Chapter One
 

Breaking into the city morgue was far too easy. Spike didn't know why he felt any sense of surprise at all. After the better part of four years, he should be immune to the internal workings of Sunnydale. The Hellmouth had made the city and all its many aspects an alternative to reality.

Why the hell was he here, anyway? She was gone.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

`Course, she'd never been his. Never would be now. Bugger it, she never would've been his even if she'd lived. He knew that. He'd always known.

But it didn't matter now.

She was dead.

Like him.

He knew why he was here, of course. He just needed to – see her. Touch her. Be alone with her, even if it was only for a few stolen moments. He wanted to say his goodbyes to her in private, away from watchful Scoobie eyes. They would never accept his desire for that type of privacy with her body, and he couldn't ask. Not now. Maybe he'd never have been able to, but especially not now. Not after he'd failed...

Couldn't face any of them after that. *After the tower.*

Spike had no problem finding her. He went unerringly to the drawer that held her body, drawn to it as though she was calling to him, and he barely hesitated before pulling it open.

The growingly familiar nausea slammed into him, and he stumbled back a step before squaring his shoulders and reaching out his hand. With a swift gesture, he pulled away the sheet covering her.

*Ahhh, love, hello.*

Spike's eyes touched her, swept over her nude form, drank in what he knew would be his last sight of her.

Oh god, she was so tiny, looked so small lying there. Beautiful, unmarked. How could she be unmarked after that fall? Death had not robbed her skin of its' golden sheen, and he wanted so badly to believe she would be warm to his touch.

She wasn't.

*Buffy. Oh, love. I'm sorry, so sorry, so sorry.*

He reached out, touched her face, and cradled her cheek in his calloused palm.

Conscious thought dissolved into agony.

Arms clutched, pulled, held, rough hands caressed, stroked over hair and skin. Tears bathed her throat, her stomach, her breast, as his open mouth tasted her, memorizing her flavor. She'd not been here so long as to have lost her unique scent and taste.

*My fault, my fault. I'm so sorry. I love you, love you – and I couldn't do the one thing you asked of me. The only thing you ever asked of me.*

She would never forgive him, and it didn't matter. He didn't deserve forgiveness. Not from her, not from Dawn. Not from the Watcher or from her friends.

It was sure as bleedin' hell he would never forgive himself.

He sat slumped on the floor, cradling Buffy's body to him, as the long, stark hours of the night passed. He didn't talk to her. She wouldn't want to hear about his pain, his sorrow and guilt. She wouldn't want to hear about his love. So he remained silent, his face buried against her throat. Cradled her and rocked her, and cried against her dead flesh.

Anguished sobs from a dead man for the now dead woman he had loved.

After tonight, he'd never touch her again; never hold her against him in passion or in pain, in anger, in celebration, in love. Everything he'd ever wanted, every possibility he'd ever envisioned, ever dreamt of, had fallen into oblivion when she'd leapt from that
tower.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

No. No. No. No.

*Torment.*

Would it be easier to bear if he'd possessed her? If she'd been his for even one night? Would having that memory to cling to ease the crushing despair of her loss? He didn't know.

Even now, he knew he would cling forever to the memory of stolen hours created by a spell gone wrong. The sudden and unexpected *rightness* of her mouth on his, warm, eager, *loving*... Kissing her had been a bloody revelation. He could still remember how unbelievable her kisses had been, how completely intoxicating. *No one* had ever kissed him like she did. *No one* had ever made him feel the way she made him feel with just her mouth on his.

And, ohgod, would he ever forget the mind-blowing pleasure of simply holding her in his arms, foreheads resting together as they enjoyed one another's touch? Happiness. Simple happiness.  Even the snarky bickering over wedding details couldn't hide the joy
flowing into and out of both of them. Had he ever felt it before in his existence?

He didn't think he'd ever be able to forgive the red-haired witch for showing him that, then tearing it away.

Spike rubbed his face against Buffy's, nuzzling gently at her neck, as he let himself dwell for a painful moment on the one other memory he would never let go
of. One kiss, freely given. Passionless, but heartfelt. He felt a swift stab of unreasonable anger that his mouth had been so numb from that bitch hell god's
beatings that he'd been unable to feel that kiss in all its' unexpected wonder to the degree he should have been able to feel it.

Sometimes he honestly wondered if the Powers That Be had taken some sort of personal interest in tainting every small pleasure that came his way.

Didn't matter. Nothing was gonna change now. No more chances. No more what ifs. No more maybes. No more dreams of a love far above him.

Gone. She was gone.

He'd always been beneath her anyway.

He could smell the coming dawn long before the first rays of light lit the sky. He rose, lifting Buffy's body back onto the cold metal slab. He didn't notice the blood smeared on the floor where he'd been sitting, didn't see the numerous small areas where it had pooled. He carefully arranged Buffy's limbs before smoothing the sheet back over her. Putting her back the way she'd been. Wouldn't do to have anyone know her body had been touched – defiled, they'd probably think – by a demon like him. Didn't wanna
upset anyone, add to their grief.

It wouldn't matter to any of the others that all he really wanted was to take her body with him, to look for and find a fine and private place where he could hold her to him for the remainder of time.

Dead. She was dead.

*He wanted so badly to join her. But it could never, would never, be. Even if he allowed the sun to end him, he would never be with her. *

He reached out to straighten the slender gold chain around her throat, and hissed with pain when his fingers came into contact with the delicate filigree cross suspended from it. He snatched his fingers back and stared at them. It was obvious they had come into
contact with the cross many times during the long hours of the night as he held her body to his. Dozens of burns, some clearly showing the pattern of the cross, covered his hands. He stared at them. His mind, growing increasingly unable to focus, could
only grasp one thought.

Could he damn well feel nothing then?

It was with a mixture of defiant anger and grief that Spike removed the pendant from Buffy's neck. Spike tore away the fabric of his t-shirt to bare his skin, and flattened the cross against his chest. He hissed as the metal burned into his chest and his hand simultaneously.

Hissed and held on. Deeper. Yeah, there's pain, bugger
it all to hell.

*Burn me, burn me, burn me, burn me...*

Before he left he carefully refastened the pendant back around Buffy's neck. The flesh on the thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand was burned away to the bone, but he still managed to fasten the tiny clasp, and lay the cross carefully against
the upper curve of her breast. He let his hand glide over her hair one last time, leaned close to catch her scent, and finally pulled the sheet up over her face. He left then, melting out of the building as the earliest workers were arriving.

Beneath the sheet, Buffy's chest, neck and hair were spattered with more than a little of the vampire's blood. Because, when a hole is burned straight through the chest, through flesh and bone, and directly into the heart, there's bound to be blood.

Even if that heart isn't beating.


                   ~*~


Time went a little wonky after that, following the direction his mind had already taken.

By the time he arrived back at his crypt, his hand hurt like a sonofabitch. He looked at it again. Yup, those were his bones, sod it all. Spike knew there was something wrong with his back as well. Twinges of pain had been bothering him off and on for a
while – may be even a couple of days – he wasn't sure. But, there on his back, just above his waist, he could feel a clammy, sticky wetness that usually meant he was bleeding. He could smell the blood, for that matter. He had a vague recollection of
being stabbed, but he couldn't remember where or by whom.

In fact, his whole body hurt and he had the nagging suspicion he was sporting more than a few broken bones. He knew he needed blood in order to heal, and,
no matter what anyone thought, he needed human blood to heal with any speed. There were a couple of bags of human blood among the jars of pig's blood in his
refrigerator. The Slayer herself had brought him several bags of A-Neg, his favorite, in the days after Glory had attempted to get him to betray Dawn.

He pulled one out, and then stared at it in his hand, remembering his surprise when Buffy had brought him the welcome supply.



***Her face had borne that pinched _expression that was becoming commonplace since the death of her mum, and she had more or less ignored his questioning eyes as
she placed the blood in the refrigerator.

He'd said something clever, he remembered, something like, "Thank you."

And she had simply replied, "You're welcome."  She had added something about needing him back to full strength as soon as possible.

She'd been wearing something white and soft looking, and she'd smelled like Lilies of the Valley. It wasn't her usual scent, which was much less definable, and
it had lingered in the dark air of his crypt for hours after she'd left. Or so it seemed.

She'd implied she'd be needing him.

Like he was someone she could count on, someone she considered trustworthy – at least to a degree. He remembered sitting up a bit straighter, enjoying thoughts of fighting alongside the Slayer, guardin' her back.

He'd hoped to hell, though, that she didn't plan to lump him in with the soddin' Scoobies...

Her hair had been shining like sunlight. He remembered wondering if the Lily of the Valley scent was perfume or a scented shampoo.

Wondered too, if he would ever be close enough to her again to find out.***



Spike leaned against the door of the refrigerator and slid to the floor, the unopened blood bag still clenched in his hand. No matter where his thoughts turned – pain, pain, pain. For a few welcome minutes, the pain in his hand had distracted him from the terrible wrenching despair clawing away inside him.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

No, please. Please. No. No. No.

Not her. Please not her. Anyone else. Anyone. God – him. Why not him? It was supposed to be him. Sonofabloodybitch, it was supposed to be him!

*Never her.*

Something was building up inside him, growing, surging, taking him over. It was tearing at his throat, his chest, trying to get out. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, it terrified him. Spike dropped the blood bag, and clamped his hands to his chest. If he pushed hard enough, maybe whatever was inside him would stop trying to tear its' way out. His hands clutched at his torn shirt, ripping at it further and pulling it away. It was covered in blood, front and back, and he had no idea how it had gotten there.

It was then he noticed the hole seared into his chest. For a moment he thought it was the place Glory had dug her hand into him, but it was higher, right over his heart. As soon as he saw it, he realized it bleeding hurt, burning like fire. There was blood everywhere and he couldn't get a good look at the actual wound. Bloody hell, it seemed obvious to his struggling thought patterns that whatever was trying to get out
of his throat had gone in there...

Was he going to have to reach into his own chest, find whatever was causing this excruciating pain, and pull it out? Maybe he should just pull out his heart – that would stop the pain, wouldn't it?

*Stop all the pain.*

He felt like he desperately needed to draw breath and couldn't. Panicking, he rose to his knees, trying to get to his feet. Whatever this was, whatever was happening, he knew he could fight it better on his feet. He was a brawler, wasn't he? He was strong, dangerous. He was evil, damn it, and whatever was happening to him – whatever demon was causing this terrifying, gnawing agony, this indescribable torment – was going to regret messing with him. He was still the Big Bad, he was...

Alone.

*He was so alone.*

Dark, hollow corridors of agony stretched out in every direction. Take one, any one. It didn't matter. Just move, run, because the fires of hell were licking at his feet, up  his legs. He was going to go up in flames. He had to get away now.

*Right now.*

He tried to rise again, to move, but he couldn't get to his feet. He stumbled forward, sprawling across the floor.

The demon (had to be a demon, dinit?) that had attacked his chest was gaining strength, tearing more viciously at his throat. He could feel the blood flowing into his mouth, and something else. Maybe it was the demon itself. Thought turned to certainty. He was going to vomit it out. It would be gone, god, gone. Almost there, almost ... And finally it fought its way out of his body, escaping through his parted lips.

It was a scream, reduced to the barest breath of sound.

*"Buffy."*

Consciousness faded.

When he came to, Spike's dazed mind tried to suss out where he was, what was happening.

His hands slid over the floor, feeling his surroundings. He couldn't get up and panic flared again. He clutched at the floor, trying to gain some purchase.

He needed blood, didn't he? He couldn't remember why. Only stood to reason, though, dinit? Vampire. There
was a blood bag on the floor not far from where he lay. He crawled toward it on his stomach, feeling a
moment's victory when his hand closed around it. He morphed, letting his fangs tear into the bag, feeling
the rich, welcome taste of beautiful human blood fill his mouth and flow down his throat.

It was always so intoxicating.

Strangely, he had no trouble at all finding his feet the minute he started retching. He staggered across the room, the little bit of blood he'd swallowed leaving him again in tortuous heaving spasms. What the hell was happening to him?

He collapsed onto a small wooden table, smashing it to pieces and, in the process, sending deadly splinters
of wood across the room. Had some of those splinters entered his chest through the gaping hole that the demon had left when it entered him? He could feel it inside him again. He'd thought it had left him. Hadn't it clawed its way out of his mouth? But now he could feel it again. Tearing him apart inside. It was
spreading, growing inside him. It no longer tore just at his chest and throat. It was twisting into his
guts, knotting them up, yanking and pulling and tearing at his intestines.

Spike cried out, shifting away from the shattered wood under his body and trying to get to one of the walls.
He could defend himself better if his back was to a wall. See what was coming at him from any direction. It – they – must be in here. They were coming at him, invading his body through his chest. He had to fight,
had to beat them back. *How could he fight it, fight them, if he couldn't see them?* He looked around wildly.
This was his crypt wasn't it? Wasn't it? If he could get to the lower level, maybe he could make his way
into the sewer tunnels. He dragged his body toward the hole in the floor, desperate to escape, desperate
to prevent any more of these demons from invading his body.

He found the hole and rolled through it, falling heavily to the basement of the crypt. He'd always tried to
disguise the hole. Maybe the invaders wouldn't see it. Spike dragged himself to a wall, pulled himself to his
feet and placed his back against the flat surface, fists coming up in a defensive posture.

He'd always been good at fighting, at killing. Hadn't Dru told him he was born to smash and bash? Kill and
maim? Killing had given him the best night of his life, hadn't it? He'd finally gained Dru's favor, had finally gained some individual identity from her sire, Angelus, whose love, acceptance and respect he had craved for
over twenty years – all by killing a Slayer...

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

Never gonna hold her. Never gonna touch her. Never gonna wrap his hands in her golden hair, bury himself
in her body and find, at long last, his home.

His Slayer was dead.

Dead.

No. No. No.

Sounds he had never heard before were erupting from his throat, animalistic howls and wails – the anguished
cries of a wounded beast. His hands were tearing at his hair, clawing at the wounds covering his body. Where
had all these wounds, all this blood, come from? Wild eyes shot into every corner of the chamber. Where the
hell was he?

Time no longer had any connection to reality. How long had he been here battling this – whatever it was? Hours? Days? Something was wrong. What? Something had invaded his body. It was strong, and obviously furious at being trapped inside him, judging by how rampantly it was ripping him apart inside. Even his demon couldn't expel it, couldn't seem to fight it, whoever or whatever it was, and the raw, agonizing pain it was causing him as it romped through his body, twisting and tearing at everything inside of him, was unbearable.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd fed, didn't know where the wounds covering much of his body had come from. And he couldn't seem to keep down any blood at all; even licking blood from his own wounds gagged him.

He didn't know what was happening or where he was. *He didn't even know who he was.* So he stopped thinking about it. It didn't matter. Not anymore.

He wasn't sure when he realized that it was infinitely better not to think at all.

Better not to exist.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He repeated it over and over as it became a chant, a mantra.

*There is nothing.*

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

And then, at last, at long last...there *was* nothing.

The demons of loss, of mourning, devouring him from the inside out were vanquished. The gnawing grief, the overwhelming guilt, slid away, defeated. Gone. Like everything else. There was nothing. Endless nothingness.

Blessed relief.

There was no one. No. One.

Not even her. Not even him.

He lay on his back on the floor, still and silent as only vampires can be still and silent. He didn't exist
anymore. Dead, empty shell shrouded in black leather. Dead, empty eyes in a bloodless, chalk white face.

Dead.

Like her.

On some level, so deep inside he would never remember it, he welcomed the empty nothingness; embracing it
with a desperate, loving gratitude.

         

Chapter Two

 

He was on time. But then, he was always on time. 9:00. Time to walk Dawn home from the Magic Box, spend a couple hours with her `til the witches were back. Spike stood just inside the door of the shop, silent and remote, as he waited for Dawn to finish up some chore Anya had assigned her.

"You don't mind, do you?" Dawn had asked, her eyes lightly pleading, and of course, he'd nodded in agreement. Wasn't in any hurry anyway.

She wasn't `quite ready' to leave most nights now when he arrived, but he didn't let on that he knew it was
deliberate. She would try to persuade him to come in, sit with Xander or Giles until she was ready to go, but
he preferred to remain by the door.

Apart.

"Good evening, Spike," Giles said as he came out of the back room. He kept his voice carefully even these
days, almost pleasant. "Right on time, I see."

Spike inclined in head in acknowledgement, which seemed to be expected of him, but he didn't speak,
and his eyes avoided those of the Watcher.

Giles' lips tightened almost imperceptively. He took a couple steps in the vampire's general direction and
tried again.

"I appreciate your willingness to help out. We all do." His head dipped toward Xander and Anya, who
nodded in agreement – Xander hesitantly, Anya with enthusiasm.

Giles made another attempt to make eye contact with Spike.

And failed. Again.

Spike didn't move, didn't acknowledge Giles in any way. Instead his intense blue eyes followed Dawn from their sunken sockets, and the air in the room seemed to tighten around the occupants. Thinning to the point where it seemed difficult to draw breath. If you needed to, that is.

Dawn finished shelving the books in the pile Anya had given her, and stood, surveying the shop. There was really nothing else that needed doing right now. Besides, it wasn't working. Spike never actually came *in* to the shop, never really acknowledged anyone but her – except for those sort of nod thingies he did with Giles – and he never spoke.  Ever. To any of them. Only her. And even then, he only talked when they were alone. She'd tried so hard to pull him into the group – at least a little. But so far, all her attempts had been complete failures. Her hands fisted in the fabric of her t-shirt for a moment; then she smoothed it out and forced a smile onto her face.

"I'm ready," she announced and some of the tension left the room.

Spike stepped back, opened the door and held it for the young girl. Dawn threw a somewhat helpless look over her shoulder at the others before preceding him out the door.

"Okay, then," Xander remarked into the tense silence that fell once the over-the-door bell stopped its jangling. "*Really* not getting any easier, there."

"Quite." Giles agreed. "I had hoped perhaps by now…" he let his voice trail off.

"Well, he's not as bad as he was." Anya pointed out. Which was, of course, a vast understatement. "He's up and moving and doing something useful. Even if it is something we sort of – created – to make him feel useful." She nodded her head. "I think it's working."

"Ahn, honey, you have noticed that he still hasn't said a word, right?"

"Which I continue to find remarkable considering how much Spike always seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice." Giles added.

"Actually, I think it's creepier the way he won't look at anyone. Kind of makes me shivery."

"Me too." Xander shuddered as he agreed with his girlfriend. Giles looked at the younger man with the somewhat pained _expression he often had on his face when looking at him, and Xander grew defensive.

"What? It's damned creepy. He walks around like some pale ghosty thing. Never talks, never looks at you. Eyes all black and cheeks all sunken in like those voice stealing gentlemen guys." He paused, "And they were *majorly* creepy."

"I still say he's getting better." Anya was often more optimistic than those around her. "He certainly looks better than he did a few weeks ago, and Dawn says he talks to her regularly."

"Really?" Giles asked.

"Yes. I believe they have real conversations." Anya opened the cash register and put the last pile of receipts in. Normally she would tally everything at the end of the day, but Xander wanted to watch a movie tonight, so they were heading home as soon as she was ready. It bothered her to leave the end of day bookwork undone all night, but when one was engaged, even secretly, certain concessions had to be made for one's
fiancι. All the bridal magazines said so.

"Besides, Spike is in mourning," she continued, as she gathered her purse and sweater, "and it can last a long time. Months, sometimes even years. There's no telling how long it will last with Spike, because it's different with everyone. But I do think he'll start talking to people other than Dawn soon."

Giles looked at her with interest. "Is it normal for vampires to go into mourning?"

"I really didn't do a lot of vengeance work with vampires. They prefer to take their own vengeance. So I don't have a lot of personal experience with them. But, yes, mourning the loss of a loved one is common for most beings – human and demon."

"And you don't feel the lack of a soul…?"

"I really don't see the connection. Vampires are very passionate beings. They love – well, many of them do anyway, they hate. And they mourn. Pretty straight forward if you ask me. Don't any of these books cover this stuff?" She gestured to the thousands of volumes housed in the shop and there was a certain incredulity in her tone.

Giles became slightly flustered. "Mostly, the council deals with how to kill vampires, not, with, well…"

"Understanding them?" Anya finished for him. "I thought `know thine enemy' was some sort of motto among humans." She caught herself. "Us. Among us. Humans. Like us. Like all of us here in this room right now." She smiled, nodding to herself in approval, sure she had covered the slip that she still, sometimes, thought of herself as other than human. They probably hadn't even noticed, she thought, happily. "You might want to consider stocking some books in your resource library that are not on the official `Council of Watchers' Approved Reading List.'"  She shrugged, dismissing the subject as she turned to Xander. "Ready,
sweetheart?"

"You bet." He was on his feet, anxious to be home. Escape into a movie. The Matrix was waiting – well, maybe not. A little too much black leather for his mood right now. Or Cujo – always a good scare in that one, and it would probably lead to Anya huggage. Or, again, maybe not. He could almost hear her now; `This isn't realistic, Xander. First; rabid dogs would never... blah, blah, blah.' Well, they'd find something. Anya had been wanting to see some chick flick. Anything. It didn't matter. Just something to provide *some* escape, however brief.

~*~

Giles poured himself a drink after Xander and Anya left. He acknowledged his habit of reaching for alcohol in times of stress, knew it was a sign of weakness, thought disparaging
thoughts of himself for it, and did it anyway.

He feared, too, that he was losing his battle with depression. Buffy's loss alone was an horrific happening he had hoped never to have to deal with. He had loved her so much, had admired her spirit, her independence, her strength, her vitality. But he had seen how the last months before they lost her had drained her, aged her and saddened her beyond what anyone of her still very young age should ever have to endure. And he felt that he had failed her in so many ways. He still cringed when remembering the way Buffy had looked at him
as he stated that Dawn would have to die, the betrayal he had seen in her eyes. And the guilt mounted daily, because he was forced to admit to himself that, even now, every time he looked at Dawn, he felt angered that she – this unreal personage – lived while the daughter of his heart was de – gone – forever gone.

He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to say `dead'. Or `died'. Or `death'.

He knew it was a form of denial. Another weakness.

Dawn had not turned to him for comfort, for which he supposed he should be grateful. In those first dark days, she'd given him the occasional hug, and had seemed comforted by his presence. Even now, she never displayed any animosity toward him, but even while she didn't avoid him, she held herself somewhat aloof. Instead she turned to Tara, the quiet and gentle woman who seemed to have blossomed into a wonderful anchor for the teen.

And then, of course, Dawn turned to Spike. Though Giles wasn't at all sure who was doing the comforting there, and who was seeking it. Perhaps it was a mutual need met.

The attempts made to locate Hank Summers after the showdown with Glory had delayed Buffy's funeral, and
the ceremony had not been held until almost two weeks after her loss, a rather lengthy delay. Even then, Hank Summers was not present. Dawn, angered by the continued inability to locate her father, had been insistent that the ceremony be held after sunset so that Spike, at least, could be there with her. She'd been devastated when only one vampire had been in attendance – that being Angel. None of them had seen Spike since the morning after the final battle with Glory, but notes left in his heavily disarrayed crypt had informed him of the time and place of the service. Dawn had been certain he would come. She had insisted that the service itself be delayed for well more than an hour while they waited in vain for the blond. When Angel stated his opinion, backed up with visible disgust by Xander, that Spike had probably either left town or was collapsed in a drunken stupor somewhere, Dawn had stiffened in anger and given a nod to the clergyman to proceed. She hadn't spoken to Angel after the service, and when he tried to offer his sympathy, she had rebuffed him quite rudely. She hadn't been particularly pleased with Xander either.

The next day Dawn found Spike.

Had any of them even been aware that there was a lower level to Spike's crypt? Giles couldn't remember ever having noticed it or having heard about its' existence. Seeing the chains hanging from the ceiling during one of his earliest visits to this newly discovered realm, Giles supposed that this was where Spike had chained Buffy and Drusilla in what was  undoubtedly his most disastrous attempt to win Buffy's heart. Buffy had never gone into great detail about that night, and the opening leading to the lower level could easily be overlooked if one wasn't aware of its existence.

Giles still didn't know exactly how Dawn had discovered it. Perhaps she had just been more determined than any of them had been during previous visits to the crypt when they had been attempting to locate Spike. Or perhaps she had simply been deeply brassed off. Determined to find the vampire and vent her anger. Either way, it still horrified Giles that Dawn had been the one to find Spike, that she had seen him in that horrendous condition.

God, it still sickened him, and he had seen some pretty terrible things, especially since coming to Sunnydale.

First, there had been the wounds. He knew the deep stab would to Spike's lower back had come during the battle with Glory. Dawn had told them that Spike had been stabbed atop the tower by the little man they had called `Doc.' At the hospital the following day with Dawn, he had shrugged off Giles' questions about the wound, and Giles had assumed vampiric healing had kicked in. Apparently it had not. When Dawn brought them to Spike after finding him, more than two weeks after the stabbing had occurred, the wound had still been open. Other injuries were consistent with Spike's fall from the tower – several broken ribs, and numerous broken bones in his both legs and in his right arm. Like the stab wound, they had not healed.

Giles wondered how the vampire had managed to stay patiently by Dawn's side while the doctors worked on her after Buffy's dea – leap. The blond had accompanied Dawn to the hospital, had stayed, a silent, soothing presence at her side, while the doctors examined her wounds, cleaned them, and stitched them up. Dawn had clung to his hand fiercely, and Giles could remember the strangeness he had felt at seeing Spike gently stroking Dawn's hair, calming her throughout the process. He had stayed until the doctors assured him that Dawn would recover fully, that she would have very little, if any, scarring from the wounds, and that the sedatives they had administered would keep her asleep for several hours. Then, without speaking to any of them, he had disappeared into the tunnels running under the city, not to be seen again until Dawn found him the day after the funeral.  There were other wounds – deep burns in his chest and on his hands. Giles really didn't know how those had occurred. Flesh and bone alike were blackened, and the stench was horrid. Xander had thrown up when he's seen Spike's chest, and Giles and Tara had been the ones to cut away the dead flesh and dress the wounds.

But as awful as the wounds and injuries had been, they were
nothing compared to the general physical state Spike was in.

It had been almost like finding a survivor of Auschwitz or Dachau. Emaciated to the point of looking almost skeletal, they had, at first glance, thought Spike had passed into some strange and heretofore unknown form of vampiric death. Giles had been shocked to the core, and he was quite sure he hadn't yet recovered. He'd never seen a vampire in that state before,
couldn't even remember having read about it in any of his hundreds of books. Upon closer examination, it was clear
Spike was still – alive – on some level. He didn't speak, didn't move, but his eyes were still cognizant, or at least alert on some deep level. They moved, sometimes focusing on a face or a motion. Mostly they were empty, deadened pools of blue, burning out of their sunken sockets in a manner that gave Giles nightmares still.

Of course, Giles knew of torpor, the state in which vampires could supposedly exist for long periods of time without feeding. But his knowledge suggested that a vampire in that state would never turn down blood, was, in fact, almost mad for it. That hadn't been the case with Spike.

There were a few blood packets lying about on the floor upstairs, opened, their contents spilled on the ground next to them. It hadn't taken them long to figure out that Spike had been unable to keep any blood down. Or that he still couldn't. Not pig's blood. Not human blood. Not blood fresh from Giles' arm. And yes, he had offered. It wasn't that Spike didn't try. He did. It was the only time he seemed to move at all. He would
take some of the human blood, would instinctively put his mouth to the wound Giles would slice into his own arm. It didn't matter. Within minutes – seconds sometimes – he was gagging, vomiting up whatever he had taken in, almost choking on it in the process. And in his terribly weakened state, the heaves wracking his
body were frighteningly terrible to see. It didn't seem to matter what opinion each of them held of Spike, they were all shaken and horrified by what Spike was going through. The young women – Willow, Tara and Anya – clung to each other over this, one more shock after so many others. Even Xander, whose dislike of Spike almost equaled his hatred of Angel, seemed deeply affected.

And Dawn. Oh my, Dawn. The poor girl had been reduced to a dreadful state, bouts of hysteria intermingling with an almost catatonic state of blank staring, and flare-ups of temper. They had done their best to shield her from his continuing decline, but what she had seen when she first found him had been permanently burned into her mind's eye. Further, Giles had been certain that somehow Dawn was getting in to see Spike, even though they all agreed it was best to keep her from him, and the others all denied the possibility of her finding a way on her own.

They had no idea how to help. Or if help was even possible. Willow and Tara, even Anya and Xander had read, and researched, and read, and searched the web, and read yet more, trying to discover  what was happening to Spike and how they could restore him to his usual annoying self. But they had been rather spectacularly unsuccessful. After nearly two weeks of watching Spike's condition worsen, Giles had come
to a very difficult decision.

They must consult Angel.

The decision to call Angel had been a painful one. First off, Giles didn't know if Angel would have the knowledge to help. Even more uncertain would be his willingness. Giles knew the two vampires had an exceedingly rocky history. Knew too, that only the two of them really understood the extent of and
reasons for their private war. He did know that their shared past was complicated in ways that humans would probably never fully comprehend. Giles held out some hope that despite – or even perhaps because of – some of those very complicated issues, Angel would have sufficient residual feelings for the younger vampire to want to be of help. After all, the two were still part of the same vampiric family. No matter how
dysfunctional that family was.

There were other drawbacks to phoning Angel. Giles had felt sure that Spike himself would react negatively to the idea. Well, to be blunt, Giles had thought Spike would raise himself up from what seemed to be his deathbed and throw him out of his crypt. From the lower level. But Spike hadn't reacted at all.
His eyes had remained lifeless and bleak, void of any emotion at all.

At that point, Giles knew that the only remaining stumbling block to calling Angel was his own undiminished – distaste – for the dark haired vampire.

Giles felt that he had honestly tried, over the years, to forgive Angel the acts of Angelus. But, inside, where he lived, where remnants of Ripper, and more importantly, Jenny, still dwelled, he knew that he never would.

He had accepted that – that inability to forget, to forgive.

Giles removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes in a mixture of habit and exhaustion. The entire experience had been more than horrifying. It had been unutterably strange and, at the same time, strangely fascinating.

To see a person – well, not a person, perhaps, but a sentient being, at any rate, in such a state. To know that said being had reached that point, at least in part, one must assume, by being unable to eat, but to not know why...or even how they had deteriorated so rapidly. It seemed only common sense to Giles that the weight loss visible in Spike should not have occurred in less than a good many weeks, possibly months. Yet only two weeks had passed when they'd first found him, and he'd already looked skeletal. The same could be said for the loss of strength and power. Dawn had told them that Spike had been stabbed by the little man on top of the tower, and Giles felt sure that some sort of poison had entered the vampire's bloodstream. Although this didn't comfortably gibe with the fact that Dawn had been cut by the same blade, with no apparent ill effects, Giles still leaned toward it as the best possible explanation.

By that time, though, they were more concerned with cure than cause. Not that they had any information in that area either...

Giles had actually found himself praying for the knowledge to help Spike. A vampire. A soulless creature that had harmed them and threatened them, and – helped them. It had all been so very – well – unsettling hardly described it.

Then, before he actually picked up the phone to consult Angel,
it was over.

It had been on Xander's watch. While Tara stayed at the Summers house with Dawn every night, the rest of them – he, Xander, Anya, and Willow – had been taking rotating shifts staying in the crypt with Spike during the day, and had agreed that each night, one of them would spend the long, dark hours upstairs. They didn't openly call it a death watch, but they all knew what it was. And because Spike had fought beside them
against Glory, because Buffy had seemed to put a lot of trust in him in the last weeks of her life, they had done this. For her. Because they felt she would have wanted them to.

And perhaps, somewhat reluctantly, and to their surprise, for
Spike himself.

Xander had been watching television on the main floor of the crypt, dozing perhaps, as the night passed. And in the morning, he had opened his eyes to see Spike standing over him. Giles imagined that had led to one of Xander's less than manly reactions, though Xander would never admit to such a thing. And Spike... Well, Spike still didn't speak. Except to Dawn. When they were alone. Or at least Dawn claimed he spoke to her. Even, if what she told Anya was to be believed, that they had actual conversations. Giles had yet to hear him utter a sound.

And they had absolutely no idea what had occurred.

What had happened, changed, that Spike was suddenly able to drink blood again? To keep it down, and – digest it, or whatever it was vampires actually did internally? Spike had been in such a weakened state by then that Giles was really at a loss to understand how he had even laid his hands on a blood source. And Giles had looked – for an empty bag, or a bottle or jar, or a dead rat for that matter. He had found nothing.

He wondered tiredly if any explanation for the whole experience – cause and cure – would ever be forthcoming, either from Spike himself, though Giles was unsure how much, if anything, Spike remembered of the experience, or from some reference source they hadn't found in their exhaustive research.

Giles replaced his glasses and took a hefty swallow of his scotch. And now he really needed to talk to Spike about an entirely different matter.

Damn the Hellmouth.

Giles could remember his early reactions upon learning that Sunnydale rested on a Hellmouth. He had felt – well, damn and blast – a form of excitement. There had been a certain amount of anticipation then, in those early days, of the challenges they would face. And though he had felt outright fear at the fate of
the world resting on the shoulders of one slender and rather, well, strange, teenage girl and her friends, he had still been able to view the glass as `half-full', as he had put it at the time, rather than half-empty.

Perhaps he had just been too young and foolish himself. Five years had changed his perspective.

And his life.

Yes, well, he couldn't afford to dwell too much on things past right now – Jenny and Joyce, The Master, the mayor, Faith, Angel. His beloved girl, Buffy. Oh dear lord, he had promised himself he would not do this now. Just – focus, Giles, old man.

The opening of the dimensional portal that night on the tower had released some particularly nasty creatures into this dimension. In the first days after that final battle, there hadn't been much noticeable activity. Giles had hoped that most of them had disappeared back to their own dimensions when Buffy jumped. And undoubtedly many had. Others had most likely been killed by the effects of the dimensional leap, or by an inability to sustain life in this dimension, or by some nasty already residing on the Hellmouth. And some had perhaps gone into seclusion while trying to come to an understanding of what had happened to them, and where they now were.

But in recent days they seemed to be coming out of the woodwork, so to speak. The reported sightings he had received the last two days of a dragon in flight had been particularly unsettling.

In addition, Glory's unstable and powerful presence had served to reduce what Giles had come to see as a `normal' level of demon activity on the Hellmouth. Now, with rumors of her demise circulating, combined with the first whispers of the possible dea— absence of the Slayer, demonic activity had undergone a decided and very unwelcome surge in the last week or so.

Giles had decisions to make.

And he wanted to discuss some of them with Spike.

It was a pretty depressing indicator of the current sorry state of affairs, when a trained Watcher of his experience was convinced his most likely source of help was one William the Bloody, former Scourge of Europe and Slayer of Slayers.