The Choice







Season 6– AU After Dead Things
R-rated-- some sex, implied violence

Joss owns 'em, I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them


The Choice

Chapter One

The wall ended, and suddenly there was nothing to lean on, and he fell. Hard, his shoulder and hip hitting the pavement, his head banging on the curb. He lay there for a moment, staring at the filth in the gutter, breathing in the dirt and muck and dead leaves.

Someday soon she will kill me.

He turned – ribs jarring, jagged end against jagged end – until his back was against the ground and he could see the sky above him. The moon had set long since. The stars were fading. There was a smudge of gray in the east.

Maybe real soon.

He lay there, bones scraping against skin. She really hurt him this time. She didn't think he could hurt. Or she didn't care. But vampires hurt just as much as humans, maybe more acutely. They just healed faster... and couldn't die, no matter how bad the pain.

Unless the sun came up.

He rolled over, drew his knees up. Shoved the sidewalk with his hands. And then he stayed there, on all fours like a wounded animal. He was alone in the dark, broken in body, broken in spirit, a cemetery away from home. And a life and a death and an unlife away from her.

Just let go.

He could just collapse and lie here and wait for the sun. For the end. For surcease or eternal torment or whatever. Just... let go.

Just go.

Or he could get up and walk to his crypt and pack his kit and leave her behind. All she deserved. Leave her behind. Find Dru. Find Harmony. Find someone new who could love him without hating him. Or just love him. Or just not hate him. Or just let him love her.

He could just go. Save what little self-respect he still had. Save what little self he still had. Just go.

Just get up.

He could just get up. Go home. Wait till she came to him. Or go back to her when he healed. Love her. Save her. Or just love her. She needed someone to just love her.

The concrete was rough under his palms and knees, and he could smell the sunrise, and still there were voices in his head – he felt like Dru, head filled with voices, only his were warring. Just let go and go to dust. Just go and leave her behind. Just get up and go back to her.

Darkling I listen, and for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful death.

It isn't love if it hurts like this. It's masochism. It's humiliation. It's heart-death

It isn't love if it doesn't last. If it depends on her loving back. If it depends on her at all. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds....

She doesn't even know I know. Doesn't even know that poetry runs through my head, that I have beauty and joy in my thoughts. Doesn't even know me. Doesn't know –

I am invisible. Lost. Don't matter.

I can't leave her. She will think me like all the rest, like Angel–

She won't think of me at all. She won't care that I am gone.

I can stay. I can leave. I can die.

She is not worth it.

She is all that is worth it.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom....If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved....

The gray in the east silvered. He half-rose. Half-crawled. It wasn't a decision. It wasn't a choice. It was just instinct. There was nothing left but instinct.

Instinct. And somewhere the thought that she wouldn't even know he was gone. She would never find his dust. She would think that he left her, just like all the others. She would care, or she wouldn't care – but she would never know the truth.

He dragged himself as far as the spreading live oak tree, the one just past the cemetery gate. Then he felt the sun breaking free of the horizon, felt the dangerous warmth on his back. He tried to pull his coat over his head, but his arms didn't work anymore. So he curled up there on the mossy ground, his face against an exposed root, and his last thought was this: I never got a chance to choose.






"Spike! What happened?"

His eyes opened. Well, just one of them. Good enough. And it was still dark. Or dark again. Better. And Buffy was kneeling over him, her hand on his bruised cheek.

He couldn't help it. He flinched away.

"Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to." Her hand dropped to his shoulder, and her eyes filled with concern. "I'm sorry."

He stared up at her. She looked sincere. Sincerely sorry. He never expected an apology, at least not so soon. Well, not ever. An apology would mean she did something wrong.

"What did this to you? Tell me and I'll kill it."

Okay. This he expected. Denial. Or the pretense of it. Someone else did it– if that was going to be her story, he wasn't going to force her to admit the truth. "Don't worry about it." His throat hurt. His voice was hoarse. One of her kicks must have gotten him in the larynx.

She touched his hand. It didn't hurt. He hadn't ever raised his fists to her, so she didn't bother breaking his hands. She'd been more interested in his ribs, and his face. Now she stroked his untouched knuckle, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh. It must have been a human who did this. Or you would have been able to fight back."

He started to laugh. It hurt his ribs, so he stopped. But it helped too. Helped him get past the awful moment of her pretense of concern, her pretense of innocence. Her addition of insult to injury. "Yeah. Human. Couldn't fight back."

He put his head back down on the oak's root. It was cool and dry, and smelled like earth and wood. "Go away, Slayer. I'll make my way back to my crypt in a few minutes."

"Back to your–" She sat back on her heels and glared at him. "Not a chance. You're hurt too bad to be alone. You're coming home with me." She put her hands on his shirtfront, pulling him up, and that made him gasp with pain. "Oh. Sorry. I keep hurting you– look." She let him down gently. "I'm going to go get Xander. He can drive us back. Stay here. Or else."

She ran off, and he closed his eyes. And he called up the memory of her hands gripping his shirt– the knuckles as unblemished as his own.

Last night she'd punched him over and over again. Closed fist against bone. Her knuckles would be scraped, wouldn't they?

Slayer healing. Had to be.

But he had vampire healing, and it was even faster, and he was still too hurt to stand.

He closed his eyes and thought about blood and whisky and maybe some oxycontin. Ice. Heating pad. Bed. All back in his crypt. Far from Buffy and her fast-healing fists.

He grabbed the tree root and dragged himself up it till he reached the trunk. It was rough enough that he could dig his fingers in and lever to a stand. He leaned there, his shoulder hard against the tree which must have shaded him all day. "I owe you," he whispered, and shoved away.

He stumbled a few yards and fell. Christ. Got up again. She'd really hurt him. No permanent injuries– he didn't do permanent– but it all hurt. His heart more than his body. He believed her now. She was right. She'd never love him. Never–

He heard the car, and then the slamming door, and wished he could run. But he managed only a few steps before they were on him. Buffy took one arm and Harris the other, and they got him turned around, and when he struggled, the pain got so bad he almost passed out.

"Geez, deadboy. You look like shit." Harris almost sounded admiring. "Don't think I've ever seen a shiner quite that ... shiny."

"Come on, Spike." Buffy tugged him back towards the cemetery gate. "I got some nice O Neg at home. I'll warm it up for you."

"I don't want–" he began, but Harris was already opening the door to his old Camaro.

"Give it up, Spike," the boy said. "You know she's not going to let you alone. Concede. Surrender. Submit. It'll be easier in the long run." He was cheerful about it. Probably he submitted a lot to his demon girl Anya. "In you go."

Spike fell in to the tiny back seat. Buffy climbed in after him, jostling him painfully, murmuring sorry, sorry. She'd gone insane. Or he had. Or– She put her arms around him and set his head on her chest, and Harris looked back from the driver's seat. His face in the light of the streetlamp was set, unpleasant. Accepting.

"Can you not make out in my car? That backseat's reserved."

He knew. Somehow he knew. Spike turned his head, looked up at Buffy, and she looked unhappy too, but not anxious. She tightened her arms around him, as if she were protecting him from Harris's anger. Something had changed–

Everything had changed.

Concussion, he told himself. Delirium dreams. He wouldn't remember any of this probably, when he came to. Sad. The softness of Buffy's breasts, her gentle lips on his ear– it was sad, to forget all this. But for the best. He couldn't live with the memory.

Too soon they were at Buffy's house. Harris helped him in, no more roughly than was appropriate, and Spike was glad this wasn't really happening, because otherwise he might have to be grateful.

There was a lot of pain after that– getting up the stairs, and Buffy's insistence that a bath would soothe his cuts, and especially that moment when she made him get into her very own bed.

Then she went into her dictator mode. She made him drink mug after mug of blood, and what was she doing keeping that in her house anyway? Just in case Angel stopped by, he supposed. And then she made him drink tea, saying seriously that Giles might be right about tea curing all English ills. And then she pulled back the sheet and started surveying all the cuts and bruises she was pretending not to have caused, and he closed his eyes tight and bore it stoically. Her concern. Her caring. All false. Or all imagined. He must really be sick, to imagine this.

It got worse. Way worse. She tugged back the sheet even further, and started murmuring all sorts of things, about how he was so bruised, there wasn't even a little spot she could kiss. "Except ... here," she said, pulling the sheet back all the way and exposing him to the cool air. She bent down and kissed him... there. The only place she hadn't kicked, as she probably realized she might have use for it again. Now, traitor, his cock swelled up to meet her mouth, and he thought this dream was getting extreme. Because Buffy didn't do that. Oh, she did it last week, but that was when she was invisible and pretending to be someone other than Buffy. Someone free and wild. Someone who knelt down and tongued a man's cock, just to show him she owned him, all of him–

Good dream. Bad dream. She knew exactly how to destroy him, even in a dream.

She didn't finish that way. She wanted more for her, and she took it, sliding down on him, gentle, almost tender, telling him to say stop if she was hurting him. She was– even her little bit of weight jarred his hipbones– but he could no more tell her to stop than he could truly believe this was real. He remembered his hands were whole, and reached down between them and touched her until she came, and then he let himself come too, and she lay her head down just for a moment on his chest. "Poor baby," she said. "Did that help?"

He told her yes, though probably it had killed him sure as any stake, and she slipped away and brought back warm wet cloths and soothed him down again.

It was too much to take, and he kind of passed out, though you can't really pass out when you're already dreaming, so maybe his subconscious just skipped ahead to the next event, which was waking up alone, with Dawn opening the door, letting in the hall light. She came in brandishing something pink on a stick.

"Hey, Spike. You look like shit."

He closed his eyes against the light. "Harris tell you to say that?"

"Yeah. But I would've said it anyway." She sat down on the edge of the bed and thrust the something at him. "Buffy said you probably couldn't chew. So I made you some cotton candy. Janice got a machine for her birthday. Did you know, it's just spun sugar really?"

He couldn't imagine anything more painful than that in his aching mouth. But he took a bite anyway, just to please her, and when he sank back onto the pillows, she happily ate the rest, chattering all along. "Buffy said some humans must have attacked you. That's like so unfair. Of course, you've attacked a lot of humans in your time, I guess, so maybe it is fair. Anyway, she said you were all hurty and I had to be nice to you."

"You don't have to be nice," he whispered. "Can be yourself."

"Oh, right." She rolled her eyes. There was pink sugar all over her face. "Like I'm going to be mean to you. Okay, I was with Angel. But you're the one I always wanted to be Buffy's boyfriend, so I'll try not to totally ruin it."

"Buffy's–" He stopped. Took a deep breath that rattled his ribs like a broken shutter. "Niblet. Listen. I think I got a concussion. I can't remember."

"You can't remember being Buffy's boyfriend?"

"I mean– I don't remember everyone knowing. Harris. You. Don't remember Buffy being honest about it."

"Oh, yeah. Back when you were her secret love god." Dawn tossed the cardboard stick in the direction of the wastebasket and started licking at her hands. Just like a cat. "You don't remember the time she was invisible?"

The only other time she went down on him. Well, yeah, he remembered that. "I remember that."

"And Xander walking in on you guys?"

"I remember that. But– but he didn't know what we were doing."

More eye-rolling. You'd think, if he had to dream about Dawn, his subconscious would erase her most annoying trait. "I know you think Xander's dumb. But he's not that dumb. You really don't remember?"

"Cross my heart."

"Hope to die," she replied. "Well, he came over later that evening, after Buffy had materialized again, and he was yelling about her being, you know, just a ho–"

Spike felt the rage bloom in his chest. It hurt. Not as bad as Buffy's tenderness, but almost. "He called her that?"

Dawn shook a finger at him. "Now you stop. You can't hit him anyway. And you do not want to give him another excuse to dust you." She stopped, and then, a moment later, her voice shaking, she said, "He didn't do this, did he?"

"Nah. Tell me. What else?"

"He was all angry and stuff, and so yeah, I was listening from upstairs, and he said he was going to go stake you, and I just practically jumped all the way down the steps, and I grabbed him and told him if he staked you, I'd shoot him."

Okay, now that was more the thing. Dawn would protect him. That he could believe. "Thanks, bit." He felt kind of humbled. "What did Buffy say?"

"Oh, you know Buffy. She sat there all ashamed and embarrassed and stuff, all beaten down– oh. Sorry. Shouldn't talk about being beaten down with you–"

"Buffy."

"Yeah. So, I don't know. Maybe I inspired her. Anyway, she suddenly stood up and said that you made her happy and no one else did, and if Xander didn't like it, he could just leave. And so it kind of just rested there. Xander doesn't want to lose Buffy's friendship, and you know, he'd have to go to Anya and tell her two of her bridesmaids had cancelled, because we're hardly going to be bridesmaids if he's being a big jerk, and Buffy made this big show of bringing you home after patrol the next night, and so – you sure you don't remember any of this?"

He didn't remember it because it never happened. But it made his head hurt to try to separate the reality of the dream from the fantasy of the dream. If Buffy had proclaimed him publically as her boyfriend, then what was with all the evil-soulless-thing and fists? And if she hadn't done it– and she had, he remembered– who had?

It was all some stupid brain-damage-induced dream. Or maybe the sun had come up and burned him to cinders, and this was hell: Dawn with her cotton candy and flannel pjs and Buffy with her sweet mouth and all of that hurting more than every broken bone.

Buffy came in and sent Dawn to bed, and then she stripped naked and slid under the sheet next to him, and she sighed and came really close to him without touching him. "I wish you were better and I could hold you," she said.

"Me too." He didn't mean it. All he needed was that, her arms around him.

She nestled her head close to his arm, so that he could feel the soft brush of her hair. "Tell me you love me," she whispered.

"You know I do." It hurt his throat, to say even that.

"Say it."

So he did. "I love you. Entirely."

"I love you too." And she sighed and took his hand in hers, twining the fingers together, and he knew he was damned.

Chapter Two

He woke her before sunrise to tell her he was leaving. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, and anyway, maybe she'd say it again. That thing she said. That thing she never said. But then again, maybe the dream was over and she'd just hit him for being in her room.

Neither– she just sleepily said, "You're coming to my birthday party, right?"

He stilled with his torn jeans half-on and looked back over his shoulder at her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open just a little. That mouth. Yeah. "Yeah. I guess so. If you want me to." And if you want me to walk into hell and bring you Satan on a leash, I'll do that to. Just say the word from that pretty mouth.

It was still dream-Buffy, because she drowsily murmured, "I want you to."

And he couldn't help it. He had to bend and kiss her even though it hurt to bend and it hurt to kiss her and he was the stupidest fool the world had ever known. What did she have to do to get him to keep loving her? Just that. Less than that.

He went out the window, landing too hard, but it didn't really hurt because he still felt her fingers light on his face.

The healing was well-advanced. The blood helped. Buffy-love helped. It was all a dream, but he felt it helping, felt the bones knitting and the cuts closing. Sure, it was breaking his heart more than her fists broke his face, but maybe he could bear it....

He got through the cemetery gates and saw the tree. His tree. His shade and shelter. Its branches were spreading above the mossy ground. He limped over to it and touched the rough bark. A good tree. He ought to repay it somehow. He rubbed his fingers lightly over the trunk and tried to think what trees liked. Water. Uh... water. He couldn't think of anything else.

Best get home, he thought. Before the sun comes up. Tree might not be so sheltering this time.

He woke up in his crypt, aching all over, to the sound of stomping. The sound of Slayer. Dream over. Reality returned.

Pulling on his jeans, he climbed painfully up the ladder to the upper level. She was there, standing in a shaft of light, glaring at him again, her arms crossed over her chest. Got to hide those pretty titties from the evil soulless thing, right?

And he had to forget last night, when she took his hand and put it on her breast and sighed.

"Slayer."

"Where were you last night?"

She sounded like a jealous girlfriend, but he didn't let it affect him. Much. She wasn't jealous. She was just mad because – because who knows. "Under that tree near the gates, I think. Fell asleep there."

"I walked right by that tree. You weren't there."

"You must have missed me. Dark. All that. I was there all day."

This registered. Her face clenched like a fist. "The sun was out most of the day."

"Yeah. I know. Like I said. I was under the tree. In the shade."

She took a step forward. Only the Slayer could make a step harsh. "I came here and couldn't find you."

"I think we've been through this already."

"I thought–"

She didn't finish what she thought. But she bit at her lip until he could smell the blood. She thought he didn't make it back and he was caught in the sun. He watched with some interest, wondering if she'd pretend not to know, as she did in his dream. (Or maybe in his dream, she really didn't know. After all, in his dream, she kissed him and said sweet things.)

But all she did was turn her back to him. She didn't comment on his battered condition, although she could hardly have missed the lurid purple bruises on his bare chest. She just said, "You weren't under that tree. I'm a slayer. Even if I hadn't seen you, I would have sensed you."

He shrugged. He decided not to do that again until his collarbone was one piece. "I had a weird dream. Maybe the tree sojourn was part of it. Maybe I was here all day and all night, and dreamed the whole time."

"You weren't here. I told you. I came by and searched the whole place. You weren't here."

It struck him as amusing, the Slayer coming here, searching for him. Paying special attention to the stone floor, looking for dust, or more dust than usual. "In my dream, you invited me to your birthday party."

She was halfway to the door, but this stopped her. "I invited you?"

"Yeah. Like I said. Weird dream."

She was out the door before he could tell her what else she did in his weird dream. He sighed, and then laughed. Both hurt in equal measures. He went to the refrigerator and got out the jar of blood, and he mixed it with half a bottle of gin. All he needed was some celery and he'd have his own version of a Bloody Mary. He'd call it Bloody Stupid Spike.

Then the door flung open again. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips. "Slayer."

"I'm patrolling Eternal Rest tonight." It was a declaration. And, he supposed, the real-Buffy's version of an invitation.

"Need my help?"

Her little lip stuck out. "I don't need anyone's help."

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. It was getting tiring, dealing with her. But he thought of her in his dream, kissing him, and smiled. "I might tag along anyway, Slayer. Love to see you in action."

"Sure. If you want to." The door slammed after her. But it wasn't anger this time. Just her slayer strength at work.

She could be sweet. Yeah, he'd dreamed her up, but his dream was based on reality. It was like he took all the good memories he had, distilled them, and created his dream-Buffy. She kissed him sweet and careful like she'd done after Glory had hurt him. She talked to him softly, as she did those few weeks after she came back. She told him openly that she wanted him, just as she had that night in the abandoned house.

Uncomfortably close to the Buffy-bot, he supposed. His subconscious programmed a Buffy who could love him. And that was enough to make her perfect. He didn't want her to change... just to love him. All the rest– the sweetness, the kindness, the happiness– came from letting herself love him. It would free her.

All she had to do was love him. But–

She probably wouldn't ever do that.

But that didn't mean he could stop loving her.

They patrolled together that night, a team even if she wasn't about to admit it. A good team. The best team. Even as damaged as he was, he took on two vampires at once, and then, when they encountered the Mesoput demon, well, Spike thought maybe she found something to value in him, at least his willingness to impale himself on the dorsal fin.

He was hoping he was hurt bad enough that she would stay– like DreamBuffy. But as they were making their way across the street to his own cemetery, Xander pulled over at the curb. It was the old Camaro, and Spike wondered if he'd left bloodstains in the backseat. No, of course he didn't. He'd never been in the Camaro, except in his dream.

And realXander wasn't knowing and accepting. He was unknowing and obnoxious as he put his head out the open window. "Let him drop, Buffy! Geez. Who cares if–"

Buffy got that defiant, furtive look that Spike knew to distrust. She said rapidly, "Oh! Great! Xander, you can give me a ride home once I get him to his crypt. Took a dorsal blade. But he'll be all right. Won't you?"

This last was aimed at him. Suddenly he was filled with anger. "Yeah." He shrugged away from her. "Go on, now, Slayer. I can manage the rest of the way myself."

She gave him a hard look– she was the one supposed to dismiss him, see– but let him walk away through the gates. Spike kept walking until he heard the car door slam with that Slayer force. Probably broke the windshield.


He sensed Dawn before he even reached his door. A smile tugged at his mouth. Dawn. But he'd have to come up with some story about his bruises– and Dawn could usually tell when he was lying. In his dream, Dawn had been diverted from the "who did it" mystery–

Maybe he should try that.

So he entered his crypt with a big groan, and there she was, sitting in his chair watching Dawson's Creek, and she looked up and said, "You look like shit."

Just like DreamDawn. "Language, Bit."

"Well, you do." She got up and went to the fridge. "You need ice."

He dropped into the vacated chair. "I need bourbon. If you find any in there, let me know."

"So what happened? Who beat you so bad?"

He stripped off his coat so she could see the tatters of his t-shirt, the red slash underneath. "A Mesoput got me good." It wasn't a lie, so she didn't twig to it.

But she was always looking for more intel. "It got you across the face?"

He took the ice bag from her hand and mumbled something affirmative that wasn't quite a yeah. And then, offense being the best defense, he attacked. "What are you doing, coming here at night? This is a cemetery, case you didn't notice. Lots of baddies around."

Dawn flopped on the rug halfway between him and Dawson's Creek. "There aren't any in this cemetery and you know it. They steer clear because you're too quick to kill them. Besides, I brought those pics you wanted."

She reached into her sweater pocket and withdrew a baggie. "Here you go. Are you going to tell me what they're for?"

"To do evil spells, what do you think?" He grabbed the bag and held it to the light, trying to assess the size of the photos. "That as small as you can get them?"

Big sigh from Dawn. "I scanned them and tried four different photo manip programs. That's the smallest I can get them without losing the images."

"Okay, well–" The door flung open, and he stuffed the baggie into his pocket. "Slayer. I thought you'd gone home."

"I did, where I discovered a missing sister." Buffy stood in the doorway, her little body somehow blocking the whole doorway. "Dawn, you know that you're not supposed to–"

"Well, someone had to tend to poor Spike," Dawn said. She'd already picked up that offense = best defense equation. "Since you sent him back here with a – a Meso-something injury and no one to help him."

"He's a big boy. He doesn't need help."

"Unlike you," Dawn said, her voice full of teenaged contempt. "Who is supposed to be the Slayer but needs Spike to help her patrol."

"She doesn't need–" Spike started.

But Buffy interrupted him. "I don't need him. He just comes along for the show."

Ah. It hurt. I don't need him. She wouldn't even admit– He got up, suppressing a groan, and without another word, he headed down to the lower level, where there was a soft bed and no hard Slayer.

He didn't emerge till he heard the door slam. And then he climbed painfully up the ladder. On the floor he found a scrawled note. "Come to her birthday party. I have something so cool planned!"




The party, such as it was, was going on in the living room. It wasn't what Spike would call a party– no music, no dancing, no brawls, no snogging in corners. Just a bunch of mismatched people standing around trying to make conversation.

If it weren't for Dawn's eager face and the Slayer's scowl, Spike would be out the door and over to Willie's. Demons knew how to party. Humans apparently had no clue.

But now he had Buffy alone, just for a moment, in the passageway to the kitchen. She was pressed against the wall, like she could disappear into it, but she didn't try to run. She was acting defiant, and this bought him some time. He pulled the box out of his pocket. "I got you a gift."

She took the box automatically. "I didn't even want–" But her curious little fingers were already taking off the lid. She saw the gold locket and started to speak, then just shut up and stared at it.

"Open it," he said.

She closed the box and shoved it back at him. "I know what's in there. A picture of you. Well, I don't want it. Thanks, but no thanks."

And then she pushed past him and back into the living room, putting on a big smile for all her human friends.

He stood there like an idiot, holding the silver-foil box, and finally, slowly, feeling every bruise, walked out through the kitchen.

Ten minutes later he passed the gates of his cemetery, then he turned left and headed for his tree. He reached into his duster pocket and brought out a bottle of San Pellegrino. "Stole this from the Slayer's party." The light from the streetlamp glinted off the bottle as he screwed off the top and poured it where the tree's trunk met the ground. "Good stuff, or so I hear. Water's not on my list of preferred liquids."

He watched as the water soaked into the ground, and then stuck the empty bottle back into his pocket. He found a bottle of beer in the other pocket and, slumping down against the tree, he opened it and drank down half. "Reality is a bitch, huh?" he said, nudging the exposed root with his knee. "A bitch named Buffy. The one in the dream– she'd like this gift, huh? But I guess I'm stuck with the real one."

He rested his head against the trunk and finished off his beer. And then he heard the thunder of footsteps, and opened his eyes. Dawn stood in front of him, her face as hard as a fist. "You're supposed to be at the party."

"Yeah, well–"

She reached out and grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet. "I can't believe you want her all weepy at her own birthday. You big meanie!"

He got the idea that she didn't mean that as a compliment. "She doesn't want me there."

Dawn pulled him through the gates. "Sure she does. Sometimes she's not really honest about her feelings, but I know she wants you there. And she won't have any fun till you get there."

He thought of the smile Buffy had pasted on as she left him in the hallway. "Sure she wouldn't rather be with that Richard wanker Harris brought?"

"Oh, you heard about Richard? Yeah. Xander's idea of a distraction." Dawn snorted as they headed down the dimly lit sidewalk. "I told him that if he wants to distract Buffy from you, he should be thinking Orlando Bloom, not Sean Astin."

"Both ponces," Spike growled. "But if that's what she wants–"

"She doesn't. She hasn't hardly been more than polite to Richard." She grabbed his hand and tugged. "Come on. It's getting late, and she's getting more and more depressed."

"What about your big surprise?"

She cast him a puzzled glance. "What big surprise? Oh, you mean the gift I got her? I–" She hunched her shoulders up. "Okay. So I stole it. But don't tell her, okay?"

He could hardly object, considering he was probably her role model. But he thought about what Buffy would say if she knew. "You know what Buffy would say."

"Yeah. And I promise. I'm going to stop shoplifting. I promise. I just wanted to get her a nice gift–"

"From now on," he said sternly, "you get the urge, you come to me, okay?"

"And you'll steal it for me?"

"Right. Don't want you to get caught and sent to reform school." He bumped her shoulder. "Wouldn't want you reformed, would I now?"

She grinned up at him as they turned onto Revello. "They probably wouldn't let me hang out with you. Okay, now," she said, mounting the stairs ahead of him. "Be nice now."

"Yeah, well, if Buffy'd ever be nice–"

Dawn looked back. "She is trying. But when you didn't appear, she got mad. I don't blame her–"

He was about to tell her to ask Buffy why he'd disappeared. But he shook his head. No need to drag Dawn in any deeper.

And besides, there was Buffy, standing in the archway to the living room, and when she saw him, her face lit up. Manic-depression, he thought, having just seen an Oprah program about that. Bi-polar. Hating him, and then, a little later, all happy to see him.

Dawn was pushing him from behind. "Go ahead. Give her your present, Spike."

Spike shook his head. "I already–"

"You didn't have to give me anything," Buffy said, her hand already out. "Let me see."

He felt around in his pocket. The water bottle. Other pocket then. Finally he withdrew the silver box and, for the second time that evening, extended it towards her. Buffy opened it, and, as if she'd never seen the locket before, exclaimed, "Oh! How pretty!"

And then she was scrabbling with the catch, and Dawn was saying, "Oh, let me do it, you are going to break it with your Slayer paws," and somehow, between the two of them, they got it open. Spike was feeling a bit disoriented, as Buffy stared down at the little heartshaped photos inside. "My mother," she whispered. "And Dawn." She looked up with a watery smile. "Oh, Spike, it's perfect." She turned her back and held the chain up behind her neck. "Fasten it for me?"

Second time's the charm, he supposed. He fixed the clasp, and she turned and kissed him full on the mouth, in front of everyone, including that ponce Richard who was supposed to be her date, or whatever he was supposed to be, and then she whirled and waltzed into the living room. "Look! Look at what Spike gave me!"

And Dawn was grinning like a cheshire cat, like this was all her doing. She came up and took Spike's arm. "You have to learn to trust, Spike," she said earnestly. "She really does love you, and you have to remember that."

Oh. Oh. Oh, right. He was back in the dream. Maybe, he thought as Buffy came back and drew him into the party, he ought to quit drinking so much. Granted, he'd been drinking this much since– well, since he was an undergraduate at Oxford, probably. But maybe it actually was starting to have an effect, causing all that delirium tremens and alcoholic dementia they discussed on that Discovery Channel program....

Because this all felt really real, especially when Buffy sent everyone home and took him up to bed and took off everything but the locket and–

He rose again, with a half an hour to sunrise, and knelt for a moment beside the bed, staring down at her sweet sleeping face. He couldn't stand it. He shook her awake and demanded, "Do you love me? Really? This isn't a dream?"

She gazed up at him like he was crazy but cute, and she said, very slowly, enunciating each syllable. "Yes, I love you. No, this isn't a dream. I'm sorry I made you feel so bad that you doubt it now. But–" Then her eyes filled with tears. "But I've been so happy since I just accepted the truth. Since I gave into loving you. Since I decided to be happy and make you happy. And I was so worried tonight when you didn't come to the party till so late– I thought maybe you had gotten mad at me–"

"No. Never." He laid his head down on her breasts. "No. I just – get worried sometimes. That it's all a dream."

She stroked his cheek. "If it is, it's the most wonderful dream I've ever had." Then she shoved him gently. "You have to go– get home before sunrise. I'll come get you tonight and we'll.... patrol."

He had plenty of time, so he walked slowly through the streets, reluctant to lose the feel of her, the taste of her. Sunrise would come and he'd wake up, and he would lose it all, all the love, all the joy.

As he entered the graveyard, he saw the discarded beer bottle next to the tree. Shouldn't litter my benefactor's ground, he thought, and went over to pick it up. He laid a hand on the trunk. "Good old tree," he whispered. "Kept me safe. Gave me that sweet dream. I just wish I knew... if it was real, or just a dream."

And then, weary, torn between joy and dread, he made his way back to his crypt.

The Choice, Chapter Three

Post-Dead Things
R
Joss owns 'em, I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them




He slept hard till noon, but the part of him that was prey and not predator woke him up. Someone was upstairs. The Slayer, of course. Who else. The real Slayer, he concluded from the force of the doorslam. Not a happy, loving Slayer, but an unhappy, angry one.


Tiredly he pulled on some jeans and climbed up to greet her.


"Sorry if I woke you," she said ungraciously.


He thought maybe it was the first apology of any kind he'd gotten from this slayer, so he just nodded. "What can I get for you?"


She didn't take issue with that– the notion that the only reason she'd be here was to get something from him. But she didn't come right out and say it. Instead, she put her hands in the pockets of her fake-suede jacket and scuffed her boot against the stone floor. "You left the party."


"Yeah." He thought of the other Buffy, the one who loved him, and the warmth of her bed, of her arms, of her kiss. "Yeah. Was late for another party."


She shot him a sharp look. "You had two parties on one night?"


"What a social life, right?"


"You missed all the trouble." Her pretty face twisted. "Dawn trouble."


"Dawn?" His heart sank. Now he remembered that she– the realDawn– had promised a surprise of some kind. "What happened?"


"Oh, she got a vengeance demon, someone Anya knew, to trap us all in the house. And a demon came and slashed Xander and Richard–"


"And I missed it?"


She scowled at him. "Yeah. You might have even been some help, if you weren't so eager to get to your other party."


Spike felt the bitterness grow inside his chest. Had to drown it with blood. He went to the refrigerator and drank straight from the jar. When the bile settled, he said, "Yeah, well, got the feeling I'd be more welcome there. So is the bit okay?"


"Yes. And so," she added pointedly, "are Xander and Richard. But it was really bad there for a couple hours."


"What was it the bit was getting vengeance for?"


Buffy sighed and looked away. "Everyone ignoring her, I guess. She wanted us to stay with her and have fun."


He said regretfully, "The demon would have been fun."


She muttered something that he liked to think was not without you, but probably it wasn't. Then she stared down at the floor and said, "So. Dawn told me. About the locket."


He leaned back against the refrigerator, uneasy. "What did she tell you?"


"That it just had a picture of her, and of my mother."


"Yeah. Well. She supplied the pictures."


"So. Anyway. You know."


"I know what?"


She gave him a quick glance. "I mean, I guess it's okay. For me to take it."


He must still be half-asleep, because he didn't understand what she meant. "Take what?"


"The gift. The locket."


Oh. Right. "Hang on." He crossed the room, staying a couple paces from her, and went to the leather coat hanging on a hook. He felt around in the pockets, found the water bottle, and a party favor, and – no box. Puzzled, he brought out the party favor– a miniature stake with a dangle of red ribbons, crafted by Dawn. DreamDawn.


He held it, the pointy end digging into his palm, the ribbons falling over his wrist.


Not a dream. Not. "I don't have it anymore."


Buffy said, "Did you lose it? My locket?"


He closed his fist around the favor. "No. Gave it away."


"You gave my locket away?"


He looked up to see her disbelief, her stirring of anger. "Yeah. Told you I had another party. Didn't want to waste it, seeing as how you refused it."


"But–" now her voice dropped to a whisper. "My mother's picture. You didn't–"


Suddenly he took pity on her. His undoing. Looking at her face and feeling her feelings. He would never be free of her. "Listen. Buffy. This weird dream I had. You know. I told you."


"What does that have to do with anything?"


"I think it's real. I think.... I think when I'm there, I'm really there. With another Buffy. And I gave her the locket."


She just stared at him. "Another– You're crazy."


He nodded. It was definitely an option. "I know. Sounds mad. But– "


"What else did you give to this... this other Buffy?"


"What do you mean?"


She stalked him then, coming close to him, forcing him back against the wall. Putting her hand flat on his chest. His ribs were mostly healed, but still it hurt. "This Buffy. Invited you to her party. You gave her the locket. Then what?"


Gently he pushed her hand away and eased around her, so that he was in the middle of the room, far enough from her for safety. "Then she took me to bed to thank me. What do you think?"


Something flickered in her eyes. Pain? Anger? Same thing, probably, with this one. "If it's not a dream, then you'd... there'd be evidence."


Well, if the slayer had never heard of wet dreams.... But she was right. He could smell her on him– Buffy. The other Buffy. The loving one. "Yeah. Okay."


'You mean you–"


Buffy's face was – he didn't want to see it. Hurt too much. Hope too much. He looked away. "It– it was like a dream, Buffy. I don't understand it even now."


"You had sex with her."


"With you. With... Buffy. And we didn't have sex. We made love."


"No." She came to him then, fists tight, and instinctively he backed away. Her eyes were blazing, and she opened her hand and grabbed hold of his waistband. And it was only then that he realized she didn't mean to hit him.


But ... it was just having sex. Not making love. Or rather he made love, and she had sex. Even as he surrendered, he knew the difference. Now he knew. Now he could never pretend again.


After, she pulled away from him – none of that poncey sleeping in his arms for this Buffy– and got up and found her clothes on the carpet. He put his arms behind his head and watched her pull on her trousers and yank her blouse over her head. She stuffed her underwear in her pocket, looking down, away from him. Ashamed. As usual.


He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. To sleep, perchance to dream–


"You're thinking of her."


He opened his eyes. "It's you." But he knew it wasn't true. He was thinking of... of being loved. Of being happy. Of being with her, the other her. Not this one, who looked at him with such anger and slammed the door on her way out.


He lay down with a groan. So. He'd succeeded in making her jealous. But what good did that do? It just made her madder. And– and he had the weirdest feeling that he had betrayed– both of them. Both the loving Buffy and the angry Buffy. And none of it made any sense.





Sunset was hardly starting when he left his crypt, staying in the shadow of the cemetery wall. He stayed well clear of the spreading live oak tree, giving it a suspicious glance when he passed through the gates. Then he was running, the buildings blurring around him, until he stopped short in front of the Magic Box.


Through the window he could see Anya at the cash register. He went in, glad to get no recent scent of Harris in the front room. "How's the whelp?"


Anya looked up from her daily receipts. "Fine. Halfrek knows how to reverse the ill effects of a curse. What happened to you, anyway?"


"Had another party to go to."


Anya didn't scoff. She was too busy counting. "$731.29. Remember that."


Spike repeated obediently, "$731.29." He waited more or less patiently until she had counted the last pile, then said, "I got a ques-"


"Wait! Almost done. What was that amount you were supposed to remember?"


He frowned. "Uh. $921– no. $721– no–"


"You're hopeless. It was $731.29." She noted that down, shoved all the cash into a vinyl bank bag, then glanced up at him. "Don't even think it."


"Wouldn't steal from you, love. But– but you think the other shopkeepers in the row–" He shook his head. "Look. Got a question. What do you know about tree spirits?"


Anya zipped up the bank bag, ruminating. "Well, druids. Dryads. Spirits can inhabit any living thing, you know, and some choose trees for their longevity."


"What do they do?"


"Oh, the usual spirit thing. They help the natural order... add flavor to sacred springs. Sow their seeds to populate the forest."


"Generally benign, then."


"Generally. Some have been known to persecute lumberjacks, giving them nightmares of branches falling on them until they're too scared to work. But mostly benign."


"What about –" Spike drew in a breath. "What about trees in graveyards?"


"Aha. Well. A special sort of spirit. It's said to take on the powers of the dead to exist between dimensions. Between worlds."


"So... so it can exist in two different dimensions?" Spike asked. "The same tree?"


"Yes, so it serves as a portal between the dimensions. Some say the tree spirit can even create new dimensions as it creates new branches." She gathered up the bank bag and her purse. "Walk me to the bank," she said. "And no stealing."


He was silent as they walked down the darkening street. Finally he said, "Anya, what if you had the chance to be happy, or the chance to be with Harris? Which would you choose?"


As she shoved the bag into the night depository box, she gave him a sideways glance. "I'd choose being happy with Xander, that's what."


"But–" But that's what he had, wasn't it? The chance to be happy with Buffy. With a Buffy, if not the original one.


By the time he got back to the graveyard, he'd sussed it out. That morning he was so badly hurt, the tree spirit had, well, adopted him. Who knows why. Life as a tree spirit was probably boring, and maybe a battered and beaten vampire falling into its embrace was the tree's most exciting event in decades. And maybe, generous spirit that it was, it granted his wishes. Like his last thought– before what he thought was certain dusting– that he'd never gotten the chance to decide. And the tree spirit heard him and gave him the chance. Gave him the choice. Created another world, one where Buffy loved him. And each time he'd visited the tree since, he'd made some comment, some wish– that he should get home, that he should give the locket to dreamBuffy, that he should know if it was a dream or reality. And they'd all come true.


He had to be careful, with a spirit so benign. So responsive. Had to be careful what he wished for.


So he steered around the tree, only giving it a respectful nod as he went past. He better stick to his crypt till he figured out– whatever he had to figure out.


He spent some time into the Clash again. Played that song Should I Stay or Should I Go all night long, but there was no answer there. Ought to go to that other world– Buffy would be worried about him, wondering where he was– but if he did go, he might not be strong enough to come back.


Finally the next night, he went to the Slayer's house, stood outside, leaning against a tree– a completely spiritless, harmless tree– and smoking, and thinking that he should maybe tell her goodbye. But he had to tell the Bit goodbye too. Wasn't fair just to leave her without a word.


At nine, Buffy dragged up the walk, a Doublemeat Palace bag in her hand. She sensed him and stopped. Waited for him. Just tell her goodbye, he thought. Ask her to send Dawn out. Tell them both goodbye.


But she looked so sad, so tired, so miserable, that instead he gathered her close, held her tight, whispered that she was special, that she was beautiful. And she sighed and put her arms around his neck, and without much ado, they were doing it on the lawn behind the tree. And when it was over she got up and brushed the grass off her pants and said, "You would rather be with her."


Stung, he said, "She loves me. She's willing to admit it. Yeah."


Outlined in the porchlight, she looked back at him. "Does she really exist? This other Buffy? Who lo–" She faltered. Couldn't even say the words. Then, quick, she ran into the house, carrying her paper bag.






She came to him the next day. He didn't expect that– had been packing up a few things, just to be prepared, picked up his old volume of Poe's short stories, gotten distracted by "The Pit and the Pendulum." And so he was sitting on top of a coffin, reading hard, when she came in.


She said she wanted information, but really she wanted reassurance. That he could give her. Like the other Buffy, she asked if he loved her, if he wanted her. And when he said he did, she pushed him down, kissing him fiercely. And she slept for a half hour or so afterwards. It felt– it felt like love. Or at least need.


Or at least trust.


Felt like it, but wasn't. Everything just fell apart. Ah. Just like that. Her ex, the soldier boy, arrived, all olive drab and automatic weapons. But I have Buffy, Spike thought, but of course he didn't. He was just being stupid again. Hoping. Pretending. Before he knew it, she'd switched sides. He knew why. He always knew why she did what she did, why she hurt him like she did. It was a way to hurt herself.


But she was hitting him again. Humiliating him. And knowing she was hurting just as bad only made it worse.





He came back to find they'd trashed his crypt, Buffy and her soldier boy. Set fire to it. Yeah, it was just a crypt. But it was the most home he'd had in decades. This was where Dawn had sat on the coffin with him, eating popcorn, telling him about the evil boys in her class. Joyce had come here last year, sat in that chair, watched that telly. Did Buffy forget that? Why not. She'd forgotten all the times they'd made love here–


He was picking through his vinyl albums– they'd broken most of them, including the Clash he'd just been listening to– when she came in. She'd changed out of her Banana Republic camouflage gear, and was wearing a little slip of a blouse, like baby-doll pajamas. He figured she was there to– well, not apologize. This slayer didn't do that. But she might be trying to make it up to him in her own way, in the usual way.


She stood there, her hands at her side, her stance somehow both uncompromising and tentative. He made an effort to reach her, to annoy her, to arouse her. But nothing worked. She had a little script to recite and she did it with a minimum of fuss. There wasn't anything new there. No real insight. She didn't talk about soldier boy, about what his return and departure had to do with all this. Spike was about to point this out when she blurted out the rest of it.



"I'm using you. I can't love you. I'm just ... being weak, and selfish...."


"No. You're wrong–" He was thinking about the other one, who just let herself love, who lost none of her power by loving him, who didn't think of needing as weakening. Who didn't think of loving as using.


But she cut him off. "And it's killing me."


"It's the withholding that's killing you, Buffy–"


"No. I have to be strong about this." She turned away. And then, very softly, she said, "I'm sorry ... William."


And then she walked out into the sunlight.


She left desolation behind. A heart scraped raw.


But there was also relief. I don't have to choose, he thought. I can just– just leave.


He looked around at the devastation. I can just leave.


He had to leave Dawn a note, of course. Give her what remained of his books and music. Give her what he had left of his life here. Give her what he had of love.


He'd still be leaving. But –


But there was another Dawn there. And maybe being with one would be like being with the other.


He knew it wasn't true. But this wasn't his world anymore, was it? Everything he owned, everything he was, it was all destroyed. He couldn't be Buffy's lover, couldn't be her partner. Couldn't be her protector or her confidant or anything that mattered. And he couldn't be what he was before he met her. He had changed too much.


In that other place, with that other Buffy, he could be... something. Someone.


He took time writing out the note to Dawn. Told her as much as he could tell her. Bequeathed her everything he owned. Signed it with love. Taped it to the shattered television screen. Then he sat down on the stone step in front of his door and waited for the sun to set.