Once more, the words came to him, pleading this time. “Please…please give her back to me.”

There was no answer. Nothing beyond a growl of consensual agreement. He felt the touch on his scarred chest and had doubled over before the creature in his arms could scream her release.

The world tumbled around him. All went black.

Chapter Forty-Four

He felt it.

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

It felt so good to feel.

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

Disconcertion was in order. After all, having a soul ripped away was supposed to do that. All at once, he felt limber and energetic, though he remained stationary on the ground. His lungs filled with air that he didn’t need, veins coursing with life—as though reflecting the best feed of a century.

It was odd to feel pain and ecstasy at the same time.

It was odd for pain to fade in the leeway of pleasure.

The soul had made him ache. It had made him alive. It was gone.

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

And just like that, they left him. Every lasting image. What a wondrous sensation.

It was gone. After feeling the self-inflicted torment Angel put himself through in first person, a strange impression of both loss and rebirth coursed through him in the greatest relief. All strains of self-loathing for something he could not change had left him. The promise was no longer empty. When he woke that first morn, so many years ago, he had never seen himself in this position. The regain of something he never coveted; the will to look at the world through rose colored glasses, and feel nothing but indifference.

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

All familiar pangs were gone. All except one.

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

How it felt to hurt her…

But so much had changed. When he last awoke after earning his reward, he had not a friend in the world. An incredibly hurt Slayer resided on the other side of the planet, unknowing of his redemption. An acquaintance waited in London to offer him an unlikely hand in amity. A Witch was suffering the consequences for her descent into madness. An evil was brewing, waiting for the signal. Waiting for the opportunity to change everything forever.

Spike had never known remorse or guilt. As a bloodsucking fiend, he had taken life after life, drank from countless suppliers, and did so with a song in his heart. And that was the way it was—the way he accepted it. The way all vampires accepted it. A soulless demon was not supposed to bear a conscience. No, no, that would get in the way. Chip or no chip, nothing was believed to affect his Jiminy Cricket. And truthfully, nothing had for a hundred years.

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

He had hurt her. Hurt the woman he loved.

But that was over now. An inconsistency he would have to grow accustomed to. Something unforeseeable from every angle but one. It was all very vexing.

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

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

At that, Porphyria’s words concerning his maker came flying back. A true punch in the gut—viable and constructed with the intention of ruin. A lingering spark of hatred blooming for the demon that had stolen the Slayer’s body flared with recognition. Spike shook his head, eyes sealed shut. He did not want to look around. Did not want to feel anything. Four years of feeling had been more than enough.

The man burning inside whispered it was fair trade for all the suffering she had endured since his return.

God, how things had changed.

It was then the realization struck. Blunt and forceful—strong enough to drive a weaker man to tears. Buffy loved him. Loved him. She had told him so with the utmost sincerity. Over and over again, tears pouring down those glorious cheeks, dampened hair clinging to her forehead. She told him before she knew. She, Buffy Summers, the Slayer, loved Spike. A feeling indiscernible to any breed swept through him, applying the tender touch to his aching conscience. The conscience was still there. He doubted it would ever leave.

It was final, then. Spike was back. The same who had saved her. Saved her so many times from vampires, demons, herself, in his dreams.

In the end, it was she who tried to save him from the monster within.

The mental civil war was armed and ready to last a decade, but he could not allow himself to sulk forever in the darkness. Aside his newly defined conclusive state, Spike blinked wearily before finally forcing his eyes open and sitting up with a blessed flex of muscle. He was only vaguely aware that someone was lying across his lap. There was nothing but the cold—the cold and a strange immunity to it all.

Then the reality of his situation swept inward, engulfing him in a tidal wave of remembrance. Drawing in a sharp breath, his hand shot out experimentally and collided with the satin of soft skin. No movement. Spike gave way to patience—it was not something he was commonly known for—and turned her onto her back. The visage he beheld was enough to chill the darkest heart. Her skin was cold, the scar stretching her cheek the picture of blood against ivory.

She wasn’t moving, and there was no way to estimate how well she would be when she awoke.

Swallowing, Spike lifted her in his arms, cradling her head before it fell back. He pursed his lips, running a finger against the cut in her face. It burned with pain that he could not feel. The stake wound at her chest was still moist—blackened against a light, tattered blouse.

He couldn’t allow himself to stop and think. In the next instant, he was on his feet, Buffy in his arms. Keened eyes prowled his surroundings for sign of life to little avail. His insides flooded with contempt, and a growl rumbled through his body. “’Ey!” he called through the vacant grotto, nothing but the drowning echoes of his own voice bothering to answer. “You din’t play the trade fair, stupid git! You were s’posed to give ‘er back! ‘Ey? Answer me!”

Angry cries died down endless tunnels. There was no rejoinder.

Desperately, Spike looked back to Buffy. A lump formed in his throat, and he again set her down, propping her against a slab of rock. In new light, he could see the paintings that offset inhumanly pale skin.

For long minutes, all he could do was stare. The face of a continuous plight—the dozing angel looking back. Floods of warmth contracted the shivers wracking his body. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since he last saw her face. Since he had the opportunity to simply watch her. New revelations soared with blessed awakening.

He wanted to talk to her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to do all the things previously denied. Most of all, he needed to hear her say it. Say it to him, to him and mean it. After everything, he didn’t believe he needed anything with more potency.

Spike expelled a breath and reached forward, feeling her face. “Buffy?”

No answer.

“Slayer?”

No answer.

His next thought was impulsive and brash, and by the time he rethought his actions, his fist had already compacted neatly with her face. Though the force was minimal, it still sent her defenseless body to the ground. Still, no answer. He frowned and leaned forward, pulling her to him tightly. He had to fight the urge to bury his face in her hair. To simply lose himself here, forget the outside world and lie beside her until the end of time.

Of course, that would get very tedious. Spike thoroughly abhorred being jaded. That, and if he didn’t get something to eat soon, he was sure to wither away.

With another sigh, he rose to his feet, pulling Buffy into his arms once more. The duster lay abandoned on the ground. With a tight grin, he slid it over his shoulders, balancing the precious cargo with talent many would envy. It was a practice he had perfected when caring for Drusilla.

Spike’s mind was racing, tripping over in itself in an effort to beat other components to the better ideas. Directly following his own restoration, he had retreated respectively to London where he presumed to live out the end of civilization alone.

That brought a single name to mind. Giles. Giles would know what to do.

The platinum vampire paused. How was he supposed to explain this to his benefactor? To the man who had been a reliable colleague for nearly half a decade? Ripper was William’s friend; he had never been a supporter of the demon inside. A thousand plus encounters had been enough to prove that much.

Spike…you’re not welcome here… We are not your friends. We are not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy.

Things were different. Everything was different. Giles knew him as the man and the demon who sacrificed everything in the namesake of salvation. Coldness flushed his insides, but there was not time to think about that. He had to consider what was in the Slayer’s best interest, and that was definitely a visit to her Watcher.

After that, there very well could be miles to go.

It was dark outside the cave. He had no idea how much time had passed since first entering; it felt he had just awoken after sleeping a thousand years. By the rumbling in his stomach, he concluded it had been at least a couple days. He wondered absently if the impact of Giles’s drug was responsible for Buffy’s prolonged rest. After all, she had awoken a good day before she was due to by the demon’s decree.

God, he hoped so.

Spike stopped once more before stepping into the night. “’F she doesn’ wake up,” he told the silent demon. “I’ll be back. You can count on that. An’ so help me, I’ll rip your bloody head off.”

There was no reply. The threat was empty, of course. He didn’t suspect he would last long against the sprite lone on a battlefield; but he would do it. Suicide or not, he would do it.

The first steps outside were cold and unusual, as though he occupied a stranger’s body. Spike drew the fresh night air into his useless lungs, clutching the Slayer close to his body, against the leather of the coat he had earned so long ago. The coat she would battle him for if—when—she awoke.

If she doesn’ see it’s me—really me—and stake me first.

That was ridiculous. She loved him. Buffy loved him. She had told him so.

She had started loving him. It was William she loved by last declaration.

Spike shook his head in aggravation. Bloody rotten time to go through these sodding dramatics, he thought. Must be some lingerin’ nancy-boy concern. Teaches me to become a poofter.

The library. A place of previous sanctuary. His home. At that minute, he couldn’t think of a place further from himself, but it was the nearest haven. It was also the most logical location to establish an understanding with Giles. If he knew the Watcher, he had likely boarded a plane to England not two minutes after they last spoke.

Dread began spooling in his stomach. Despite recent developments, he did not want to lose Ripper’s support. There was no way to gauge his reaction, though perceptivity came with knowledge. He had spent four years proving that he was not the impassive demon everyone had believed him to be. There was empathy and support. There was friendship.

There was a long trip ahead.

At that moment, he concluded it didn’t matter what Giles thought. Or what Buffy’s opinion of him was—whether or not she loved him.

She does, o’course. She said so.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing did. He had to get to London. To that library run by wankers that, for whatever reason, thought he suited him perfectly. A library. Spike grinned tightly to himself in somber reflection. Words and excuses began forming effortlessly in his head; things he could tell the administration regarding his future in that occupation. Professor Hawkins was aware of his resignation, and he thanked the Powers That Be that he had forgotten to call and reinstate himself prior to bringing Buffy to Africa.

Thinking was too tiresome, especially after the past few days. There was only one objective to concern himself with. London.

Beyond that, there were questions only time could answer.

Bloody impatience.

There was nothing like cutting it fine.

Spike threw the door open just as his back began to sizzle. The keys were left dangling in the lock; it was suicide to go back and pull them inward. It was early enough for the library to be closed to the public, and perhaps if he cared more, he would have given consideration to potential plunderers—more likely, demons—returning from an evening of partying. But there was no thought beyond getting Buffy upstairs.

When he saw he was not going to beat the sun, he had removed the duster and again laid it across her body. Lingering tidbits of forethought battled through random spurns of ideas. He forced himself to a stop before stepping directly through one of the sunbeams.

“BLOODY HELL!” he yelled irately, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. The trip was one he had made a thousand times, but never while carrying another individual. Spike paused; reviewing the footing, then took off in what was perhaps the most ineloquent voyage across the lobby since that initial day four years earlier. He fell to his knees when the danger had passed, panting as though having completed a marathon.

“That old git really was tryin’ to dust me,” he grumbled, though he knew it was not so.

Then he wasn’t alone. It was instant recognition. The vampire whirled on his heels—rushing with hope that the Watcher was behind him though knowing in advance that such was not the case. No. It was the substitute curator, looking as disgruntled as ever.

Morning salutations were not needed.

“Fantastic,” Spike murmured. “They called you back, eh?”

Dr. Fell’s eyes narrowed, observing him with an air of superiority. The Cockney bit back a snarl; he hated being scrutinized. There was no immediate reply: no need when one could afford time enough to patronize.

“Your rather abrupt departure left my employers little option in the matter,” was the reply—shaken as though attempting to bottle growing aggravation. “Mr. Ripper, I do realize that you have more of a tie around here than I do, but I suspect even a man of your character can realize it is trifle rude to abandon a granted occupation without forward warning.”

At that, Spike allowed the growl scratching at his throat to escape. He hadn’t time for this. “Terribly sorry to inconvenience you, you bloody poof,” he snapped. “My lady got sick, see? Really nasty sick. I s’pose you can say in a fatal kinda way. Had to go find ‘er a cure. Din’t ‘ave time to worry about the soddin’ management. Figure’d they’d know I left once they popped by an’ noticed the not here-ness of me. So sod off. Gotta get ‘er upstairs.”

The look on the doctor’s face did not change. Unsympathetic and beyond annoyed. Rolling his eyes, the platinum vampire pushed passed him, murmuring incoherencies under his figurative breath. He got as far as the middle step before Fell spoke again.

“Do you presume that the administration is going to welcome you back with open arms? You have left twice now without expressing the slightest desire to return to your position.” Pivoting elegantly, arms behind his back, the man faced him. Eyes linked. Spike had the sudden urge to tear his head off. “They were going to have your things removed as of tomorrow.”

His brows perked in feigned interest. “Really? Good for ‘em. Here’s one for you…I don’ give a bloody damn. I told you before that the job ‘s yours once I’m done with the place.”

“The job is mine, Mr. Ripper.”

“Well tha’s fan-fuckin’-tastic. Works out for the best of us. There is that little part where I don’ care, but ‘f you can ignore that while I go tend to some busi—”

“Perhaps you’re not hearing me—”

“Yeah. I’m hearin’ you. I’m no longer invited. Back to the part where I don’ care. I’m usin’ the room upstairs.”

“Mister—”

“Honestly, mate. Wha’s up your wagon? I got more important things to do. Now, I’m goin’ upstairs. You wanna stop me? Well, can’t say it won’ gimme a headache, but I’ll give you somethin’ to scream about. I am feelin’ a bit peckish.” With that, he allowed his bumpies to emerge, a vampiric roar tearing at his throat. “An’ if you think I’m bad, wait till the bird wakes up.”

He hoped against hope that was an empty promise. If it was Porphyria who met his eyes, he was sure to lose every reserve…but not before allowing her first dibs at the doctor.
The look on Fell’s face was priceless; torn between stunned and horrified. When he could not find words, Spike grinned tightly to himself and nodded. “Tha’s what I thought. Stay down there an’ do your job. I’ll be outta your hair, or lack thereof, soon as possible. Don’ think I fancy stickin’ ‘round ‘ere, do yeh?” The smile tickling his lips broadened. “Get over it. I’m a vamp. Big surprise. Think I got this job because of my schoolin’? You thick ponce. Oh, an’ if a bloke named Giles drops by, tell ‘im to come on up.”

That was that. He refused to wait for a reply. There was much too much to worry himself with to pause and deal with ignorance at its best. He pushed his chamber door open and hopped fervently to the bed. His taste transformed to tenderness once convinced that the doctor wasn’t going to follow him with another foray of inane inquiries.

There wasn’t much he could do but study her face. Her wonderful sleeping face. Lost somewhere in a transitive dreamland. He wondered where she was. What she was feeling. What random images drifted through an unknowing subconscious. If he was there at all, comforting her in her time of need.

If she would ever wake up.

Pacing was inevitably a necessity.

Hours passed—he didn’t know how many. He occupied himself with anything he found accessible. Downing glass after glass of blood to fill his stomach, trying to finish the book he started before returning to Sunnydale and finding himself intensely bored within the first two sentences. Every other beat was another venturous glance at her face. He didn’t know how best to busy himself without worrying ad infinitum that she might be gone forever. There was no way to tell. No heartbeat to monitor. No pulse to check. Nothing but the lasting evidence of her physical being to suggest she would ever again open her eyes.

But that was ridiculous. It was the drug—it had to be the drug. Until then, he did what he could for her, periodically injecting her with shots of warm blood to keep her from hunger. He spent a good hour debating how comfortable she looked against the pillows, rearranging her in different fashions with the clandestine hope that he would jar her harsh enough to bring her into consciousness. No such luck.

Night had fallen when he heard the rustling on the other side of the door. Before he could answer the calling, Giles rushed in, relief sweeping waves of panic away from his face. “Will! Oh, thank God,” he said. “I barely allowed myself to hope when your replacement informed me you had returned.” He discarded his coat on a table beneath one of William’s favored Monet paintings. “Where is she? Did it go well? How—”

Spike was dumbstruck. At once, he felt compelled to break for the door before the Watcher realized what had transpired during those last minutes. But no. He had only run from what he was once before. No more. Not after everything. Brushing a hand through bleached strands, he stepped forward. “She’s sleepin’,” he replied. “Ripper…there’s somethin’ you oughta know. See I—”

The look he received was enough to silence any man. Giles’s eyes squared on him suspiciously, comprehension flooding inward with bittersweet amnesty. “You’re Spike,” he concluded. There was no want of doubt.

At that, the vampire had no retort. He turned his gaze downward in the heat of interrogation. His throat clogged with a million evident observations, but he swallowed in reaction, unable to do anything but nod. Though to no certain degree, he could deny the shared sense of loss that compacted the void where kinship had once resided. In an instant, it was gone. Gone along with everything else.

The Watcher’s mouth formed a solemn line and he nodded tightly to himself. Manifest regret clouded every weary strain on his face—as if he had lost his best friend in the world. “I see then. How did it happen?”

“The demon,” Spike retorted. “The demon ‘ad me do the trials. ‘Ad to do that ‘cause Porphy din’t exactly want a soul. Not like I did…my first go ‘round. After it was all over, ‘e said some of the same, an’ it basically boils down to me ‘avin’ to trade mine for her’s.” He looked up. “But don’ go all poncy on me, mate. It wasn’ nothin’ heroic.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” Giles replied matter-of-factly, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is simply too much. You gave your soul up for her?”

“’Course.” He managed to look affronted at the suggestion he would have done anything else. “Hell, you knew me well ‘nuff to guess that. Actually had to beg the bastard. Said since only one ‘f us came in with one that only one ‘f us could leave with one.”

“And you gave yours up,” he repeated, dumbfounded.

“Like I had a choice.” Spike twitched uncomfortably. “Can we get passed the sodding melodrama? Yeh—had a soul, gave it up like any decent chap would for the girl ‘e loves.” At the look he was issued, he sighed, glancing down once more. “Look. You don’ ‘ave to worry ‘bout anythin’, ‘kay? I know tha’s not exactly reassuring comin’ from me, but I won’—”

The answer he received was blunt and honest. It surprised him. “I know.” Giles met his eyes with understanding. “I know there is nothing to worry about. I…” He released a long breath. “As much as it pains me to say this…I suppose there is nothing to do but trust you.”

The vampire blinked, balked, and stepped forward in confusion. “Come again?”

There was a long, collective silence.

“We are not friends,” the Watcher continued a minute later. “You know this as well as I do. But you did something no one could have ever predicted, and I respect you for that.” He paused. “I suppose it is safe to presume that you have decided against returning to the library.”

Spike couldn’t help it. He grinned. “The chances of that bein’…”

“Pardon my delusions. Understand that it has been a very long week.”

“Got that right.”

Giles glanced to Buffy and heaved a sigh. “There is no ending with you, is there? If it is not one extreme, it is the other.”

He shrugged. “Don’ blame me, mate. That poncy Will’s the one who did it. I was—”

“I really don’t feel like having this argument for the rest of my life,” the old man retorted shortly. “Mainly because, after this month, I’m sure I’ve worried away my last twenty years. Though I suppose you will never reach the pivotal form of comprehension that the rest of us have. It is going to take a while to fall out of old habits.”

“An’ back to hatin’ my guts?” Spike arched a brow. “Sorry ‘f that doesn’ sound like my idea of a good ole time.”

“After what we’ve been through,” Giles replied incredulously, “that would be the last of my worries.” He emitted another breath and indicated the sleeping Slayer with a nod. “Has there been no change?”

The vampire shook his head. “No. I don’…I’m thinkin’ that stuff I gave ‘er before we left might’ve kicked back in after we fought.”

“You fought?”

“That was the trial. I ‘ad to kill ‘er.” He could tell that the continuous references to himself in the first person were throwing the old man off. Four years of experience had schooled him in a different direction. “So I beat ‘er. Don’ know how, exactly. I beat ‘er. Held a stake over ‘er heart an’ demanded the demon to give ‘er back to me. An’, well, you know the rest.”

The Watcher pursed his lips. “I’m sorry you had to…”

“What? Give it up? Figure you would be. Lost yourself your best—”

“No. Not that. I’m sorry you had to face her alone. I can imagine how difficult that must have been.” Giles met his eyes once more with finality, support wavering away from his features, but not far. There was a sudden need to be alone, and it was felt from all directions.

The next was said out of duty rather than manifest concern. “Don’t make me regret entrusting you with her.”

“Mate, as of the now I got your respect. Tha’s a bloody hard thing to come by if you’re…well…me. Don’ aim to go do somethin’ stupid.” Somberly, leaned in Buffy’s direction, but didn’t look. “More reasons than one. I’d never hurt her, Ripper. I know I did, but I wouldn’t again. Not after…”

“Wi-Spike.” How odd it was to hear that reversed. “If there was one thing your quest did, it was prove that very argument. I like to consider myself a good judge of character, and I would hate for yours to…well, descend. These past few years have proved there’s no medium between you and your…well…” He sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”

The vampire nodded. “Yeh. But I get what you’re sayin’.”

An uncomfortable moment of quiet reflection ticked by without climax.

“I’ll be downstairs, fending off Dr. Fell. He made quite a fuss when I announced who I was.” Giles paused in fleeting amusement. “Correspondingly, he mentioned something about you having the face of a demon. Don’t—”

Spike grinned. “Well, ‘e was bein’ a bloody git an’ not lettin’ me up ‘ere to take care of the Slayer. Had to give ‘im a bit of convincin’ that I’m not the kinda bloke to mess with. All in good fun, o’course. Not like I could bite ‘im ‘f I wanted to.”

“Let me know if she—”

“Like I wouldn’t.” He snickered. “Take it easy, Ripper. Don’ bore yourself to death down there. Load of books that could put even Ole Likes to Read to sleep.”

“Says he who read Siddhartha six times in one week.”

“’Ey! That wasn’ bloody me! I’d never—”

But he wasn’t listening. Giles smiled poignantly and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

That was perhaps one of the most bizarre, confounding conversations he had ever shared with another individual. Spike sat in bemused silence for long minutes. Whatever he had expected of the Watcher, it certainly wasn’t support. Sure, the old man had insinuated enough over the past few years after the initial adjustment stage wore itself to the last straw, but he never thought that words would be followed with actions.

I will never want your opinion, he had told him a lifetime ago.

Spike was far from admitting to himself, much less anyone else that losing Giles’s pledge of good faith was the last thing he wanted to do.

Two more hours passed with everlasting tedium. There wasn’t much to occupy himself with, and while he debated rolling the telly in to attempt the impossible feat of following Passions after missing every episode of the last few years, he would not leave her side for the world.

Despite his original claim, he had somehow allowed the Watcher to get him off his regularly scheduled programming. Instead, he smoked two packs of cigarettes, often using the ends of one to light up another. It was disappointingly unaccommodating in settling his nerves.

The clock had just completed announcing the midnight hour when a moan drifted from the divan. Spike was in the process of extinguishing another nicotine delight when it tickled his ears. Every fiber of his being froze with impossible sanguinity, unsuccessfully attempting to school him to patience. He was leaning over her the next instant, eyes too eager, praying he had not been deceived by false hope.

The next instant put all reservations aside. Buffy groaned loudly and stretched, hand unwittingly brushing across his face. He couldn’t help it; the reaction was immediate. He caught her skin between his teeth, fortifying the grip with a return of his own as he tasted her with his tongue.

“Oh God,” he murmured. “Luv? Buffy? God, come on. Come on. Jus’ a lil more, pet. Come on…”

A strangled beat of anticipation ticked by, nearly tearing him apart. It was only when he was ready to growl his frustration that her eyes finally flew open.

Chapter Forty-Five

She saw him. They saw each other.

She saw and knew. There was no debate. No inner war. He didn’t have to speak. Didn’t have to verify. She saw him and knew. Knew without question.

And she smiled.

“Spike.”

At that moment, there were no words to illustrate the inexpressible feeling of transitory bliss that tackled every somnolent nerve in his worn body. She recognized him. What an extraordinary feeling. Unable to stop himself, Spike reached forward, bringing her to him, kissing her ephemerally before pulling her into an embrace that would suffocate a lesser individual.

Then he felt her tense as surges of realization stiffened her previously sate muscles. His eyes fell shut in grim warning. He knew it was too good to be true. Exhaling a deep breath, he consigned tightly to himself and pulled away, meeting her gaze beat for beat.

The smile was gone. She implored him without words, searching for something that was not there. The power of silence was overwhelming at times.

Reality stepped in. It was unwelcome here.

“Spike,” she said again, rolling the name on her tongue, searching for a flavor.

With an indignant huff, he nodded, pulling back. “Right,” he agreed, running a hand through his hair. “So sorry to disappoint, luv. I—”

“What happened?” There was no hint of accusation in her tone. Pure and simple questioning. Then her eyes widened as wave after wave of recollection swept inward, and she dissolved. “Oh God,” she gasped. “I…are…I…”

“’S simple, really.” The platinum vampire pulled out of reach completely, maneuvering to his feet with deeper acknowledgment. “Came down to—”

“You had to do it, didn’t you?” Her eyes were flooding with tears, each piercing his heart with raw retribution. “When…the demon…I remember him saying that I had to want it, too. Oh my God, Will…”

Every last nerve seared with irritation. “Yeh. So sad. Sorry, luv. I—”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Well, what was I gonna do?” he retorted. “Couldn’t let you very well remain that bloody broken bitch, could I? You’d never forgive me.” He frowned. “Assumin’, of course, I found another way to bring you back.” When he finally met her eyes again and did not reflect the disgust he was so accustomed to, his harsh frontage crumpled without any further provocation. “Had to do it, you see? It was more important for you to ‘ave one then me.”

Buffy bit her lip, looking away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for…that—”

“’Ey, no tears, luv. We’re both still undead an’ everythin’ with you’s right as rain.” Spike studied her cautiously. “Listen, I did what I said I’d do. I went to the other side of the world an’ fought to get you back. Any ponce woulda done the same after they saw what you were goin’ through.”

“You gave up your soul for me.” There was nothing beyond astonishment in her voice.

He frowned. The lack of hostility surged him with beats of unguided hope. He couldn’t presume to think everything was going to be all right, but she had yet to demand his absence. “Yeh. I think we’ve covered that.”

“I can’t believe it.” Buffy shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Now, tha’s the second time you’ve said that.” When he was comfortable that she wasn’t going to kick him out of the room, he drew in a breath and reclaimed his seat at the foot of the bed. He was weary of anything further. “What on earth do you got to be sorry for?”

She looked at him as though he had suddenly spawned another head. “If I…you…you fought for yours. And mine. I…” Her eyes fixed loosely on the tear in his shirt. There had not been time enough to change in his hurry, and the impression of Angel’s cross was set nastily against blemished, broken skin. “Oh God. I did—”

Spike followed her easily but made no move to conceal the scar. There was no need. Instead, he indicated the mark stretching the length of her cheek. “Got some of my own back,” he observed. “That an’ then some.”

An uncomfortable silence soared between them.

“I…I better go get Ripper,” the platinum vampire decided, moving for the door without awaiting a reply.

“Wait.” She spoke with hurried angst, catching him before he could fully turn his back to her. There they stood for several more minutes, simply looking at each other. He hated such stillness—the temptation to pace was becoming too strong to ignore. The look on her face betrayed the need for dialogue, but when she opened her mouth, she decided against her wording, shook her head, and asked, “Giles is here?”

Something deep fell within him. “Yeh. Got ‘ere earlier, I think.” The platinum vampire nodded in concession and again started for the door. “Listen, I’m sure the two of you ‘ave a lot to talk ‘bout. Where to go from ‘ere an’ the like. I’ll go get ‘im an’ sod off, ‘kay? Gotta contact my bloody management an’ get my last paycheck anyway.”

Buffy frowned, her eyes filling with confusion. “Spike! Wait! We…we should talk.”

He sighed, his back to her. “Wha’s there to talk about?”

“What do you think?”

A familiar note struck harshly in her voice. Snickering to himself, he turned again, eyes catching hers with sparks of remembrance. “We’ve taken this path before, luv. ‘S no use goin’ over it all again. I really don’ fancy hearin’ a bunch of bollocks that I already…well, ‘ave memorized the tune to. Things are different now. I get that.”

The Slayer was completed baffled. “What?”

“All that soddin’ bull ‘bout—”

“Christ! Here again?” Something between humor and incredulity overwhelmed her features, and the next minute she had doubled over in empty hysterics. “I can’t believe this.”

“Wha’s the matter?”

“You! You in any way, shape, or form! Good God!” She was laughing so hard she could have passed out if she had suffered the need to breathe. “I finally got you to…and now…are you completely deaf or something?”

He frowned. “’Ey. Watch it.”

“Remember that night in the graveyard?” As if he could forget. It was built in his memory palace as the one visit he would make most often. “You remember what I told you, don’t you?”

“’Course I do.” He had never felt such pain. It all seemed so foolish now. The girl loved him and all he could do was cry.

That in consideration, something that was definitely not a tear had found its way into his eye. He brushed it off with irritation.

“Well…doesn’t it mean anything?”

“Why don’ you tell me?” Spike challenged her with his gaze. “Things are always easy to say when the cat’s away, eh?” That rhymed. The man inside treacherously quipped: You’re a poet and you didn’t even know it was so. A joke down at the coffee lounges where readings were held. He shook the thought away, frowning at himself. At the look hurt he received in reply, he softened uncontrollably and paced a few, cautious steps. “I wouldn’t hold you to that. Not after…not after what ‘appened. Poncy William won’ let me. This time, ‘s the real thing. The Big Bad, baby.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she countered bitterly.

“Do you?”

She looked affronted but he would not grant her leave. “Of course I do!”

“Then tell me, luv.” Another step forward was hazarded and permitted. “Tell me so I’ll never forget. Tell me right good. Remind me of what I am.”

“A pain in the ass?”

“A monster! I’m an all out-for-blood monster. I’m not the censored version, sweetheart. Everythin’ you see ‘ere’s all I am. All I’m ever gonna be.” He paused. “’Less you ‘ave Red curse me or somethin’ about—”

“Don’t you remember why you…Will…whoever wouldn’t…” With a sigh of aggravation, Buffy pulled hair away from her eyes. “You wouldn’t…let yourself be with me because it was…it was you.”

“You’re speakin’ Greek, luv.”

The look he received was pointed and skeptical. “Yes, and you understand Greek. So stop playing dumb.”

“’F you ‘ave somethin’ to say—”

“I WAS WRONG!” It was practically a scream; captured within the boundaries of the walls. “Okay? I’ve said it to you a thousand times but I guess I have to say it to…you…until you get it. I was so wrong that…well, you saw what it did to me.”

The fire in his gaze softened. “I saw,” he conceded. “Bloody right, I saw. Kitten, you know what I want. What I’ve wanted ever…ever since I can remember. There’s nothin’ I want more. An’…I won’ hold you to it. What you said. I—”

“I love you, Spike.”

He stopped shortly, eyes falling shut. Every contained burdened broke free with pleasurable liberation. “You do,” he repeated, voice searing with disbelief. “You ‘ave any bloody idea how long I waited to hear you say that?”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy replied softly, crawling to the foot of the bed, reaching for him. “I mean, I did tell you a thousand times since you got back, but—”

“You told the me who was easy to talk to,” he counteracted. “I never thought I’d be so lucky.” A long breath hissed through his teeth. “While we’re on that…about the other…”

“I forgave you a long time ago for that.” The Slayer reached for him, imploring him to take her hand. “Spike, I really don’t want to have to go through all of this again. I feel like…” She shook her head. “I’m stuck in a continuous loop and there’s no mummy hand to blame it on. It’s all you and me. Can’t it all be over? Please? We’ve fought so much and I—”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Something burning inside snapped and he seized her wrist, pulling her to the feet and pushing her roughly against the wall. “I told you before we left,” he said, voice angrier than he was. “Told you ‘f we were gonna do this, then ‘s gonna be a forever gig, right? I love you too bloody much to go through all that bloody melodrama again. I can’t do it. Get it? Not again.”

“I can’t either,” she agreed with a nod, eyes closing at his blunt force. “God, Spike, tell you one thing and you won’t let it go. Tell you something else and you need everything save my right eye to believe I mean every word of it.”

At that, he grinned, grip tightening on her arm in counterpoint. “So you’re ready, then? You understand? I’m the big fuckin’ deal.”

She nodded. “I’ve known since you left. After everything we’ve been through…God, don’t you get that by now?”

“You ready for the full monster, baby?” Spike retorted, ignoring her inquiry. Then his bumpies emerged, and he tickled her mouth with his teeth. “Ready to take all of me?”

Buffy exhaled deeply, running a hand over his chest. “Did you mean what you said?” she asked softly.

Their mouths were so close it was taking every restraint in his body to not seize her and make his long awaited claim. It was too perfect a moment to rush. “When?”

“When we were fighting…” She prodded him with her eyes. “You…you said that you as…the demon…do you wish I was still…I mean, it’d be easier, right, if I—”

He growled at her. “’F you think for one second that I would touch that bloody Porphyria bitch with anythin’ sort of a good stakin’, you got another thing comin’. I mean, at firs’ an’ everythin’…but she was…” It made him quake with anger simply considering her words. “You touched darkness, pet. Somethin’ darker than anythin’ you were s’posed to feel. I mean, you live ‘ere, right. In the darkness. But not like that. Never like that.”

He didn’t want to mention he was secretly impressed that one of her first kills was a Slayer.

“What I felt…” she whispered, locking gazes. “I felt…I know I’ve said this before, but…I can’t believe you were able to turn your back on that. Were able to search out the good. I felt like I was lost…screaming and pounding and trying to break free but…caught.” A hand drifted unthinkingly to his face, rubbing a worn cut across his cheekbone. “You remember…remember the dream?”

At that, he grinned, leaning into her touch. “Which one?”

“The one you had in the cave. The brief one. The one right before—”

The smile melted off his face. As idealistic as sharing whims and reveries were written to be, he found the entire notion a tad unnerving. He wondered vaguely if every great love of his unlife would be cursed with the power of clairvoyance. “What? How…what…?”

“Slayer thing,” she replied, tapping her head with her free hand. “I saw but I’m not sure that was me. All I know is what I told you was true. To not look back. That everything was and would be all right. I think a part of me was trying to tell you what it was going to come down to. On some level, I must’ve known.”

“Yeh. Some level.” Spike simply stared her in extended bewilderment. “God, pet.” He couldn’t help it; his head dipped forward, resting against her brow, provoking her own demon to growl to life. At that, he pulled back and observed her face. Every aspect that demanded the thrill of the hunt. The need for blood. The raw empowerment it offered. It was most beautiful thing he had ever had the privilege to see. Had the dispensation to declare his own.

Without any finale or hint at break, the internal soundtrack suddenly stopped. Spike leered back and forward again, reaching for her face and bringing his lips to hers. He kissed her brutally, hungrily, with passion that made her weak. Caught in a moment, Buffy at first grasped his wrists, keeping his hands at her face, before conceding to encircle his neck. The exploration of her mouth was delicate, as though he was still discovering her, still drinking her in. Every contradiction, metaphor, divinity, inferno, everything summarized with a kiss.

He lifted her effortlessly without taking his mouth off her. Even now, his strength could deceive her, surprise her. The reminder that while she was the strongest person she knew, he had enough of his own to always keep her on her toes. He had so much that she failed to credit for the counter of her own. Buffy muffled a gasp and clutched him tighter. The way he could exhibit elegance and animality simultaneously never ceased to amaze her. So many unexplored levels of his own psyche left to resolve, more parts of him to find and love.

At the bed, he pulled away again, panting heavily. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do you love me, pet? I could keep you ‘ere all night ‘f you wanted me to answer that, but I gotta know. After everythin’ you ever told me. I jus’ don’ get it.”

“Why?” she repeated, brows arching.

“Yeh. Why.”

The Slayer sighed, sitting up. “God. I think it was because I finally stopped hating myself. After Willow went all evil, I realized how much I loved life. Dawn and I talked about it. We were…I can’t even begin to describe everything we went through. I saw that she could fight, hence the training-ness of her. Things were all right for a while. Then Will came home and everything was…it was just different. You remember what you said…about you being my system and craving you like you crave blood?”

He grinned. “Wasn’ the best night of my unlife, but yet, I remember.”

Buffy smiled expressively. “I’m sorry.”

“You were goin’ through stuff, luv. I wasn’ exactly Joe Supportive. All I wanted was a good shag.” There was a brief, considerate pause. “No, nix that, I jus’ wanted to think it was real. The more we did it, the realer it became.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me. It scared me. I began scaring myself. Anyway, it started from there. Then the pangs went deeper. I realized one day it was because of you…and I hated that. I’ve told you as much. I didn’t want to love you. What was I if I loved…if I could…but…” She looked down and shook her head. “Everything I thought was wrong. I mean, most of. Now that I’ve felt it myself, now more than ever, I know. I understand.” With finality, she straightened, reaching for his face. “In the end, all it boiled down to was that you…you gave me the fire. The fire I needed. Fire like I’ve never felt before. I wasn’t expecting it, and ran. I acted badly. Hell, you acted badly.” There was no denying that. Despite however much fault was at her blame, no case was ever purely one-sided. She did not let him linger on that thought long. “And now I see you.”

Pride swelled and he tried unsuccessfully not to let it show. A grin spread across his lips. “What is it you see, pet?”

The same humorous reflection was not in her eyes. She could not laugh at this, and that pinpoint of seriousness coaxed him from the border of egotism to realize what she was about to say needed to be heard. “I see a monster who was a man, who loved me enough to go to the end of the world and get a soul. To accept an eternity of suffering. To grasp penance.” Wearily, she leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on his lips. “Then there’s the man. Will. He loved me enough to give it up. To risk everything. And they’re both you, Spike. For every compound, you can’t help but be both. I love you so much it hurts.”

With a strangled cry of unadulterated bliss, he could no longer restrain himself. The platinum vampire pressed forward, capturing her mouth, swallowing, devouring. Needing to consume her whole. His fervor was met with equal enthusiasm, challenged and conceded. Easily, he slid from game face, wrapping his arms around her and coaxing her downward, testing the points of her incisors with his tongue.

Buffy moaned and coiled her arms around his neck. He grinned against her lips and pulled back to study her face. “Din’t I always tell yeh that the fangs are particularly sensitive?”

She domed a brow and chuckled, pushing up again. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do,” she said. “I was going to after the entire soul business was behind us. Angel told me…he always told me he wished he could. But…”

The mention of the grand sire’s name drew the look of heavenly content away without provocation. “’F this was the Poof’s idea, I don’ want any part in it.”

“Oh come on. You guys were getting along so well before we left.”

“Angel and William were gettin’ along,” Spike corrected. “As fer me…can’t stand ‘im.”

“Why?” He looked at her incredulously, and she wavered. “Okay, so it’s a given. But seriously, get over it. What other reason do you have to hate Angel? I mean, you can’t hate him all that much. You did save his life.”

“God. I did, din’t I? Let’s not mention that ever again.”

“Come on. What’s wrong with him?”

“Gee, lemme think.” The platinum vampire scowled simply letting his mind wander down that path. “’E took away every bloody thing that ever mattered to me. It was always about ‘im. ‘E’s a bloody poof with stupid hair, an’ prances around like the entire world’s out to get ‘im. I’ve played the souled gig, luv, an’ ‘s very wine an’ roses, granted, but more of a—”

Buffy placed a finger to his lips. “You hate him because it was always about him?”

“In his warped lil self-involved world, yeh. It was. ‘E got everythin’. I ‘ad Dru but she loved ‘im.” He nodded indicatively to her. “An’ you. ‘E was your first, sweetheart. How the bloody hell am I supposed to compete with that? Told Ripper once ‘e’s a sodding pedestal, an’ no matter, that won’ change. I—”

“He was my first what? Lay? Sure.” A hurt frontage beset his features. “You can’t play that on me. Neither of us were anywhere near virginal when we first…you know.” That was true enough. “I loved Angel. You loved Drusilla…don’t hear me complaining—and can we say hello to the issues? I know a part of you will always be with her, even if you don’t…hell, even if you do love her. But I don’t want Angel. I did. I wanted him for a long time, but…” She leaned forward. “It’s you.”

“Bloody no ‘bout Dru. Haven’t I proved that by now?” He shuddered. “Tha’s sweet, luv, but on some level, it’ll always be ‘im.” Spike shrugged in concession. “An’ I’m fine with that. Really. Jus’ as long as—”

With a discontented growl, Buffy leaned forward and forcefully sank her fangs into the salty skin at his neck. The act took him by such surprise that he had no reaction but to gasp his pleasure. Coos of delight shuddered through him and he leaned forward encouragingly, grasping the back of her head. “God, pet. I—”

She pulled back just as quickly; splatters of red dribbling down her chin. “Mine,” she whispered, lapping the wound with loving attention. “Blood for blood. Every last drop.”

The words tumbled off his lips without thought. “Yours. All ‘ere baby.” Then the moment was gone, and he froze. The smile melted off his face and his eyes went wide. “Luv!” he gasped, seizing her shoulders violently. “Do you ‘ave any conceivable idea ‘f what you jus’—”

There was no need to question her motive. Knowledge had buried itself within her eyes. In gentle reply, she entwined her hands around his head and forcefully lowered his mouth to her throat. Cold unneeded breaths of anticipation struck her skin, but he would do nothing until instructed. Until permitted inside.

After this, there was no going back.

Buffy clutched him reassuringly, nodding against his cheek in encouragement. “Do it,” she whispered.

That was it. All the invitation he required. All the want burning through long-neglected veins. His demon roared to sudden life, biting into her soft flesh with more than tenderness. Pure ecstasy touched every mistreated nerve. Soothed every wanton pain. Tied every loose end.

Spike drank hungrily, seizing her shoulders to steady himself. Black blood poured into his mouth, undeniably rich. The best he had ever tasted. With some difficulty, he managed to pull away, licking his lips in sweet retribution. “You’re mine,” he gasped. “All of you. Bloody mine. No one else. I won’—”

“Yours,” she agreed softly, silencing his declaration with a small chuckle. His brilliant love affair with words took rest for no one.

At last, he relaxed, arms tightened around her, nuzzling the wound at her neck. They remained stationary for long minutes, comforted only in each other. The promise of what lay ahead. The end of dreary days.

His embrace stiffened further, and in the heart of gratification, he rested his head at her shoulder. “Not that I don’ ‘preciate the gesture, pet,” he murmured. “But why exactly would you go an’ do somethin’ like that?”

“To prove something to you.”

“That you’ll always keep surprisin’ me? No proof needed.”

“That night. After…after Willow restored me. The night I killed Faith.” Cold aftermath stung her voice in notes of self-remorse, and he kissed her collarbone in an act of comfortless ease. “You asked me if I knew how long forever was.”

“So you decided—”

“Well, I’d been thinking about it for a while. Angel told me once that it was highest plateau for vampirehood—”

“I’ll say.”

“—and that you’d never had it with Dru before.”

Spike solidified further. “Yeh. She never wanted…I guess that was clue one that it wasn’ forever.” He resisted, then softened against her, resting peacefully. “’S that who you learned to do it? Peaches?”

“Well…he never really went into detail.” She grinned into platinum strands, raking nails through his hair. “I mean, he couldn’t so he…didn’t. I looked it up and—”

He barked a laugh, pulling back. “You looked it up?”

At that, she frowned. “Well, where else was I gonna learn? Giles? Rather doubtful. And I didn’t think you’d want me to…but now it’s all…I love you, isn’t that enough?”

The phrase sent pure elation through his body. He could listen to her say it forever. “’S more than enough. ‘S bloody perfect.”

“I just wanted you to know…without doubt that I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, I coulda told you that.” Without warning, he pushed her back again, assaulting her with his mouth. In perfect syncopation, their demons withdrew and they held each other. Buffy’s arms locked behind his head, tasting him to the fullest extreme. Their bodies molded perfectly in concert, stretching with long-disregarded need. A familiar swell tickled the bottom of his stomach, and his shirt fought its way off his shoulders.

At that, a lasting beat of restraint persuaded him to pause, reaching for her wrists and lowering them to the mattress, thumbs rubbing circles over the pressure points tantalizingly. He glowered at her, pulling back and arching his scarred brow. “What is it you want, luv?” he asked huskily, brushing her lips with his.

“Oh God…”

“Tell me. Come on…” He tackled her throat with his mouth, persuading her to arch into his touch with another strangled whimper. When she didn’t reply, he stretched her arms above her head and held until she understood that he wanted them stationary. He ran his hands down the expanse of her body in delayed exploration. Then it was he that moaned. So long this had been denied. Too long. The touch he had craved for years finally in his arms again. No withdraw. No hindrance. Nothing to hold them back.

Not anymore.

“Spike!” she cried. “Please…just…we deserve it, don’t we? We deserve it after all this time. We—”

He sealed her pleas with a kiss, no longer willing himself to hold back. After all, she was right. So much time had passed, teasing themselves: flaunting what guilt, pride, or curses wouldn’t let them touch. Not anymore. Never again.

“Right,” Spike gasped as her hand defiantly lowered, cupping him delicately, exploring him with idyllic liberation. “Definitely, definitely deserve it.”

On an emotional plane somewhere, they met each other with gratifying satisfaction.

Unneeded barriers plowed to the floor. Trousers, various undergarments, anything that separated flesh from flesh. There was no room for foreplay. Enough had been shared over the past month. If she didn’t feel him inside her the next instant, she was sure she would break down.

Luckily, that wasn’t an obstacle.

The physical aspect of their relationship was still something largely uncultivated, despite how vastly explored. From the first, they had fallen into perfect synchronization, though constantly battling each other for dominance. Clawing bites to coincide with wrestled kisses. And every time thereafter had been like the first all over again. A new awareness, emotion, feeling surged through her in collaboration with the millions already encompassing her mind. Things she would never whisper to the air in fear of her own looming demoralization. But it was there. It was always there. Exorcising empty years - mentally and in the flesh. She hoped to never stop discovering.

In collusion with the roller coaster of her mind had put her through, Buffy felt she was falling, at the front of the ride and taking a turn down one of the large mounts. Descending rapidly only to be swept before she crashed. Then it wasn’t just the hills; it was everything in between. The loops, the curves, the slow and gentle climbs followed by the frightening plunges into what one could only assume was an extended abyss of new surprises.

Words climbed in her throat, scratching, hissing, clawing, and beckoning for release. Words and confessions. The unspeakables. Vibrations escalated and coursed, and then she heard it, as they reached their mutual points, straining in a near whisper.

“Never doubt it, pet,” he gasped, shuddering as he stretched into his release. His body cadenced against hers, spending in glorious climax and taking her right along with him. She had never come so hard in her life. “’F you haven’t learned anythin’, jus’ remember—”

“You too,” Buffy panted, vamping before she realized it. Her teeth embedded naturally in his shoulder with blunt force. A long moan pulsed through his lips, and he hardened instantly, taking her right along with him.

She felt hours could pass with continuous consummation. So much looking without feeling, craving without quenching endless thirst.

No more.

Spike brought her to her second orgasm effortlessly, brushing a kiss over her forehead before finally disconnecting, rolling to his back. Weighty breaths heaved free of his chest, and a hand dropped over his forehead, caressing his closed eyes. The Slayer stretched luxuriously in the intensity of her afterglow, smiling to herself.

“Luv?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re bloody brilliant.”

Buffy turned over, reaching to touch his hand. The connection was brief but needed. For long minutes, all they could do was stare at each other. A swarm of what had passed blazed between them. Lost in the depths of one another’s eyes. Lost, warmed, and found.

Epilogue

And so the question arose: where to go from here?

London provided time enough to gather the strength for an imminent return to Sunnydale. Neither had any feasible grasp how long they would stay. Giles related his joys in their decision, a blessing not as much needed as wanted.

Unfortunately, after their shared revelations in William the Bloody’s chamber, both completely forgot about the Watcher who lingered still in the lower levels of the library. He had the bad luck of happening in for a progress report when both were acting rather immodestly licentious.

Things were edgy but comfortable between the Watcher and his former colleague. They held their well wishes in a bittersweet exchange. Despite his claim, Buffy could tell Giles was more than grieved to see his closest friend reduced to the very thing he had tried to escape. Though they promised nothing on the surface would change, a sort of detached formality had consumed their relationship.

Phone calls were made, arrangements and appointments set. Willow and Spike talked in length. She knew the minute it happened, she said. She could feel it when he crawled to his redemption. There was nothing but esteem held in his regard. Xander related a sort of stunned though practical frontage. He didn’t take up much time and blamed it on long distance bills. The short conversation with Spike exhibited nothing beyond a general ‘thanks,’ mumbled under his breath, and an immediate demand to be handed over to the Slayer. Angel shared more of the same, both with his former love and his childe. Bewilderment and lingering respect. Their trade was brief and awkward.

“’F anythin’, luv,” the platinum vampire grumbled, “we are not livin’ in LA.”

Buffy’s conversation with Dawn was what consumed the better part of an hour. Long, emotional apologies and pardons. Astonished revelations. A promise not to fight to again, however empty it was, and a shared assurance that no matter what, they would always be there for each other—regardless of distance or age.

Spike expressed an interest to hurl after their touchy feelies had concluded. By natural inclination, the Slayer thwapped him on the back of the head.

The administration was in contact with him the day following his return to the library, offering a considerable raise if he would consider staying as curator. They apologized for Dr. Fell’s presumptions and indicated that Professor Hawkins, understanding but dejected by William’s refusal to return, had blown a lot of air that was taken out of proportion. He was on the verge of declining when Buffy snatched the phone from his grasp and barked into the receiver that he would think about it and call them back. Before he could refute, she had hung up and flashed an insolent smile.

“’Ey!” he growled. “Wha’s the big idea, luv?”

“The idea is you said once that you’d be my willing slave, right?” He opened his mouth to contest though there was nothing to do but not in agreement. “Well, I told you I liked it here. Come on, Spike. It’ll be fun.”

“For nancy boy Ripper,” he retorted indignantly. “Not sure ‘f you’re graspin’ the concept ‘ere, luv.”

“Spike. Think of all the money you would make.”

Periodically, it was as though his eyes were composed of nickels and dimes, and the only sound he heard was the continuous cha-ching of a cash register. That day proved no different.

Confirming the matter to himself was, as always, a very different matter. The trip to the airport consisted of a self-contained conversation between the lesser of two evils. Buffy and Giles exchanged weary, amused looks, catching only tidbits of his vocal rant. “Wouldn’t ‘ave to be there all the time,” he muttered. “Hell, ‘f they want me that much, I’ll jus’ make them conform to my sodding schedule. All right, Spike. Think of the money. Focus on the money. All the blood an’ smokes you could ever want.”

Begrudgingly, he told the Watcher to call the administration for him and let them know he would come back. “But only till I find somethin’ that pays better,” he warned. “Don’ think for a bloody minute I’m gonna spend the rest of my days caught stuck in that rotten place.”

Buffy would never say so, but she suspected there was a tiny, miniscule, itty-bitty part of him that was doing cartwheels at the prospect. It would ruin his masculine frontage if anything to suggest the opposite were ever revealed.

Before boarding, Spike took Giles’s hand and shook heartily. An emotional trade. From both ends, the over-compensated sense of loss stretched with almost unbearable reality.

“Remember when Red put us all under her ‘Will Be Done’ spell?” the platinum vampire asked lowly, as though dreading what would happen if he were heard. “’Course, pretty much the same conclusion with the other, but anyway. Remember?”

The Watcher smiled somberly. “How could I forget?”

“Yeh. Well.” He cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. “I said, when you asked ‘f I was helpin’ you with the blindness an’ what all, I said ‘s kinda like you’re my father, right?” At that, he tittered and shifted, avoiding the old man’s eyes. “Well…you get it. Don’ be a prat an’ make me come out an’ say it. Soddin’ Kum Bai Ya moment’s enough for me.”

A long, knowing beat passed between them, clinching any unfinished business. Giles smiled. “I understand, Will.”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed at him. “’Ey there. No more ‘f that.”

“My apologies. Old habit.” He cleared his throat formally. “I am to presume you’ll be back at work on Monday?”

Spike glanced to Buffy as though searching for an inkling of margin. There was none to offer. “Yeh, I’m guessin’ so. Be sure to ‘ave a stake nice an’ ready, jus’ in case I get so painfully bored.”

The Watcher’s eyes twinkled in merriment. “I’ll be sure to have plenty of Weetabix and blood stocked.”

“Yeh. You better.” He grinned widely and took the Slayer’s arm. “See you round, Rips.”

The smirk dropped from the old man’s face. “I told you not to call me that!”

Spike flickered a brow in amusement. “Come on, luv,” he said, pulling his companion with him as he pivoted. “We don’ wanna keep our fans waitin’.”

“Bye, Giles!” the Slayer called chirpily. “See you in a few days!”

The plane was thankfully sparse in passengers. They lowered the shutter to the window as a precaution, but they where scheduled to beat the sunlight a good hour and fifteen minutes. Buffy drooped her head drowsily on the platinum vampire’s shoulder and placed her hand reassuringly on his leg. Sleep would claim her shortly. A long, well-deserved nap.

“I love you,” she whispered.

The words got him with every utterance, milking him with life. Whatever lay ahead, whatever prejudices and difficulties they faced in future didn’t intimidate him. Nothing could now. They had each other, and that was all that mattered.

Resting his head against hers, he took her hand and squeezed. “Back at ya, kitten.”

Together, their eyes drifted shut, fingers entwined, not afraid to let go. The picture of perfection. The heart of all contentment, regardless if it lasted a day or a thousand years.

There was nothing to fear when the world was at their feet.

The reward for a battle fought with blood and integrity.

Bliss.