Sang et Ivoire

By Holly

Chapter Twelve

She was certain her feet were made of sandstone with every step she took. Night blazed and enveloped with protective sheathing, but it wasn't enough. Weighty breaths emanated from her heaving chest, each trembling with a lack of conviction. The continuous dance of one step forward, two steps back was beginning to ebb at her patience and challenge her resolve, but she couldn't take the silence any longer. A day had passed since Dawn announced that Spike was back in town, but it felt like an eternity. So much had happened.

And yet she still did not hold any of her desired answers.

Meaningless words sprang to mind, discarded after momentary analysis. She was going to see him. She knew it. There was no going back. That much alone was hard enough to accept. But then there would be words. Looks. Confessions and likely a tearful apology. From who? Who was more deserving? Who had to apologize to whom?

Buffy fought to hold onto the hurt that had followed her that first year, but there was nothing left to grasp. What had he done that she hadn't initiated? His existence alone had been fault enough at her feet. Existence, followed by that absurd humanity. Demons weren't supposed to exhibit compassion, especially more than humans did. But he had. He had defied everything she knew about vampires, and she resented him for it.

Never more than she resented herself.

However, that was beside the material point. After all, Spike was evil and soulless. Under all those good intentions, the will to be hers and to do the right thing, a killer resided. Trapped. Prodded. And with the right amount of influence, he would break through the barrier that had persuaded him to change by trapping his true nature. Chip be damned. It was technology, and technology failed them time and again. Sooner or later, the chip would fail them, too. And then where would they be?

She hated him for loving her without repression. Hated him for being good. Hated him for changing her world. Hated him for making her what she was. Hated her for making her feel. If she could feel that way about a monster, what did it make her? A blinding prejudice separated myth from actuality. Spike had been one of them once, sure, but even then he was different. Her match. Her equal.

He came to her even before the chip. They had killed Angelus together. They had saved the world. All these things he was supposed to be incapable of. Love. Faith. Trust. Tenderness. Comfort.

There was danger there, too. She had seen it. The demon provoked after so many times wronged. After being beat and kicked and scorned. After being denied what it already knew. No justification in his actions. No one could excuse what he did to her, anymore than she could excuse what she did to him.

It felt good, beating him up for loving her. For making her love him back. Convincing. He was the incarnation of her suffering. Of her stubborn realization of such blatant wrongness. And after a while, he couldn't take it. The caged animal begged for reprise. She had used him, and it killed her because she knew she could never willfully give him what he wanted.

This all emerged after time, of course. After a while, Buffy could continue without thinking about it. Without reflecting the adolescence of her mistakes. She had tried hatred and failed. Resentment. Her body ached at night with remembrance of what almost concurred. It hurt. It hurt that she could push someone who loved her with such leisure unbiased to go to such extremes. For a long while, she thought it was a reflection of his demon. Of what he was and would always be. But not so. It was more that he had changed for her, and loving her without any sense of retribution had forced his darker side to emerge. And the minute he realized it, what he had nearly done, he left and never came back.

Until now.

It hurt. They hurt. They hurt each other. That's the way it was.

She hadn't consciously admitted that she loved him yet. It had taken years simply to forgive. Years and a shoulder to cry on. Willow was always there. Always understanding. Always ready to say it was all right to cry. All right to miss him. All right to forgive.

A day so long ago etched tightly in her memory. Standing in the Magic Box. It was shortly after Willow returned, and they were counting inventory. Then, innocently, her friend had glanced over, noted with confusion the coat hanging over her shoulders, and asked, "Hey... isn't that Spike's?"

That was all it took. Buffy had abruptly dropped whatever she was holding and dissolved into tears. The wealth of confusion welling inside was enough to electrify. Desperately, she was coaxed into Willow's similarly misplaced embrace, spilling the awful truth of her resentment and disorder onto her healing friend's compliant shoulders.

"Do you love him?" she had asked.

"No," Buffy had replied. "No. How can I? After what he did? How can I love something like that? How can I love a demon, Will? How can I love something that's evil? How can I love something that hurt me?"

The look on Willow's face had gone distant, vague but understanding. After a long minute, she shrugged and offered, "I don't know. But Buffy, it's all right if you do." A painful echo of Tara's reassurance, spoken what felt like a century before. Buffy had bit her lip and nodded, and didn't speak on the subject further.

That was all the direct talk they had shared about Spike over the past three years. There had been moments of understanding, but never blatant discussion. The night at the bookstore when she discovered a poetry collection with his name on it, and Willow's sharp consideration followed by an almost immediate purchase. The night Buffy phoned her in a panic because the duster was still at Xander's, and she knew he would recognize it if it weren't attached to her shoulders. The previous night, when she lurched into her friend's embrace and was accepted without question when informed that Spike was back in town. Last night at the Bronze. Minutes ago at the Magic Box. All there. All welling inside.

In truth, Buffy was surprised that it had taken Spike so long to hurt her back with all the pain she had inflicted without retaliation. She had allowed herself to forget what he was - and more importantly -he had forgotten what he was. That night in the bathroom was a steadfast reminder. They couldn't forget again.

The graveyard was in sight. Buffy drew in a breath and held it. She pulled the duster tighter around her body, then looked down and realized how it would appear if she stood in front of him wearing his coat. Resolution gave way and she reached to pull it off - paused - then wiggled back inside its protective embrace. Though she never thought of it as hers, truth of the matter was, she never went anywhere without it on her shoulders. She felt safe inside its sheathing. All more besides, he had seen her wearing it at the Bronze - there was no point in a cover up.

At last she released her breath, eyes closed tightly. A thrill ran up her spine and she shook her head clear. It was time. No turning back.

Patrol, she told herself. You're just out patrolling. You might run into a vampire... a blond vampire... but hey... there are lots of vampires out there. I-

The sound of a shrill scream perturbed the air with blunt intensity. Buffy was forced out of her reverie, all sense of vigilance stripped before she could blink. Abandoned of her reserve, she took off in a bold run, producing a stake rolled up one of the sleeves.

"You'd think after a while that people would stop taking midnight strolls through the cemetery," she quipped between pants. The scene before her was expanding and she had entered the gates before she knew it. It was instinct now - her thoughts forgone all except the repetitious save the girl mantra that hummed within her cavity. She leapt over headstones and was ready to dive into battle when her stomach flipped in the sense of a very familiar presence lurking nearby. It paralyzed her with unconcealed recognition.

Spike was there, unaware of her proximity. Two vamps had already begun to feed on a midnight snack - neither terribly bright. Buffy watched in stunned awe as he grasped one by the head, twisted, and in mid-process, kneed the other in the gut. If the scent of blood pouring from the victim's neck distracted him, he did not let it show. Instead, he lurched forward and seized what looked like a stick lying next to a gravestone, rendering the second vampire a cloud of dust within seconds.

It wasn't as though she had never seen him kill his own kind before. Spike was a demon and loved violence as much as the next person. But the look on his face was genuine concern. When he was certain there were no other vampires in convenient propinquity, he heaved a sigh and helped the girl to her feet. Buffy saw dribbles of blood rolling down her neck.

"Tha-thank you," the girl said dazedly, her body quaking. "I don't know how to... or what to say... I... he bit me, I..."

"Don't worry about it, luv. Here." Spike reached into his back pocket and produced a handkerchief, tenderly applying it to the angry spot at her throat. "Right crazed buggers," he said, a bit too casually. "Probably escaped from the loony bin or somethin' like that. You're all right now." He held the cloth at her neck until she understood that she was welcome to it. "Feeling woozy at all?"

"A little." She smiled weakly, taking a few steps away.

"Got someone you could call? I'll walk you 'ome, but-"

"No... I can make it. Live right across the street." She indicated the direction with a nod. Buffy gasped and ducked out of sight. "I've been taking this shortcut for about a week now... between here and work. Don't think-"

"I wouldn't do that. Damn wonky folks come out 'ere and cause all kinds of badness. Won't always be someone 'ere to help you." When she thought it was safe, Buffy raised her head and peered over the headstone. "Right then. Better be on your way, chit."

The girl flashed him a grateful smile, stopping every few yards to look back, even though he never did. Both were long out of sight before the Slayer thought to rise to her feet. If she called out after him he would hear, but she didn't call out. Her inner rationale screamed it would was growing more difficult the longer she put off their inevitable meeting, and though this only bought her minutes, her will forbade any other course. If anything, Buffy wanted a controlled situation - someplace where she was guaranteed quiet reflection. The graveyard offered no such sanctuary.

Drawing in a deep breath, she shivered and sank further into her coat, trying to piece together what had just transpired. There was no mistaking the peroxide vampire, but Spike wasn't one to save people out of the kindness of his unbeating heart. Buffy shook her head. The past two days had offered a list of things Spike had never shown interest in but had constructed into cold habit for his everyday schedule. Spike did not make negotiations with the Council. Spike did not write poetry. Spike did not research. Spike was not Giles's friend.

Buffy knew the answer was simple. She also knew that she likely had a grasp on what it entailed, but headstrong ignorance overruled commonsense. There was still a very real inkling of doubt. If adequately provoked, would he lash out? Would he sneer? Would he show his true colors?

Would he try to hurt her again?

Despite the façade of goodness, there were so many inconsistencies to regard. A warning long dead cast by an old lover sprang to mind with treacherous results. Once he starts something, he doesn't stop.

But he had stopped. He stopped for her.

Would that be enough? Was it enough?

There was only one way to know. Buffy shook her head, clutching her stake with fearful insistence before following his darkened path into the shadows. This was it. The test.

No turning back.

*~*~*

The crypt was deficient of all sense of luxury. When previously resorted to such tidings, William had done everything he could to make his living condition as comfortable as possible. There were no elements of home here. He knew better than to make himself feel too relaxed. Though he hadn't endured a state of such utter barbarity in several years, the implication failed to bother him. He was accustomed to the darkness, to living in shadows. It was almost refreshing: he had always taken pleasure in sins of the flesh, and never shied from the opportunity to make himself at ease. Now the drive was gone. Even the notable lack of a telly went unattended. Darkness was soothing and appropriate.

He had saved a life.

William smiled tightly, studying the intricate patterns of thin fibers in construction by a spider in the corner. The life saved wasn't his first, he knew, but it surged his weary body with pride and satisfaction. A woman was alive because of him. Because he had been there. Because he cared.

The sense of compassion made the situation unique. Beforehand it was all for show. Demons generally didn't make habit of rescuing mortals, a rule he amended in effort to please and earn the favor of the Slayer. Always fueled with selfish motivation. Not so anymore. After causing so much hurt, it was the least he could do to compensate for years of joyful carnage. There was a lot to make up before, and even if he lived to see the end of the world, it would never be enough.

Granted, the end of the world was likely just around the corner. Again.

An inward twitch cautioned him too late of an approaching presence, and William felt himself go numb. Dryness stretched his throat, all sense of fulfillment leaving him for the face of instantaneous sorrow. He knew she was coming today, knew what she told Red and herself, but there was no way he could have been ready. Not for the first time, he found himself at an immeasurable crossroads, not knowing which path was the safest. He didn't want to see her - his body ached with need, but he could not wish it so. What would he see when he looked in her eyes? The same confused desertion reflected the night before? No - she was stronger in the face of challenge. If she was here, it was because she was prepared. And no matter the setting, she held the advantage.

She always would.

Without further reserve, the crypt doors flew open, and Buffy Summers paraded through. Even if he had prepared, any effort would have been rendered useless at the pivotal moment. His body drained of feeling, and all he could do was stare. She looked wonderful. Eyes wide, blazing with unquenched fire, hair long - flowing. Skin flushed, chest heaving, stake ready in hand. A visage of rose red death. Her expression was unreadable; flame withering slightly when she saw him. Whatever conflict he read was likely manifest from secreted hopes of the ever-fictitious happy ending. William swelled with an excursion of overwhelming emotion. He refused to let himself cry.

For seconds, they stood in silence, both heaving for air out of need and habit. A war of doubt crossed her face. She looked him up and down, up again, deep into his eyes, trying to see. He, in turn, was distracted by treacherous detail. The duster he had pulled off his second slayer complimented her nicely - as though it was made for her and no one else. When their eyes met again, the period of analysis was over. All that was left was fire.

There was venom in her voice when she spoke - harshness that would have ended him had he not heard the falsity behind it. William drew in a sharp breath, biting the inside of his cheeks. Whatever pain was there was caused at his hand. He wanted so desperately to reach for her but didn't dare for all the world.

"You know," she huffed, lip quivering. A similar fight to control her emotions blazed with startling intensity. "For someone who once told me that I wasn't worth a second go, you sure are persistent."

Parry and thrust. She was grasping at straws so blessedly unattached to anything that resembled himself three years ago. Nevertheless, any arbitrary barb from the past to suggest spiteful fault on his behalf tugged at the strings of his heart. Whatever she said now had the potency for great hurt.

"Buf-"

"No. No words." She would have been more convincing had her voice not cracked. When he looked up again, the stake was poised and ready for the final blow. Her eyes betrayed her will. Without needing confirmation, he understood it was for show.

One last release.

"Spike, you're a killer," she spat, eyes darting everywhere but home. She was trembling. "And... a... a rapist." He flinched painfully but didn't look away. Anything that came out of her mouth was deserved. There was a surprised blink at his indifference before she regained tenacity, drawing her arm back further. "And I should have done this years ago."

Aching familiarity coincided with her words, and he had no trouble placing it. William nodded slowly in wry acceptance. It was full bluff, and he understood that. Final closure. Perhaps mapping their endless distance. Or maybe he was wrong and she did intend to end it. Here. Now. A sense of righteous justice.

But Buffy's eyes burned with emotion, revealing herself for all that consecrated indecision. Last night's visit from Red had hurt more than this. Maliciousness was expected. Forgiveness was unbearable.

Closing his eyes tightly, compliant of his deserved fate, William nodded in release. "Do it," he replied at last, an air of sacrament passing through his body. "Bloody just do it."

"What?"

"End my torment. Seeing you everywhere. Everyday. Feeling you wherever I go, no matter what I...." William's eyes opened but shot downward as he stepped back, offering his chest as the stake's trusty sheath. "Went to London and it didn't help, even with a sodding ocean between us." With that, his gaze caught her again, true to his invitation. "Told Ripper not to..." A breath. "Just kill me."

She was on the verge of tears but would not retract her deception. The stake was unneeded - the torn and reluctant empathy flowing through her eyes doing more damage than any weapon ever could. He bit back another swelling emotional outburst. Empty promises that all would end well filled his chest, and he nearly scoffed at the connotation. Lies wouldn't do.

William expected her to withdraw - anticipated it. But he did not imagine experiencing a rush of loss when she lowered the stake. The thought was dismissed and shoved into the far recesses of his mind. Craving death would do him little good, especially with the new danger arising. However, the retreat of her tangible weapon bought the expense of another reaction - something he never fathomed and couldn't grasp.

With a strangled cry of burdened surrender, Buffy launched herself forward, grasped his head and lowered his mouth to hers. William was too startled to react at first, bones rattling with earth-shattering release. The fleeting notion that he was dreaming occurred and was rejected for lack of caring. If it was a dream, he wished never to awake. Growling his capitulation, he hungrily returned her ardor with passion he never again thought to feel. Their lips bruised each other: eager, sad. When he reached to grasp her shoulders, she let the stake fall to the ground, enabling her to pull him closer, desperate and needy. Hot tears stung his cheeks but he didn't know if they belonged to him or the bundle of trembling flesh caught in his embrace.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, warning bells sounded, echoing into long vacant chambers. A flash, and he saw her sprawled on the bathroom floor, thrashing against him as her sharp cries of protest perturbed the dream-like atmosphere. He heard them but didn't register the intent. Didn't listen. Selfish need drove his plight and his will knew to obey nothing else. Sharp pangs filled his empty cavity, and even as his turmoil was not shared, he could will himself to submit to rapidly escalating desire.

Slowly, William reached behind him and took her clasped hands in his own, unwinding them from his neck. Similarly, he indulged a painful gulp, retracting his lips from hers before drawing in a breath. His gaze drank in her startled confusion, though aimed at whom he didn't know. Assaulting him with a kiss had obviously not been her intention. Spontaneity was wonderful like that. He didn't know if she had made things better or worse.

The void in his chest expanded with the loss of contact.

When it became intolerable to look at her, William turned away, hands finding purchase at his hips, body wrought with strangled tension. "I can't do this again," he confessed softly.

He heard her draw in a breath, menace having vanished from her tone, leaving sorrowful understanding. There was an air of familiar disgust at her actions, as well. Familiar. It sent a sharp pain across his chest. "I know," she replied at last. "I can't, either."

Without turning to face her, he shook his head and fixed his gaze on his footwear. "Why are you here?"

"I... ummm..." Her thoughts were distorted - confused. Every fiber of his being urged him to pivot and express his similar misplacement, but he couldn't find the will. He thought he would break if he looked at her again.

If he saw those eyes that weren't rightly filled with hate.

"I came... Giles... Willow... we were talking..." Buffy's voice trailed off again, regarding him with pleading modulation. "Please turn around."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Can't look at you." William heard the feeble quake in his tone and ineffectually berated himself. "Hurts too bloody much."

"You can't look at me?" She was shooting for anger, and while the sting hit its mark, there was lack of feeling behind it. "Do you know what it took for me to come here tonight?"

"Yes." Still he did not turn. Couldn't bring himself to face her. "Wicked unfair, I know. I just... can't."

"Spike." There was sharpness in her voice. Commanding. "Turn around."

A fervent shake of his head.

"Spike!"

"I can't bloody look at you, Slayer." He heaved in debate, shaking his head again. "Not without wanting to stake myself."

A reverent pause of consideration. The next breath trembled, and he heard her kneel forward, pluck the stake from the place she had dropped it, and shuffle back to her feet. "There," she said with resolve. "The stake is gone now. All temptation away. Look at me."

William sighed once more, smiling at her simplicity. "Buffy, I-"

"Look. At. Me."

It pained him, but there was no denying her. With a breath of resignation, he finally turned and met her eyes. The vibrant splay of conflicted shooting behind a tear-blinded scabbard crumbled his resolve into bits of nothingness. Again the urge to comfort was great, but he didn't dare budge. It wasn't his place, or his right. So he stood there, watching her as bits of himself wore away. Pain touched every dead nerve in his body. His skin tightened over weary bones. It hurt. It hurt to look at her. To look at her and not see hate.

No hate. But no trust, either. No stirrings of forgiveness as Red had suggested, but there was compassion. A reason, a want to understand.

More than he could have ever hoped for.

And it nearly killed him.

"There," she said at last. "That's better."

William flinched again at the lack of any sort of resignation.

"Now... I want a straight answer." Buffy puffed out a breath, expressing difficulty maintaining eye contact. However, she admirably managed to fulfill her participation - she had demanded his eyes and would not risk losing them over her own selfishness. "Why did you come back?"

William scoffed and edged away, looking down but not turning. "There is no straight answer to that, pet. Bloody hell, don't I wonder." He shook his head and met her eyes again. "Shouldn't be here. I know that. Won't pretend it otherwise. Mostly because Ripper asked me to come... noted wackiness was about to start again. Bad wackiness. I came 'ere because he needed my help."

"That all?"

"'S what I tell myself. 'S what's easiest to deal with." A sigh rolled off his body. "I came because he said I could help you."

She nodded, though her gaze crackled with disbelief. If anything, she wanted to believe. She wanted answers for all untended questions. "Why didn't you tell me it was you on the phone when I called London?"

"Don't rightly know," William retorted honestly. "I heard you... I knew it was you before you spoke. I just... too hard. It was too hard. At the time, it didn't seem to matter that I'd be seein' you in a few days. I jus'... I've seen a lot of badness, luv. Been through a bleedin' lot. Comin' here's taken stones I didn't think I had." He chuckled humorlessly. "May not still. I guess we'll see."

Buffy's eyes narrowed a bit but she nodded just the same. He could practically see her mind scrambling to find another inquiry. "Why are you working with Giles? You two never exactly struck me as buddy/buddy."

William smiled sadly in repose, shaking his head and taking a further step away. It wasn't an act of distancing - he used movement as he used words; expressing stress or comfort. Finally he stopped, taking a seat on a slab of stone. The invitation was there for her to do the same, though he was not complacent enough to voice it. "Trust me, pet," he answered softly. "I never thought I'd see the day, either. Ripper's a tough old git. Hell to get along with, but a right old chum when things get messy." A look of intense fondness seized his features. "I owe 'im a lot."

These were obviously not the explanations she was expecting: filled with unquestionable sincerity. With every word he spoke, he could see her sinking into further confusion and doubt, never coming closer to her coveted answer. The single explanation that put all others to shame. It was there, radiating behind his willing eyes for her to see. However, he understood her indecisiveness. As always, Angel was annoyingly intuitive. Chances were some part of her knew already. It was a matter of recognition, and he refused to spell anything out for her.

Similarly, it was her right not to accept the evident change. He wouldn't presume to take choice away, even if choice coincided with ignorance.

And the questions kept coming. "Would you have come if Giles hadn't asked you to?"

"Not likely," he retorted truthfully. "Didn't think my being 'ere would help you at all."

The unspoken inference made them both twitch in discomfort. Buffy drew in a breath and held it, looking around as though for the first time self-conscious.

Silence stretched and teetered.

"Willow is glad you're back," she said finally, wrapping the duster tighter around herself. "Whatever you two talked about last night... I don't believe I've seen her that relaxed in a long time."

William smiled, cold skin flushed with unexpected warmth. It was a good, sincere smile - and he saw her reflect the realization with astonishment. As Spike, he hadn't had reason to smile without inevitably twisting it into a smirk. A true smile was rare. She had seen them, of course - usually when he was inside her. He had never had reason to smile before, most certainly not when a person was mentioned as being happy. Spike simply never cared.

Especially if that person wasn't her.

"I'm glad," he said at last. "Poor Red. I should have..." The words been here formed effortlessly, and while he believed it, a very real part of him could not will it so. "Done somethin'. Maintained contact, or whatnot. Been there for her an' all. She needs someone from the other side, and I've had my fair share. Done things I'd..." Another flash to that awful night. William's speech abruptly stopped with insinuation. If they traveled that road, she would know immediately. There was no way he could talk about what almost occurred without choking on remorse. For the briefest minute, he felt himself slip back - as though stationed at the beginning of a caucus race. "I can't," he finally gasped. "I'm..."

Buffy took a step backward, eyes flaring dangerously. "Don't. I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't either," he agreed.

Direct contradiction. There was no way not to inexorably talk about it. "Never say you're sorry," she whispered.

William's eyes widened. "What?"

"I can't do this. I can't pretend anymore. We both know better. Don't... don't lie to me."

A part of him screamed and died. How could she think that? How could anyone walk away from doing that to the person they loved more than anything and not immediately crave death? It didn't take a soul to initiate that sort of compunction. He had never hated himself so fiercely as he did that night. "Buffy, I-"

"Don't!" she warned sharply, taking a step back.

"No. Let me say this an' I..." Her eyes pleaded him, offering a much-needed glance at her breaking heart. Then he understood, and he had to remind himself again that he possessed not the privilege to go to her. They stood miles apart and would likely never find the other at a point of reasonable comprehension.

Tears clouded her gaze. "Don't lie to me."

She didn't want lies and she couldn't handle the truth. What was there to tell? They sank into further silence, heavy and confining.

"Did you miss me?"

William's eyes snapped shut. In seconds, her tone had softened - fire quenched by an internal cold shower. The alternative to one extreme. Slowly, his body calmed. Funny that he should need it to calm, as it bore no heart rate or pulse. "So much," he replied, making no attempt to mask his pain. "But I wouldn't've come back. Never. Not on my own. Even if old Ripper started thinkin' straight an' kicked me out for good. And as soon as this Master thing blows over, you won't hear from me again."

The honesty behind his words made her wince. Then it grew awkward. A sense of finale. The end.

It was the truth. These next weeks would be their last. And despite rationality, William didn't know how to feel about that. London had presented the safe hold of never believing he would see Sunnydale again. Now that he was back, the thought of leaving acted both as a growing comfort and similar dread. Their conversation was becoming increasingly difficult to endure.

"Spike." Buffy's voice drew him immediately to the present. That tone was grave and reluctant. They were talking about the past again. The past he couldn't bare to think about. "I know I just said... but I don't think we can't not talk about what happened before you left." A cringe of acknowledgment. She pursed her lips and drew in a deep breath. "I was angry, hurt... I-"

"And you should be," William replied, sitting up sharply and at last turning to face the wall. There was no objection from her end. "You can't... bloody hell, Buffy, just hit me and leave. Stake me an' have it over with. I can't take this."

She blinked. "What?"

"I came 'ere with the knowin' that everyone would rightly wish I was a pile of dust. Figure'd to be dead now, or..." Violently, he whirled to face her, minutes away from tears. "Or worse. 'Stead, Red warms up to me. Hugs me to sodding oblivion, all the while telling me that you don't hate me like you should." A growl tickled his throat. "So if we're going to talk about it, then let's talk. But no fancying up the truth. Tell me you hate me, Buffy. Don't drag it to the bleeding end."

"I don't hate you." He choked a sob at her honesty. It pained him more than he could bear. Ostensibly unmindful, she continued, "I don't know what to feel anymore. What you did hurt me. I never thought that you would do that. I lied to you before. I had grown to trust you, and that was what hurt the most. That I trusted you, and-"

William could no longer hide. The stillness of the crypt rang with the abruptness of his sob - just one. It startled her, brought her own tears closer to home, but she went on. He understood that she needed to go on.

"I handled it wrong." It was becoming progressively more difficult to speak. "Everything. None of that should have happened. But what I did to you... I hated myself, and I took that out on-"

"Stop!" he cried desperately, unable to endure anymore. The words if you loved me you'd stop came from nowhere, undeclared for the likely continuance of painful apologies. She had to know how she was hurting him, lest she would not say such things. "I can't bloody take it."

The dying spark flared to life behind her eyes. Her patience had worn to its end. "For Chrissake, what happened?" Newly uncovered edginess slapped him across the face. A prolongation of her ignorance. She lived there happily. Buffy stumbled over herself, looking at him hard. Trying and failing to see. Tears dropped on occasion, a few. The escapees before the deluge. "You're so..."

"I'm what?" Unable to tolerate their distance any longer, William stalked forward, grasping her shoulders. He wanted to comfort and yet found himself shaking her, as though trying to knock sense into her unwilling conscious. The act itself was not violent; he couldn't make himself hurt her if he tried. The floodgates opened and she could no longer hold back - joining him in his tears. "I'll tell you what I am. I'm a monster, Buffy. The Big Bad. You forgot it once. Bloody hell, even I forgot it once. I was happy thinkin' I could be one of you, but that led down the road of wackiness and bad doings, and the delusion is over now. I can't change - you were right about that. I'll never change. I'm a demon. A nasty, evil demon." He released her when he could no longer look at her, sighing and stepping away. At times, his temper frightened him. The thought of losing control again rattled his senses beyond comprehension. "You should go," he said softly. "You shouldn't 'ave come 'ere."

A few seconds passed before Buffy found words, filled adequately with the sounds of mild crying. "I shouldn't have," she agreed. "But I had to. And had you come back three years ago, I probably would have had to chain myself up to keep from doing something I'd grow to regret. Like staking you. But you didn't come back. And I..."

"You what?" His voice was barely above a whisper. He couldn't manage more.

"I grew up. Took me twenty-five years to finally accept fault, but hey, here I am. You hurt me. But I hurt you, too. That was wrong. And I'm so-"

"Get out."

A new desperation hit her voice. "Spike-"

"Get out. Out of here before you say somethin' you're sorry for later." William huffed a breath and turned one last time to face her. "Don't apologize to me, pet. Ever. I can't..." He broke off and pointed at the crypt door. "Just get out."

An uncomfortable silence settled over them. The air stilled, long, preserving an emotional tenor. The sound of her breathing distracted him, wary, the taste of her still filling his mouth. Being this close was unendurable, and it was only prone to get worse.

Buffy finally shuffled, tearing her eyes from his, offering a nod of concession as she began her retreat. It wasn't over. Such things were never over. She paused once more, inches from the threshold. When she spoke again, her tears were not betrayed by her voice. It was business, and she would treat it as such. "If you're here to help us, then come to the Magic Box tomorrow. We'll need everyone there, and I'll make sure no one... tries to..."

"I'll be there." A hard promise, but he would not take it back. "I'll come with Ripper. We need to... it's all about to start, luv. No matter what, I'll be here till it's over or I'm even more dead than usual." He attempted and failed to smile. "Couldn't keep me away."

"Then we're finished here." The door cracked open and she was gone before he heard her farewell. "Goodnight."

Three seconds ticked by - then he fell to his knees, unable to contain the aching swell in his chest. It was good to cry. Cold tears rolled against colder skin. Had he maintained any reserve, he would have heard a voice outside his door - an outburst that rivaled his own.

*~*~*

The minute she entered the graveyard, Willow's chest constricted and she drew in a deep, desperate breath. It was as though someone had seized her lungs and abruptly cut her air supply. The quiet air offered free-range hearing over a still landscape. She had heard Buffy cry enough to recognize the sound of her pain.

However, before she could reach the scene, the Slayer raced passed her, hand over her mouth. They shared a fleeting glance, then she was gone - bolting for the shadows, a place the Witch dared not follow. Her arms rumbled with emotion and threatened to drop the sack of groceries - namely blood and Wheatabix - she was delivering on Giles's behalf. The wealth of impassioned vibes perturbing the night made her want to sink to her knees, but she forced herself ahead. If Buffy were so disturbed, it was safe to assume Spike was a mess.

Her stomach twisted in concern. His state the previous night was heart-rendering. True, it had improved as they progressed, but he was still miles away from self-reconciliation. It was unwise to leave him alone.

A darker twinge rose - unbidden - to mind. If Buffy had said something to send him back, she didn't know what she would do, but it wouldn't be pretty.

As Willow neared the crypt Giles had indicated, her obstinacy diminished. Without warning, she burst through the entrance, dropping the sack of goodies dead where she stood.

"Oh God!" she cried, rushing to the crumpled vampire's side. Sharp jolts of pain shot up rapidly numbing legs. Spike curled into her embrace immediately, seeking her out, clutching to her with startling need.

"What happened?" she demanded, anger, unstoppable, seeping into her voice. "What did she do?"

For long minutes, harsh sobs were her only reply. And she sat there with endearing patience, rocking him to some unforeseen haven, breaking just at the feel of him. Finally, drawing in a raspy breath, he gathered control and attempted to speak. "She forgave me," he gasped. He might have said something else, but she couldn't hear beyond sobbing growls and tremors. Minutes passed before he regained authority, calming slowly until he was just a cold armful, rocking back and forth in her hold.

Timidly, mindful of a reprieve, Willow planted a motherly kiss on his forehead, drawing away blond strands of hair. "She what?"

A long pause. She thought he might have cried himself to sleep, but he stirred in time, heaving a sigh. "Not in so many words," he retorted groggily. "Didn't let 'er. Couldn't. But, Jesus, Red... if she ever does say it..." Tears were welling in his eyes once more, and his arms tightened around her. "She can't, luv. Can't ever let her forgive." At last he lifted his head, breaking her heart in two. "I think it would kill me."

Willow's eyes watered and she struggled to find words. There was so much to say, so many empty promises to make. She wanted to tell him that it would only be hard for a little while, that eventually things would brighten, and forgiveness was the answer to life's qualms. Yes, it hurt like hell, but it was what he needed and deserved. All anyone could hope for. Love from the person he hurt the most, because honestly, a pardon of that magnitude could not be founded on a heart filled with hate. She knew. She had seen forgiveness for things so awful it made her ache inside. The same reason Xander, Giles and the rest forgave her. The same reason Spike had forgiven Buffy for so many wrongdoings. The very reason the Slayer nearly forgave him tonight.

However, those words wouldn't come. Not now. Not now when it would break him. So she sat in silence, holding the healing vampire long after sleep claimed him, long into the night. For all the sensibility in the world, she couldn't bring it within herself to leave him alone.

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