*****

Part 1

"Bloody," the headstone went flying through the night air to smash into the side of the crypt, the door of which had been torn from its hinges in a fit of rage. "Stupid," the hands that were clasped together in prayer were shattered with a roundhouse kick, the head of the weeping angel soon followed suit as a fist was smashed into the marble.  "BITCH!"

Spike dropped to his knees amongst the debris of annihilated headstones and statues that had graced the graves and offered their protection.  Unfortunately, this time they'd failed, crumbling and shattering under the wrath of a vampire scorned.

The idea had been so simple. Show the Slayer what he was willing to do for her, stake his sire, his dark goddess, and Buffy would fall into his arms, shower him with kisses and declare her undying love.  He hated ideas. He hated plans that didn't work.  He hated the fact that the Slayer was denying what was happening between them.

"Bloody hell," he swore softly, clenching his fists tighter, making the bleeding knuckles throb.  What was holding her back?  Was she still pining after her lapdog Riley?  Or maybe, his jaw clenched in frustration, she was still yearning for Angel. Snarling at the very thought of either of the two,
Spike pushed himself off the ground, staggering slightly as he turned his back on his crypt, the interior of which had been thoroughly trashed, first
by Harmony in the name of the woman scorned and secondly by himself, just to finish the job.

He walked blindly, resisting the pull of the Slayer's home, and found himself retracing the evening events by going back to the new and improved Bronze.  The club had been locked up for the night some hours back but the skylight in the roof gave him easy access, letting him drop silently down onto the stage and from there he walked onto the dance floor.

The Bronze was unnervingly silent and still.  Empty. With every step he took the sound echoed about the huge vacant space.  The whole club had been cleaned, cleared of the debris of the night, it was spotless and everything had its place, neat and tidy. Turning slowly in a circle, Spike took in the club's shiny new façade.  No, it was still the same old club, had been host to numerous murders and would continue to be the venue for many murders to come. But it was shiny and new, its history could be forgotten.

A few hours back he'd been dancing here, held Dru in his arms and it hadn't been enough.  His eyes rose to the balcony, where the two humans had died and his eyes drifted shut.  The taste of warm, adrenaline-tainted blood flooded his mouth.  The girl may have been dead when he drained her, but the blood.it was alive, hot and decadent, so very intoxicating.  But even that hadn't been enough. He shook his head, none of it had been enough.

Disgruntled and disgusted with his own melancholy thoughts, Spike turned abruptly and walked away from the dance floor to the bar, quickly grabbing the first couple of bottles he came in contact with.  The first, a bottle of not so good whiskey, was shoved into the inside pocket of his duster while the other bottle of Tequila was put to good use.  As he kicked open the main door, triggering the security alarm, the lid was sent flying and he took a massive swig of the alcohol.

Spike could have easily closed his eyes and spun in a circle and he would have still ended up in the same place.  He tossed the empty bottle away as he found his way to an all too familiar haunt and he wondered why he was here, under a tree in a suburban street, watching a house cloaked in darkness or, more precisely, watching the Slayer's bedroom window.  With an exasperated sigh, he sunk down against the trunk, lighting up a cigarette and pulling out the bottle of whiskey, his eyes fixed on the window.  He was waiting, watching, scanning for any sign of movement, a restless Slayer, tormented by the emotions she was denying.  But there was nothing. As the bottle of whiskey slowly disappeared and the packet of
cigarettes were smoked, the house remained dark, silent and still.

Tossing aside the empty bottle, he clambered to his feet, a final glance at the window proved fruitless, there was no light or movement.  Perhaps that's why it hurt so much, increased the intensity of the insanity.  She slept, he didn't.  She was dreaming, she would wake and the dream would end. He was walking in a waking nightmare with no respite.  He had to force himself to walk away, one foot in front of the other, hands balled into fists and buried deep in the pockets of his duster.

No respite, no redemption.  He'd tried, god how he had tried.  Had she been so blind that she hadn't seen the number of times he'd helped her?  Fought on her side, at her side?  Hell, he'd even saved her.  Did she see that?  No, and why not.because she was stupid bloody bitch.  Blinded by her past, his past, their past.by history in general.

"What the hell does she want?" he spat, his fists balling tighter, he could feel the dull pain of nails piercing skin, but it was nothing and barely
registered.  Probably because he was half way drunk, it didn't help though.  What would help was a cigarette. Of course he didn't have any and why? Because of the Slayer, he'd smoked them all under that bloody tree while she'd been curled up sleeping like some friggin' innocent piece of flesh.  But she wasn't innocent, far from it.  Not that she'd ever admit it, Spike knew that, just like she wouldn't admit her feelings for him.

He wanted a cigarette and he wanted to kill something, anything, preferably blonde.  The gold sporty BMW parked under the street light gave him the perfect opportunity.  There, lying casually on the passenger seat, was a packet of cigarettes and the car was gold, close enough to blonde for the vampire.  One solid punch smashed in the side window, the car alarm burst into life and Spike smirked, his hand wrapping about the cigarettes.  Car alarms, like general cries of 'help' or 'rape', never attracted attention in Sunnydale, especially in the small hours of the morning.  So the car screamed with its lights flashing as Spike pummeled the vehicle.  Time and time again he'd slam his fists into the solid windows, the flesh on his knuckles splitting under the impact, and he'd close his eyes, pretending that the scream of the alarm was that of a blonde who'd rejected him.  As the metal gave way under his boots, he could almost hear the bones breaking.  The car was wrecked, but the girl was still in one piece, sleeping soundly in a house that was exactly seven and a half minutes brisk walk away.  Turning from the unrecognizable BMW, Spike lit one of the purloined cigarettes. Taking a semi-satisfied drag he started to walk away, ignoring the throb in his torn and bloodied fingers and the pull of the house behind him.

Didn't mean he escaped from the pull of the Slayer.

Within moments he was on the university campus, walking towards the room she'd spent last semester in, sleeping, studying, spending time with friends and undoubtedly fucking the tin soldier.  Grinding his teeth together, he took some satisfaction at the thought that she probably closed her eyes and fantasized about Angel while the boy grunted and grinded away at her.  Angel and Riley, what a pair to pick, as stupid as she was, the silly bitch deserved everything she got.  He stared up at the room she use to share with the Witch, new occupants slept in the beds now and it was meaningless for him to be there. Still he stood and watched, his thoughts drifting back to the two great loves of her life.

"What've they got that I haven't?" he spoke to no one except himself and the waning night.  Shaking his head, he tossed aside the cigarette butt and followed the Slayer's movements around the campus, he knew where she went, who she visited, he was walking in her footsteps even as his mind turned over the question he'd asked.

There was nothing, he couldn't think of one thing.  In fact, the more critical he became of the two, the greater his strength and appeal.  Riley was human, that in itself was an undeniable weakness an appalling flaw, not to mention he was unfaithful, whoring himself out to any female vamp willing to fall to her knees in worship.  And what was there of the great Angel, the love of her life?  Nothing, he'd left her, didn't even say goodbye and rarely looked her up when he came to town.  What a devoted lover the great wanker was.  Riley and Angel, they were both as pathetic as each other, fanny whipped, docile and use to being dragged around by the balls by the blonde.

So why didn't she see that?

Spike shook his head, glancing about the dark campus. Apart from the dim lights scattered about the walkways there was nothing.  Most of the students had stumbled into their dorms hours past, and passed out drunk or exhausted in their beds.  There was no one restless, or pacing, not like he was, his head aching and spinning.  As he turned the corner a familiar building came into view, a solitary muted light was framed by one of the windows.

Lighting up another cigarette, Spike watched for a moment.  The light was dulled by the swathe of materials that hung decoratively over the window, and it wavered as a lone figure wandered back and forth, head bowed, cradled in pain.

"Yeah, serves you right, Witch," spat Spike not at all sympathetic for the suffering redhead who was undoubtedly responsible for revoking his invitation to the Summers home. "That'll teach you to work your magic against me, take what's mine."

Dropping his head down, he laughed.  It was a drunken giggle really, his hand smothered it and suffocated the sob that followed.  What was it with the Slayer? Her feelings for Riley he could easily dismiss - she had simply found some human who reminded her of Angel, so similar that she could close her eyes and pretend he was her demon lover who'd abandoned her.  That just left Angel and when push came to shove, there wasn't a lot of difference between himself and the dark haired broody one.  If anything Spike knew he was more capable of love than the poof, especially when it came to the physical expression of it, after all he wasn't cursed.

Spike's head lifted, golden eyes fixing on the light in the darkness, the demon protesting against the very idea that possessed him.  The one thing that the Witch, solitary and in pain, restlessly pacing in her room could give him.

"A soul."
 

Part 2

Willow threw herself into a chair and curled into a ball. Sometimes being a woman really, really sucked. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked. Menstrual life-force indeed. She'd be happy to donate her share to a good cause. Or even a bad one.

She froze. Buffy wanted Spike out of her life, right? That definitely qualified as a good cause. And here she was with all this pent-up earth energy, no place to put it (Tara having fled to the library at the first sign of PMS), and a psycho vampire way overdue for a firmware update. SuperWicca to the rescue!

Willow leapt -- well, stumbled -- out of the chair, grabbed the closest spellbook, and began flipping the handwritten pages.

"To Attract A Lost Or Stolen Lover". Never again. Never ever ever ever. Not even if Tara ran away with Anya. Ewww. Block that thought.

"To Restore Manhood". Not really the issue. Unfortunately.

"To Encourage Tardy Courses." So very much NOT a problem.

"To Preserve Venison". She slammed the book shut and glared at its battered red cover.

Come to think of it, she didn't recognize the book or the cover. It wasn't the sort she'd have chosen for herself, nothing she'd been lent by Giles or Miss Calendar. It must be one of Tara's, although the handwriting didn't look familiar...

Willow frowned. Tara and she shared everything -- jokes, snacks, sweaters, mummified alligators -- but she'd never seen this spellbook before. She reopened the book to the first page.

Receipts
Elizabeth McClay

This had to be Tara's mother's. She stroked the book's spine. Tara seldom mentioned her mother; rarely before that disastrous family visit, and never since. It made sense that Tara would have a family spellbook, although she'd never mentioned it or shown it to Willow. Tara's mother had been her first teacher. 'I wonder what it's like, having a mother who cares...' she pushed the thought away and bent back to the book, turning its leaves gently. Maybe there was a clue here to the riddle that was Tara.

Her reverie was interrupted by a banging on the door.
 

Part 3

Still holding Tara's family 'recipe' book, Willow jumped up to answer the door.

At such a late time of night, she wasn't sure who it could be.  While Tara was also a night owl, the lovers rarely knocked when entering each other's dorm rooms. Perhaps she was just getting back from the library and had her arms too full of books.  Or it could be the resident assistant, asking her to take it easy on the incense...again.  Willow always found it difficult to practice her craft without making smoke of one kind or another.

Glancing at the incense she had burning on her bedside table, Willow swung the door open, only to find a familiar pair of humorless eyes, which were more bloodshot than blue, regarding her coldly.

"Oh, Spike...I was...um...expecting...anybody but you, actually," she stammered, wishing now that it had been an irate R.A.

"Witch..."Spike drawled, the slight slurring to his speech and the stench of alcohol not lost on the redhead.

"Buffy's not here," she said curtly, ready to slam the door in his slightly slack and very pale face.

"Not here...for The...Slayer," he hiccuped, annoyed by her assumption that he was looking for Slutty, even if she was right, in a round-about way.  "I'm here for you..."

Willow's weary frown grew into a full-fledged scowl. "You're drunk and coming to me...*again*.  Which must mean you want me to do some sort of love spell for you...*again*.  Sorry...I don't do those anymore."

"I am not drunk..." he professed, moving to step into Willow's room, only to find himself barred.  The recoil sent him tripping over his own feet, and he had to latch onto the doorjamb to keep from falling. Under her skeptical gaze, he tried to stand up straight and compose himself.  "... not too drunk anyway," he continued bitterly.  "And I don't want a bloody love spell!  Even if I did, your not the person I'd come to if I actually wanted the damned spell to work now, would I?"

Willow slammed the door in his face.  She wasn't about to be insulted in her own room by a drunken stalker of a vampire.  Before she could even take her hand off the door, he was pounding on it again.  Not saying anything, just pounding and possibly kicking.  Loudly.

Knowing that if she didn't put a stop to it she *would* have a visit by the R.A, Willow threw the door open again in exasperation.

"What?" she demanded, a smile already forming on Spike's face for getting to her so easily.

"Where are your manners, luv.  Aren't you going to invite me in?"

She shook her head, trying to decide whether or not to slam the door in his face yet again and let the R.A. or the room full of hulking football players down the hall handle him instead.  "You know, the last time you and I were alone in my bedroom, things didn't...um...go well..." she reminded him coolly.

"So you should know better than anybody that I can't hurt a bloody little dyed hair on your bloody little over-used head."

"Goodnight, Spike," Willow said with a tone of finality, moving to close the door.

"No, wait...You have to do something for me!" he informed her with an edge of pleading to his voice that sickened him.

Willow quirked a slim brow.  "Have to?"

"Need to."

"Need to?" she repeated sardonically.

"Look, little girl--"

"Name's Willow," she reminded him, shutting the door a little more.

"Look, Red..."

Willow's lips twitched, wanting to force him to say her name properly, but truth be told, she liked the sound of the nickname.  It beat Will and Wills,
anyway.  When the witch didn't interrupt him this time, Spike went on.

"I'm asking you to do something for me."  The words were bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed his resentment.  She was the only one who could give him what he needed and since he was unable to physically force her to do anything, he'd have to appeal to her weak side...play the sympathy card.

Willow sighed.  "I'm listening."

"I can't go on like this, Red.  I'm a demon, right? The Big Bad...?" Willow shrugged halfheartedly, which did nothing to improve Spike's mood.  "I can't go on like this, drinking blood of the bagged or four-legged variety."

"Save your breath, Spike.  I'm not taking your chip out...even if I knew how, I wouldn't."

"I know that!" he growled.

"Good, then we agree.  I'm glad we had this little talk...." she said lightly, once again hoping to close the door, but Spike's pitiful plea stopped her yet again.

"Please, Willow.  I'm begging here.  Put me out of my misery."

She opened the door just a crack, hating her soft nature and knowing full well that he was playing on her sympathies.  But eyeing the vampire up and down, his mussed hair, rumpled clothing, and general pathetic air, Willow was done in.

"The minute you're gone I'm doing an uninvited spell, just so you know," she informed him haughtily as she opened the door wider and stepped back out of the way.

Spike smirked.  It was too easy.  "Figured as much...seems you're getting a fair bit of practice at that one lately.  Besides, I'm not looking for a
roommate.  I'm looking for a favor."

Willow's curiosity was roused.  Besides, his voice was rather loud and she'd already noticed a few sleepy, disgruntled faces starting to peek out of various doors up and down the hall to cast dirty looks their way.

"Okay...come in...Wait!" she cried, suddenly wondering if his drunken state would enable him to hurt her by dulling the pain of the chip.  But it was too late. Spike was already in the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Leaning back against the door, arms crossed across his chest, Spike flashed a feral grin, detecting more than a trace of sudden fear in her voice.

"I love that smell..." he half-snarled, half-groaned, taking a long, deep breath through his nose.

"It's sandalwood, supposed to be relaxing..."

Spike rolled his eyes as he pushed himself away from the door to encroach on the little witch.  "Not that one, you twit," he snarled softly in exasperation. "The other one...the smell of...fear..." his face twisted into a leer so suggestive it was obvious he could detect more than her apprehension in the tiny room.

She shifted nervously from one foot to another, silently cursing Mother Nature for her lousy timing.

"Wonder if I'll miss that?" Spike asked, his face falling as he refocused on his original reason for coming to see the girl.

"Um, miss it?" She had a strong suspicion she'd already missed something...something important.

"When you put me out of my misery..." he said solemnly, fixing the now flabbergasted petite redhead with a determined gleam to his eyes.

"I can't...I won't stake you, Spike," she said as firmly as she could, considering he'd completely taken her by surprise.

"I don't want you to stake me, Willow," he informed her coolly, taking a seat on the only bed in the room, instantly noticing how soft it was.

"Well, what *do* you want then, Spike?" Willow asked as she perched herself, on the edge of her desk, far from the slightly besotted vampire.

"I want you to do for me what you did for Angelus," he told her casually as he began bouncing up and down a little on her the bed.  It was so much more comfortable than the musty old mattress he had back at his crypt...He wondered what brand it was...After all, he couldn't let the Slayer sleep on the same mattress that Harmony had drooled all over.

Willow blanched as she watched the vampire 'testing' her mattress, the bed frame squeaking slightly under his weight.  Tara's book that she'd still been holding slipped from her fingers to fall to the floor with a heavy thud.

"I...I don't know what you are talking about, Spike," Willow sputtered.  "I didn't do anything for Angelus."

Spike stopped his exploration of the firmness of the bed.  It was time to get down to business.  Still, he couldn't stop his hands from gripping the edge of the mattress tightly off and on, testing its strength as he spoke.  "Red, yes you did--"

"I don't care what he told you! I didn't do anything for him," she said in a flustered rush, leaning down to pick up the fallen book in an effort to hid her discomfort with the discussion.

Spike blinked at her, his still somewhat fuzzy mind not quite comprehending the basis for her adamant protests.  "We both know you did something for Angelus, and I want you to do the same for me..."

"What?  No...I won't...I can't...I mean, there's Tara now--"

"What's the big bloody deal, Pet?" Spike demanded, getting to his feet.  "I thought you'd be jumping at the chance to burden me with a soul...."

"And I don't know what he told you," Willow continued energetically, barely listening to the blond vamp before her, "but Angelus lied...he..." Finally, the word 'soul' got through her panic to the more logical part of her brain.

Oh...Damn....*that* thing I did for Angelus.

She stopped her nervous pacing directly in front of Spike, an incredulous look on her face as it finally sunk in what he was truly asking her to do.  "Y-you want me to give you your soul?"

"What else could you possibly give me?" he growled impatiently, not understanding what the big deal was.

Luckily, Willow was saved from having to answer that particular question by the sound of her door knob twisting repeatedly as someone tried unsuccessfully to open her locked door.  Tara no doubt, Willow realized as a soft rapping on the door quickly followed.

"You be quiet!" she hissed to the vampire, before going to the door.  She opened it only partway, spying out the few-inch gap to find that it was, indeed, Tara outside her door.  She didn't open the door any wider, not wanting Tara to see Spike.

"Hi, Tara," Willow said as nonchalantly as she could manage at the moment, which wasn't very.

"Um, Willow, why'd you lock your door?"

"Well, I, er, have a bad headache, and well...cramps... and I figured you weren't coming back tonight...coz of, well, you know...." she said with a
tiny embarrassed shrug.

"I forgot one of my books...." the timid blonde began with a warm, knowing smile.  Then, spotting her red-covered book in Willow's hands, Tara
uncharacteristically snatched it away through the small door opening and clutched it to her bosom. "Y-you didn't r-read it, did you?"

Spike smiled from his spot on the springy bed, having resumed his earlier seat to watch what was going on between the two via the dresser mirror on the side wall.  He found a perverse pleasure at the thought that his impromptu visit might stir up some trouble between the two girls.

Serves her right for trying to keep me from The Slayer.  Hell...throw in a talking doll, and this would be better than 'Passions'.

"I barely glanced through it, saw something about venison, how to attract a lost lover..." Willow replied, hurt by the accusatory tone to Tara's voice.

"You shouldn't have l-looked...it's personal...it was...my m-mothers," Tara snapped back as best she could through her stutter.

Spike sat up even straighter, the fog of the whisky and tequila continuing to lift as he watched the interaction between the two lovers.  Did he detect a hint of trouble in bisexual Wiccan paradise?  Even he knew that Tara only stuttered when she was nervous or upset in some way.

"I'm sorry, Tara..." Willow said genuinely, simultaneously casting a glance over her shoulder to see what Spike was up to.  Before Willow could ask if
they could talk about it over breakfast, Tara was turning away, pulling the door shut behind her--right in Willow's face.  Willow was stunned, but Spike's teasing voice brought her back to reality.

"You lied. "

"Tara wouldn't understand..." she said softly, wondering what had just happened.

"Naughty girl...lying to your friends like that.  I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes."  Not getting a response, Spike moved on.  Time was growing short.  "So, when can I count on getting that soul?  Don't suppose we could do it now?"

"What?" Willow asked absentmindedly, her eyes still focused on the door that Tara had closed behind her...actually, it sounded more like a *slam* than a close...Tara didn't normally slam things.

"My soul, Red.  When can I expect delivery?"

Willow shook her head as she finally turned her attention back to the vampire, eyeing him up and down. "You're drunk, Spike.  You don't want a
soul...Angelus certainly didn't want one..."

"I'm not that drunk.  We vamp-types sober up quickly, especially when surrounded by such interesting goings on," he added with a sly wink.  "So, when?"

Willow sighed.  She didn't understand what was happening, either with Spike or with Tara.  "Answer two questions, Spike."

Spike grimaced.  "Two?  What is this, some sort of university entrance exam?  I want a soul, you stupid cow, not a sheepskin with my name on it!"

"Two questions, Spike," she repeated, ignoring his insults.

Spike sighed.  "Don't suppose they're 'True or False', are they?"

"Nope.  Not multiple choice either."

Spike paused for only a moment.  The soul was his only chance, and she was the only one who could do it. Resigned, Spike replied, "Fire away."

"Why do you suddenly want a soul and why should I give it to you?"
 

Part 4

"Two questions, Spike," she repeated, ignoring his insults.

Spike sighed.  "Don't suppose they're 'True or False,' are they?"

"Nope.  Not multiple choice, either."

Spike paused for only a moment.  The soul was his only chance, and she was the only one who could do it. Resigned, Spike replied, "Fire away."

"Why do you want a soul and why should I give it to you?"

Spike stared at the girl in front of him, sudden panic burning away the last of the alcoholic haze he'd been in earlier.  Bloody Hell.  He couldn't tell her truth because she'd never do it.  And he couldn't lie too outrageously because she'd never believe him and then she really wouldn't do the spell.   He fought the urge to scream.  Why was this so bloody difficult?  All he wanted was a goddamned soul!  The way she was carrying on you'd think he was asking for hers.

With a weary sigh, Spike slumped even further into the so soft bed and turned to staring longingly at the plump pillows stacked against the headboard.  They looked as soft as the bed felt.  He wondered idly if the little witch would let him lay down.  Just for a little while, mind you.  It'd been such a long time since he'd had a decent spot of sleep.  What could he possibly tell her . . . truth, untruth?  What could he possibly say to make her do this?  All he really wanted was for the pain to go away.

"What did you say?"

Spike looked up from his wistful contemplation of the pillows to find Willow staring at him with a puzzled frown on her face.  Turning his own scowl on her, he growled out, "Wot?  I didn't say anything."  Did he? He couldn't remember.

"You said," Willow stated, "that you wanted the pain to go away."

Spike sharpened his gaze.  Was that pity he saw in her face?  Sympathy?  Oh yeah, this was the way to go. Appeal to her humanity and her compassion.  He pointedly didn't think about the fact that if he went through with this, he too would be suffering from the throes of humanity and compassion.

Hiding a sly smile, Spike put on his most pitiful, and hopefully appealing, expression.  "Yeah, Witch, I said pain.  You fools have no idea what it's like for me." Thumping himself in the chest, he said, "I'm a bloody demon.  Don't you sods get that?  I like the smell of fear.  I like the sound of screaming. I enjoy the hunt, the chase . . . the kill."

Willow stared at Spike in shock and swallowed hard, afraid to move and draw attention to herself.  Spike's eyes had shifted when he said the word kill.  The bloodshot blue was now liberally streaked with amber. She knew intellectually that he couldn't hurt her, but her instincts and her body were telling her differently.   The hairs on the back of her arms and neck where standing on end and she could feel the adrenaline flood her system.  Survival instincts that had survived hundreds of thousands of years couldn't be all wrong.

But Spike was now oblivious to his silent audience as he got up to pace the room, his voice growing louder and angrier with every word as he gave vent to everything he'd been keeping bottled up for the last couple of months.

"I'm a bloody joke to you twits.  Hell, I'm a bigger joke than Xander.   How much more pathetic can you get than evil reduced to living off the sufferance of a bloody group of do-gooders?  And to top it all off, I bloody-well fell in l- . . ."

Abruptly Spike stopped and shook himself, a low growl of frustration making its way past clenched teeth, and then the full weight of his attention was turned on Willow, burning eyes looking at her with such an expression of hate and contempt that she had to fight for breath.

"You want to know why I want a soul, Witch?  I'll tell you why?  Because I have to force myself to drink from a blood bag.  Because I have to force myself not to throw up the animal blood.  Because this chip sends pain through my head when I even think about killing humans . . . and I think about killing and maiming and destroying humans every fuckin' second of every fuckin' day.  You know why?  Because I'm . . . A . . . Demon," he yelled.

"Wh-," Willow stopped when her voice squeaked.  Never taking her eyes off the man - demon - standing tensely in front of her, she took a deep breath and tried again.  "Why should I help you?" she asked, not even caring if her voice came out in a whisper.

Spike closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of the woman across from him, wishing he could block out the tantalizing smell of blood and fear as easily.  So close.  He could reach out and practically touch her. Snap her neck.  How he'd dearly love to bath in her blood and then just sleep.  Sleep for days on that bed of hers, cradled in softness and the scent of her spilled blood.  But a warning twinge of pain behind his eyes quickly shifted his thoughts away from those images.

Bringing his hands up, Spike rubbed at his face, his knuckles digging deeply into eyes.  It was a gesture of despair, of someone who was at the end of their rope with no hope that anyone was there to pull them up.  In that one move, Willow learned just how desperate Spike really was.  This was no game or whim.  He was deadly serious.  He really wanted her to curse him with his soul.

Spike chuckled, then, the sound harsh and lacking any attempt at merriment.  Dropping his hands heavily back down to his sides, he said, "Why will you help me? Because that, Witch, is what you do.  You help.  You sympathize.  You feel.  You cry," he spat back at her.  "With a soul, I wouldn't care about the chip." He snorted in contempt.  "I'll probably think it's a jolly good thing.  I won't care that I drink animal blood.  I won't care that I can't kill.  I just won't care."

With that, he turned around and went back to the bed, only this time he didn't bother to sit but climbed across the expanse of her comforter to lay his head down across the pillow.  Damn.  He'd been right.  It was as soft as he'd imagined.  He was definitely going to have to get one of these for Buffy.  For him and Buffy.  Because the Slayer would love him.  With a soul, she'd have to love him.

Willow watched in concern as Spike sprawled his lanky frame across her bed.  This whole conversation was past the point of strange, even for the Hellmouth.

"Spike?"

The vampire didn't move from his position.

"Spike?" She tried again, a little louder this time.

One blue eye cracked open to stare balefully at her.

"Have you thought about what happened to Angel when he was cursed?  He basically went insane for 70 years because he couldn't handle the guilt of everything he'd done as a vampire.  What makes you think you'll be able to handle this?"

That one eye regarded her for a moment longer and then blinked slowly.  "I thought you said I only had to answer two questions?"

"Think of it as a bonus question," she said.  "Extra Credit."

"First, I'm not my Angel.  A soul isn't going to make any damned difference to me."  At least he hoped it wouldn't.  But he wasn't a pansy-ass like Angel.  He could handle this.  Please let him be able to handle this.

"Besides, Red, a soul isn't going to change anything. Manson had a soul. Hilter had a soul.  All the good human killers had souls.  Never slowed them down any. Won't slow me down either.  I was William the Bloody then, I can be William the Bloody now.  So just give me the bloody soul and be done with it."

Willow watched him close his eyes again. Every instinct she had was saying he was lying.  But why? According to the scant information that the Watcher histories had on Spike, or William the Bloody, he hadn't been a decent human being.  The records were fragmented at best but they'd all agreed that he'd had a horrible reputation with hints at something darker that was never really touched upon, only that it had to do with a woman named Cecily Adams.  So why did she feel like he wasn't telling her the truth?  Why did she feel that this was so wrong?

"Spi-,"she started to ask only to stop as she realized he was asleep.  Spike was asleep on her bed.  Just great.

"I should never have let him into the room," she sighed.  "That's going to be my number one rule from now on," she said to the sleeping vampire.  "No vampires are invited into my room."  A fleeting vision of Angelus tugged at her before she slammed the walls back down on that particular memory.  "Ever."

But that didn't change her predicament now, did it. Running her fingers up through her hair, she resisted the urge to sigh again.  She was beginning to sound like a leaking tire.  What was she supposed to do now?  He'd been telling her the truth earlier, she was fairly sure of that.  There'd been too much pain in his voice to have been faked, even for a great manipulator like Spike.  But he'd been lying at the end, of that she was certain.  Damn.  What was she going to do?

Walking over to the bed, she crouched beside it, putting her face down on a level with his.  It was disconcerting to watch him sleep.  He didn't twitch or move and the no breathing thing was extremely weird. And yet . . . she felt a tug at her heart as she studied him.  He was so lost and abandoned.  She'd never been able to resist stray puppies and kittens as a child no matter how many times her parents had told her no.  Did it really matter that this particular puppy was more wolf than mutt?

"So, do I give you a soul, Spike?  I'll have to tell the others, you know.  You didn't say it was a secret or anything."

A re-souling would solve all kinds of problems for both Buffy and her other friends and it might even solve some of Spike's problems.  Maybe.

She reached up and very carefully brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow.  It wouldn't solve all his problems through.  "She still won't love you, Spike," Willow whispered.

There was one problem though, that she could help with.  Rising up to her feet, she grabbed the cordless phone and let herself out into the hallway.  Glancing up and down she made sure that no one was wandering through the dorm.  Dialing a number she'd memorized a long time ago, she waiting for the other end to pick up.

"Hello?" a deep voice answered.  A voice, Willow realized that could still send a shiver a fear down her spine, especially tonight when memories best left buried had been stirred up.

"Angel, it's me, Willow."

"Is Buffy . . .?"

Willow quickly cut him off before Angel could finish his panicked sentence.

"Buffy's fine, Angel.  Everyone here is fine.  I'm calling about . . . well, it's  . . . about Spike."

There was a small pause before Angel continued.  "So Buffy finally staked him?"

Unaccountably, Willow felt a surge of anger at Angel's callous disregard for his grandchilde's existence.

Her voice gone cold, Willow responded, "Spike came to me tonight and asked me to curse him with his soul." Her words were sharp and clipped, clearing showing her displeasure with Angel's cavalier attitude.

Silence greeted her pronouncement and then she caught a faint grunt of surprise.  "Curse him and be done with it."

What was with everyone acting weird tonight?  First Spike, then Tara, now Angel.  Was Angel not getting the implications of this?  She tried again.  "Angel, he's going to need help afterwards."

"I didn't have any help." And suddenly the voice on the other end of the phone laughed and Willow got the impression that she was missing a very important joke.  "A vampire with the soul of a writer, won't that be just poetic justice."  Angel chuckled again.  "He'll kill himself within days."

Willow suddenly remembered that she'd thought Spike was lying at end.  Surely Angel couldn't mean . . . the histories had clearly stated that William had been bad.  Spike couldn't have been . . . later, she told herself.  Piece that together when you have the time, not now.

"Angel, you aren't listening.  If I do this, he's going to need you.  I need you to come to Sunnydale."

"No."

No?  Did he just tell her no?  Spike was his grandchilde.  His blood.  His family.  How dare he?

Eyes narrowed in anger, Willow hissed into the phone, unmindful now if anyone was about and listening.  "No is not acceptable.  You *will* come to Sunnydale. Spike is your blood and he will need you."

"I won't . . ."

"You will, *Angelus.*  You owe me."

Willow could hear the angry pounding of her own heart echoing over the handset pressed tight to her ear, and over that hammering sound, she could hear the crackle and hiss of the telephone line, but she couldn't hear Angel.

"I'll be there in two days," was all he said before the line went dead.
 

Part 5

Two days, Willow pulled the phone away from her ear, it was time enough for Spike to change his mind if the idea of a soul was merely a drunken, depressed, desperate thought. Everyone had those - band-aid solutions. They’d hold the wound together, still the blood flow and maybe, just maybe the wound would heal. Or it would simply fester, the band-aid more of a hindrance than amelioration.

As Willow walked back into her room, her eyes taking in the blond spread eagle across her bed, she couldn’t help but think the soul would be, for Spike, a festering wound. Especially considering the rather callous comments Angel had made. The last thing she wanted was to be either directly or indirectly responsible for the neutered vampire’s death. And that was why she was going to wait until Angel was in town.

No matter what pretty words Spike threw at her, she knew being cursed wasn’t going to be easy for him or anyone else. Time spent with Angel had proven that, careless remarks or odd looks would send the dark haired one into a brooding fit and that was after decades of adjusting to having a conscience, a soul. Any emotion could torture an individual, but the idea of being free of a conscience for so long and then to have it back again…

Willow couldn’t bare the thought of it. Guilt would be Spike’s constant companion, corrupt his mind, blind his common sense and the pain would be incredible. If he wanted to end it all within five minutes of being cursed, there would be nothing she could do to stop him, she simply didn’t have the physical strength to hold him. So she would wait for Angel, who had the strength and the insight into what was to come. Mind you, she couldn’t exactly picture the vampires sitting down together and having an intense philosophical discussion, or being a support group one-on-one…in fact, Angel would probably happily stake the blond. Shaking her head, Willow leant over the sleeping vampire.

“Spike,” Willow didn’t know why she was bothering, it was obvious he was dead to the world. Cautiously, she picked up his arm by the cuff of his duster, shaking it momentarily. There was no response and she let the arm drop back to the bed. “Great, you’re sleeping soundly…spread right across my bed, such a gentleman. You didn’t even take off your boots, Pig!”

Name-calling was a silly but welcomed relief as she struggled with her thoughts, not to mention the boots. It took five minutes of fiddling and cursing his very position on the bed before she managed to pull them off and she jumped a mile as he moved, pulling one of his legs up. Clutching the boot to her chest, she watched him carefully for any further movements. This was insane, the whole thing was insane, anyone and everyone involved was insane and why was she holding her breath? Probably because she didn’t want him to wake up, although that seemed pretty impossible considering what she’d just done, but it was easier to have him sleep, it meant there could be no talk of the curse or her reasons for not doing it straight away.

Reasons she would have to make up, reasons that had to be realistically viable. Willow dropped the boot next to the other on the floor and chewed her bottom lip, she was going to have to call Spike’s bluff. She could do that…couldn’t she? Quietly, she moved about, pulling one of his arms down so she could carefully ease his duster off. There were a number of things she could say, she was giving him time – that, at least was true. She didn’t have the components of the curse, that was a bald face lie, two of everything was packed neatly away in the bottom of her trunk, where
she kept most of her magical supplies, just in case…the last thing she ever wanted was Angelus turning up again, especially after…she wasn’t thinking about that. Other reasons, she was certain there were plenty, she just needed to think of them. Later, once she got some sleep.

Sleep would involve being on her bed, which was covered by the blond. She was a sucker, a bleeding heart, honestly, why hadn’t she woken him up? Because she knew he’d never make it back to his crypt before sunrise. Anyone else would have told him to go away, Xander would have staked him, Giles would have slammed the door in his face and Buffy…well her reaction was pretty much a given and involved any number of her Slayer moves. But not Willow, she took him in, listened to him and now she was letting him sleep on her bed. And that was the problem the curse presented to her.

It was all good and proper for him to say ‘curse me, I can handle it’ and perhaps Buffy or Giles would shrug and say it was a good idea, like Angel had. It was a quick solution to a problem that had been escalating but disregarded for the last few months, they wouldn’t think pass that point, it would be done and everyone could get on with their lives.

But it wasn’t that simple, especially not to Willow. Guilt, it wouldn’t just be his constant companion, but hers as well. It wasn’t a matter of curse and run, she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t wash her hands of the whole thing once it was done because in some twisted way she would be responsible for it. She wasn’t the Initiative, she couldn’t just walk away from something she’d done. Curse him and she’d curse herself.

Willow was going to blame the hormones and lack of sleep, her eyes once more straying to the bed. During all of her maneuvering to strip him of his boots and duster he’d somehow ended up on her side of the bed. Usually it would have irked her, but she was too tired and confused to care. It was a relief to crawl onto the soft mattress, turn her back on him and pull a pillow down. Sleep would make everything better. With a satisfied sigh, she closed her eyes. The mattress shifted beneath her and her eyes flew open as Spike spooned in behind her, his arms wrapping about her tightly.

“Shit,” Willow hissed, without thinking she jammed her elbow back against his ribs with enough force to make her wince. The only result was a half-hearted growl and the tightening of his hold. “Oh brilliant…” she berated herself between clenched teeth. This was the final straw. “What does Buffy do to lead him on? Beat him up, just brilliant. Spike?”

There was no answer from the slumbering blond and Willow’s hand moved down to cover his on her stomach. The pressure of his hand and body had one advantage, it was easing the pain of her cramps. Still, her body was making demands and she eventually fell asleep.

Spike was warm and comfortable, surrounded by softness and the heady aroma of blood spiced with a mixture of oils and incense. The source of the warmth was cradled against his chest, his arms firmly wrapped about the heavenly body and he sighed. If this was a dream he was quite content to keep his eyes closed and stay asleep. Hot breath swept across his neck and cheek, slow and languid, like the beat of the heart enclosed in the chest that was pressed against his and his fingers flexed slightly, tangled in fine soft hair. His dreams weren’t usually so vivid and he was going to take full advantage of it, committing every detail, every smell, every touch to memory.

Of course the best way to do that was the tactile mapping of the warm body the dream had supplied and his hands began to wander. One traced the line of her back, deftly moving over the cotton and somewhere in his mind he wondered why she wasn’t naked. The thought disappeared with the cotton as his fingers came in contact with hot flesh, smooth and soft, curving upwards and he hit cotton again. He smothered a frustrated growl, rubbing his cheek against the fine hair, his fingers left the tangle of locks to explore her neck. Fingers twisted and turned, finding the pulse point and tracing the delicate lines of her face. His thumb gently ran over the plump and flexible lips and he lowered his head, his own lips working their way down. As his mouth hovered over hers, his hand left her face, the back of his fingers trailing down her arm and dropping down to her back. His fleeting touches turned to lingering caresses.

Lips met as his hands deftly traced the lines of her back. The lips were sweet and soft, parted in sleep so the mouth was easily assessable. His tongue traced and tasted those lips before delving into the warm cavern of her mouth, there was no familiarity except for the warmth and he hesitated. He was waiting for that inevitable moment where the dream would end, or it would twist and turn with some smartass comment and a stake driven into his chest…or other places. But it didn’t and the feel of warm hands on his body spurred him on. The legs were longer, he could tell that, but dreams were often abstract. As their legs entwined he dismissed it and lost himself in the taste of her responsive mouth. Their tongues were intertwining as much as their legs and Spike, with his hands on her hips, pulled her hard against him, easily forcing one of his thighs between hers, spreading her open.

There it was again, that glorious aroma of blood, and he wondered if he’d bitten her. His eyes fluttered open to a flash of crimson and pale skin framed by gold. Crimson flooded the darkness as his eyes closed again and mixed with the scent of blood, so close and so vivid he was sure he could taste it. Madness, pure and simple, he tore his mouth away and trailed frantic kisses down to the throat, searching out the pulse points, desperate to find the bite mark he could have sworn he’d made. There was nothing, just a long healed scar and he growled in disappointment. The
growl mutated into a soft moan as nails scraped over the nape of his neck, a burning hot palm pressing down while the fingernails continued up to knead his scalp. Blunt teeth scraped against her neck as her other hand found its way under his t-shirt, fingers teasing.

It was glorious and the taste of blood was forgotten as his tongue zigzagged along her warm neck, he nipped her chin before once more claiming her mouth. A mouth that was warm and willing, tasting of power. Different to the usual physical strength, this was an old earthen power of words and magic. Magic. The Slayer was of the same blood as him, born to hunt and kill, this taste was different but no less intoxicating. Dear sweet murder, the sounds she was making, the whimpers of someone wanton, they were bloody well driving him insane.

And to all that was unholy, he wanted more. His hands dropped down to grasp the cotton-covered ass and he turned onto his back, taking her with him. Pulling his mouth away and breaking the kiss, he leant back against the soft pillows, and opened his eyes.

Spike frowned, the dream had just gone askew. “Red?”

Half sleepy eyes opened and blinked three times. The pupil first enlarged, eclipsing the color of her iris then reacting to the light in the room and shock, shrank away and she sat up, grinding down on his thigh. It was something he really wished she wouldn’t do.

“Spike?”

The startled question of his name was accompanied by a frantic backwards shuffle and she fell off the end of the bed. For a brief moment she disappeared from view, only to spring to her feet, a look of sheer shock gracing her usually calm features.

“What do you think you were doing?” she hissed at him, her hand automatically flying to her neck to check for bite marks. Spike didn’t notice, didn’t pay any heed to her frantic movements, he was too busy piecing together the remnants of the night to figure out why he was in his current position. Sitting up, he frowned at the girl who was staring with disgust at her open hands. “Oh my god, you drooled on me!”

“Well, love, you are deliciously scented at the moment,” he rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the haze of confusion, it didn’t work. Dropping his hand down to his chest, he smirked at the wet spot. “And needless to say you returned the favor.”

“I don’t drool…well, okay, I’m human, I’m meant too!”

It all came back with a blinding flash, he couldn’t see the flustered redhead at the end of the bed, could barely hear her. He was too lost in his own thoughts, trying to figure out if he felt any different – he didn’t. In fact, he felt rejuvenated, that was more than likely due to a good sleep ,and he certainly didn’t feel any guilt over the fact that he’d just swapped some major spit with the Witch. No, there was no guilt, no sense of degradation, no self-loathing over his actions, if anything there was an added point to his scorecard. Somehow, he didn’t think that was how having a soul was meant to be.

“Did you do it?” Spike asked, hoping that his own conclusion was wrong and that she had indeed cursed him. If this was what having a soul was like, then it definitely confirmed what he’d always suspected…Angel was a huge wuss.

“No,” Willow swallowed back a small lump of fear, the questions she’d been so happy to let slumber with the vampire earlier on were clearly visible in the angry blue eyes that now confronted her.

“Why the hell not?” he was off the bed in a flash, grabbing her by the arms and hauling her in close. “I answered your stupid bloody questions, extra credit, remember? Why the fuck haven’t you kept your end of the bargain and cursed me?”

The chip let off a small warning spark and he dropped his hold, wincing visibly as his palm pressed against his forehead and Willow held her head high, rearranging her pajamas.

“We never had an agreement or even an understanding, Spike,” she stated, taking a step back, willing her heart to stop racing.

“You’re not going to do it?” he hated the pitiful sound of his voice, another minute of this and he was going to stake himself.

“I didn’t say that.” The answer wasn’t satisfactory, if anything it was as annoying as hell for the vampire. His eyes sparked with amber as he stepped forward, grabbing her again, fighting the blinding pain in his head.

“What is this? Suddenly getting your jollies from torturing?” he spat. “You lead a bloke on and then bitch slap him down? You think this is some kind of joke? You want to see torture, love…”

“Don’t threaten me, Spike. You aren’t in the position to, I hold all the cards here…so back off,” it would have sounded better if her voice hadn’t been wavering slightly or her heart pounding.

“Aren’t you the little change coat today?” Spike snarled. Nonetheless, he released her and stepped back, waiting to hear whatever she had to say.

“I never said I wouldn’t curse you…I will, but not today,” she held up her hand to silence whatever protests he was about to make. “Tomorrow night, when you’ve had time to think about it….”

“I don’t need time to think. I just want it done,” Spike stated, it was an argument she was prepared for.

“It’s not a simple spell and I don’t have all the ingredients here at the moment,” lie number one was activated and she sat down on the end of the bed. “Take the time, Spike, really think about it.”

“I don’t need time to think,” he sat down with her, cradling his aching head in his hands, suddenly feeling weary again. “That’s all I’ve done, over and over again. The thoughts wrap themselves about me until there’s nothing else. Until my head hurts and the idea of getting a tan appeals…” he lifted his head and gave her his best puppy dog eyes, it was working, he could practically see her resolve melting away. “I need it to stop…I need you to make it stop…do it now, today.”

“No, I can’t…I told you I need things,” it was official, she was a sucker, she knew it and the world knew it. Time to try a slightly different tack. “You
may not need time, but I do,” Willow insisted under the scrutiny of eyes that were flashing amber. “You can stay here today, until the sun goes down and then you go. I’ll bring everything we need to your crypt tomorrow night…”

“Bugger that crap,” Spike spat, standing up to pace. “I’m not leaving here until you give me what I want.”

“You won’t get what you…oh…oh, oh god,” she hissed, doubling over on the bed, the cramps that had been so vicious the night before returning with a vengeance. Suddenly, Spike was squatting in front of her, his face the perfect mask of concern.

“Still suffering from the Curse, love?” he smirked, he couldn’t help it.

“The Curse?” spat Willow, she wasn’t good with pain, especially when it involved blood and the fact that Spike was a vampire really wasn’t helping her feel any better. “Good god, could you possibly get any more Victorian?”

“All right,” Spike placed an arm either side of her legs and the smirk fell away. “Let me do a favor for the one you’re about to do me. I’ll feed, you’ll feel better…”

It was the furthest thing from being Victorian that either individual could think of and Spike watched her carefully. He was starving, it was a blood source, warm and human. He knew he had no chance at all, but the look on her face was priceless, it was a combination of shock, horror and mild curiosity. Before Willow could slap his face or at least push him away, a soft rapping at her door drew their attention.

“Willow?”

“Tara,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the door.

Spike wasn’t quite sure what happened. One minute he was staring at the door waiting for the huge drama to play out in front of him, the next he was being shoved into Willow’s closet, the green eyes staring him down, full of threat.

“You make one sound and I’ll levitate every single wooden coat hanger I have…you can be sure that one will find your heart,” then the door was slammed shut and he was keeping her clothes company. And hell, he was surrounded by wooden coat hangers. Trust a Witch to be all environmentally friendly and only use wood, what was wrong with plastic, and why on earth did she insist in hanging the most ridiculous hodgepodge of colors from them all? Outside the witches were babbling, speaking in hushed and reverent tones, probably professing their undying love for each other and adding in any number of apologies for their behavior. Oh hang on, no, Willow was trying to get them both out of the room.
 
“Well, I need to pick up some things from the Magic Box.”

Silently, Spike cheered at the comment, maybe the witch had changed her mind, she’d had to.

“And we could get some coffee…”

She was going to get coffee? Leave him alone in her room, tormented and starving with the lingering scent of her blood, while she went and indulged in coffee? Bugger bonding with the girlfriend bit, she had to curse him and maybe feed him, she didn’t have time for coffee.

“Don’t you want to shower and maybe, you know, get dressed first?”

Tara was the voice of reason and Spike rolled his eyes, wishing the blonde would just disappear so she didn’t distract Willow from the task at hand. He didn’t give a damn if Red wanted to run around the streets naked, as long as she got what she needed and did the deed. The blonde was an unnecessary distraction, annoying and exasperating. He’d like nothing better than to step out and rip the little twit’s head off. His head exploded in pain and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Stumbling, he hit the wall, the door of the room closing at the same time.

Spike waited for the inevitable coat hangers to start flying, but they didn’t move and for once he was thankful for small mercies. They’d left, or so he thought until he reached for the doorknob and he heard the unmistakable sound of a drawer being opened. One had left, one remained, he was pretty certain which one was lingering, since he hadn’t been released from the closet. Opening the door slightly, he watched as Tara methodically worked through the bedside table, obviously searching for something he wasn’t privy to. Whatever she was looking for she didn’t find and she
abandoned the drawer, turning her attention to the thoroughly crumpled bed.

“Maid service,” muttered Spike, watching as with a few practiced moves she set the bed straight, the cover pulling up to reveal his old boots. “Oh fuck.”

He spoke louder than he meant to and, as Tara, spun he pushed the door shut. For a moment there was nothing and he was pretty sure that he’d gone unnoticed. At least until the doorknob started to twist.

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