Title: That I May Cease To Be

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Right up through "Never Leave Me."

Summary: After withstanding the First's attempts to break him, Spike suddenly finds himself living William's life as if he'd never died; but how did he get there, and why? And does this mean he'll never see Buffy again?

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon gave us Spike and for that I will ever be his bitch.

Archiving: Please do not archive until it's finished.

Feedback: cousinjean@hotmail.com

A/N: The title is from a John Keats poem, When I have fears that I may cease to be. Big love and gratitude to all of my beta readers and fact checkers: Abby, adjrun, AurelioZen, DevilPiglet, Enkeli and fenwic. More big love to everybody who yelled at me to turn this into a whole fic even after I swore I'd never write fanfic again. Peer pressure works, y'all! If you like this story you can check out my others at http://dancing-lessons.org, or my FF.net profile if that's where you're reading this.

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Part One
*******

He felt cold. Strange, that. He was cold by default, so he never really noticed it. To be warm, that was the anomaly. The thing to be noticed. Savored. But now he was so cold. At least he'd finally stopped shivering. Maybe. Couldn't really tell any more, truth be told. No ... he'd stopped. Shivering took more energy than he had to give.

The chill was just an extension of the darkness. The others had taken all the light with them and left him there, hanging by his straps. He had no more blood to rush to his head, but he still felt woozy. Weak. Lifeless. This was what dying felt like, some part of him remembered. This was what those girls had felt, before he'd buried them. At least they'd gotten to finish. No such mercy for him. For him this feeling would go on forever.

She kept telling him that. Coming to him, long after they'd left. The room was too dark for even him to make out anything but black. But she brought her own light. She glowed from within as she told him, softly, that nobody would come for him. That even if they did, the room was hidden; they wouldn't find him. But they weren't coming, she said. They believed he'd gone willingly. That he'd turned against them. And if they did find him, they would kill him.

That was what she said, but he knew. He knew she wasn't the real one. He was on to this one's tricks. Wouldn't be fooled again. Her voice, nearby, calling his name ... he didn't know if that was real. He wanted it to be. But even if it was, he had no voice to answer. Probably all in his head, anyway.

In the basement -- the other basement. That had been real. It -- she'd -- oh, God. She could see him now. She could see ... and she ...

He felt himself shaking again. Not shivering, though. The moisture running down his nose wasn't blood. Sod it all, tears. He'd done his best not to holler while being sliced and diced, or when that thing had come crawling up out of the ground, unleashed by his own blood. He'd kept mum whenever the other one taunted him, tried to get a rise out of him. But now ...

She believed in him. And all he could do was hang here and weep like a bloody useless git, praying she believed enough to come and save him.

"Spike!"

Her voice again. Sounded close, right outside. He tried to draw air into his dead lungs so he could call out to her, but it only made him cough. "Here," he finally managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm here." But her voice moved away. "Buffy ..."

He couldn't hold out much longer. Oblivion threatened to overtake him, and he wanted so badly to let it. But he had to fight, to hold on. She'd expect that of him, and he couldn't let her down. Not now. Not after ... everything. She would come for him. Just in the nick of time, as she always did. He knew this, believed it. Believed in her. He'd always believed in her.

Footsteps sounded somewhere close by, sending a surge of hope through him. A door scraped open, and the room flooded with a blinding light. It washed over him along with relief. He felt hands on him, heard a voice calling his name. But it was the wrong voice. The wrong name. The hands were pushing against him. As he tugged at his straps he realized he was lying on his back.

"William! William, can you hear me? Open your eyes, son."

The light faded to a tolerable level and he did as he was told. As his eyes adjusted he squinted up at the slightly blurred face of a middle-aged man in a white coat. Something familiar about him. A woman stood beside him, wearing an old-fashioned nurse's uniform. Spike tilted his head and stared up at her.

The man in white turned to her. "His glasses," he prompted. She produced a pair of wire frames from her smock and placed them on Spike's face. Suddenly his vision cleared up. "Is that better?" the man asked.

Spike nodded, and continued to take in his surroundings. He lay strapped to a bed, one of a long row of beds in a white room lit by gaslight. "Wh ... where's Buffy?"

"William, do you know where you are? Do you remember how you got here?"

He shut his eyes and tried to figure it all out. "I ... they cut me ..."

"Yes. Whoever attacked you did a horrendous job of cutting your throat. They found you bleeding in the stalls. You're fortunate that Tom Hobson likes to go riding at night, else you'd have likely been dead by the time they found you."

"What are you ... I am dea--" And then it hit him. He wasn't cold anymore. Air flowed in and out of his lungs of its own accord. And his heart ... oh, God. It was beating.

The man smiled kindly and shook his head. "Indeed, William, you're very lucky to be alive. Of course, the police sent someone over to speak with you if you're feeling up to it."

Spike stared up at him for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

***

To be continued ...

**************
PART TWO
**************

"William?"

"Oh, you're good," Spike said as his laughter died down. "Gotta hand it to you, mate, this is your best mindfuck yet."

The nurse gasped. "Doctor!"

"Please prepare a sedative," the doctor told her, "and tell the constable there will be no interview tonight." He turned back to Spike. "William, do you even know who I am?"

"I give sod all who you are. Or what. I'm on to you now. You're not gonna make me hurt them! Not anymore."

"Hurt whom?"

Spike shook his head. "The Slayer's gonna destroy you. Do whatever you want to me, but you can't touch her. Can't beat her. She's gonna kick your ass." He pulled against his restraints. "Let me off of here and I'll do it myself!"

"We had to restrain you because you would not stop tearing at your bandages. If you wish to be freed you will have to calm yourself." Spike kept tugging against his bonds. "Nurse, hurry!" The doctor put his hands on both shoulders and pinned Spike to the mattress. "You're going to make yourself bleed again."

Spike giggled. "Can't bleed anymore. You took it all out of me."

"You lost a lot of blood, yes, but we got to you in time."

"No, you didn't. She drained me, then fed me, and I died. You're not real! Don't you think I know that?"

"Doctor." The nurse returned with a large syringe, as antiquated as the rest of this place. He took it from her and turned back to Spike.

"What ... what's that?"

"Only something to help you rest."

"No. Keep that away from me."

"It's all right, William. Everything will be all right. Just hold still ..."

"She's here, isn't she? She's close, about to find me. You're trying to shut me up, but you won't."

"If you say so." The doctor pushed up the sleeve of Spike's hospital gown.

Spike snarled at him, tried to pull away, tried to go vamp, but he felt the prick of the needle. "Buffy!" he screamed, then he went limp and glared up at the doc, panting. "You can't keep her from me forever."

"I don't intend to," the doctor replied gently, but he was starting to blur and fade out. Whatever they'd pumped into Spike was already working. The doctor shook his head sadly, and turned away as Spike's eyelids slid shut. "Telegram his mother," Spike heard him say. "He's going to be staying with us for a while." It was the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.

***

When he woke again he saw that the scenery had changed. Different room. Smaller, bit more private. Still horribly quaint and hospital-like, though. He was alone, still strapped down. Sunlight flooded in through a small window set high in the wall, spilling across his sheet. It stopped an inch shy of his fingertips. For some reason this didn't alarm him like it should have. Probably because hallucinated sunlight couldn't kill you.

He lay there for a while, watching it creep toward his bare skin. Then on impulse he decided to meet it halfway, straining to stretch his hand forward. When his fingertips reached the light, he instinctively jerked his hand back; then he tried again, leaving them there this time. It felt warm. Not hot, nor deadly. Just ... warm, and pleasantly so. Dust motes caught in the beam swirled around his fingers. He watched, completely mesmerized by the lack of pain or catching on fire.

The curtain beside his bed slid back and he jumped.

"Ah, you're awake," the doctor said cheerfully. Spike recognized him now. Dr. Comfrey, his family's physician. "I trust you're feeling better after all that sleep?"

Spike simply glared at him for a moment then went back to playing in the sunbeam.

"I see." Comfrey made a little disapproving grunt. Then he brightened. "You have a visitor."

"Sod off."

"William!"

The voice was female, and familiar, like a distant memory. Despite its shocked tone, hearing it instantly made him feel warm. Loved. Spike turned back to see a well-dressed woman standing there, grey-haired and handsome, with soft eyes set in an angular face. Those eyes looked frightened and disapproving now, but he knew that they could also look loving and proud. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Mama?"

She bustled over to his bedside and stared in outrage at his straps. She turned back to Comfrey. "What is the meaning of these?"

"He was out of control. We were afraid --"

"Nonsense! William would never harm anybody."

The doctor adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "They were for his own protection."

Her hands wrung together as she took in the sight of him, just like they always had whenever she was distraught. God, she looked so ... convincing. Smelled it, too. His heightened senses were gone, but he could still pick out the scents of lavender and face powder that always reminded him of her.

"Oh, my dear boy," she sighed, stroking his hair. For a moment he went with it, leaned into her touch and savored the coolness of her hand against his brow. Then he remembered, and flinched away.

"Stop."

She froze, hand in midair. "William, what --"

"I told you, you can't fool me!" He laughed. "This is a good trick, I'll grant you that. Really --" he looked his "mother" up and down -- "detailed." He shook his head. "But it won't work. I know better now."

"What are you talking about? And why are you speaking in that manner?"

"You might as well let me go, y'know? She's going to find you, and she's going to cause you pain, you can bloody well be sure of that. Come to think of it, maybe I don't mind hanging 'round to see the show, so to speak. It's sure to be better than this one."

Her face fell, and despite everything he felt a pang of guilt. She drew back and regarded him for a moment. Then she turned to the Doctor. "Please leave us."

"I'm not certain that would be wise."

"I would like a moment alone with my son, if you please."

Comfrey looked back and forth between them, then nodded. "Of course. If you need anything, simply ring the bell."

She watched him go, then she went to undo Spike's restraints. He waited, watching as she unbuckled each strap. "Dr. Comfrey said that you lost a great deal of blood. It's understandable that you're imagining things." She moved to the last one. "Still, that's no excuse for them tie you to your bed like some kind of crimin--urgh!"

Spike grabbed her throat. He got out of bed and backed her up against the wall, careful not to squeeze too hard. He couldn't bring himself to really hurt her. Didn't even know if he could. He'd never tried to fight the thing before. Maybe ... maybe if he squeezed hard enough ...

"William!" she gasped, clawing at his hand. "William, please ..." Her eyes, wide with terror, filled with tears.

His certainty crumbled and his hand fell limp at his side. She massaged her throat, gasping for air and staring at him in bewilderment and fear. "You're not real," he insisted.

She swallowed. "William ... don't ... don't you know your own mother?"

He backed away from her, shaking his head. Then he turned away and crouched down, hiding his head in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut as he choked back a sob. "Why are you doing this to me?" He lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder. "Why her?"

She approached him with hesitation, but when he didn't make a move she knelt beside him. "Darling ... I know you experienced something awful, but you must listen to me. Your manner of speech, your crude language, your ... wild imaginings ... it all has to stop." Again, she stroked his hair. "Dr. Comfrey spoke to me of having you committed, do you know that?" Her voice shook as she spoke. "If you continue this behavior I'll have no choice. And you know our situation has been growing worse since your father passed away. I don't know if we can afford a private hospital, and the things I've heard about those public asylums ..." Her hand flew to her mouth and she choked back a sob. "Please, William. You must pull yourself together so I can take you home. I don't ... I can't manage without you ..." As she trailed off, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Spike crouched there and watched her, feeling like an utter shit for making her cry. He didn't know what she was: hallucination, ghost, evil incarnate doing a bang-up impersonation. He couldn't yet allow for the possibility that this was real, that he'd really been pulled through time somehow and his siring had somehow been undone. That would mean ... that would mean a lot of things that were too terrible to contemplate at the moment. Still, this was the closest he'd been to his mother, real or otherwise, since he'd died. And he wasn't going to find out anything lying about in a horribly uncomfortable hospital bed convincing everyone he was stark, slavering buggo. If this was a game, he might as well play it. 'Sides, it sure as hell beat hanging on that wheel in the dark waiting for the hunger to kick in.

"All right," he said, changing his accent to match hers. He gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. "Mum ... Mother. I ... I'm sorry. Didn't know where I was. But I'm better now."

She sniffled. "Really?"

He nodded, and forced a smile. "I'll be fine, I promise. Just, please don't cry." He wiped her cheek. "You know I can't bear it when you cry."

She returned his smile. "Oh, William!" She gathered him into her arms, and he let her. "You're coming home with me," she said, hugging him and rocking him gently. "Everything will be all right."

Spike hugged her back, for the moment pretending she was real, and that she was right.

***

To be continued ...

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PART THREE
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All he'd had to wear home was his best suit. Same one he'd died in. Same one he'd been buried in. It itched, and pinched, and made him long for a nicely worn pair of Levi's. If his discomfort was part of the hallucination, he wished he didn't have quite so vivid an imagination.

He and his mother rode in silence, the better to avoid saying anything that might upset her. Spike gazed out the window as they went, taking in the old city. He felt oddly at home even as he felt like a foreigner, like he didn't belong. He didn't belong. Mustn't forget that. Each site they passed jogged his memory, filling him with an odd mix of nostalgia and dread. Like a bloody high school reunion in hell. Or was that redundant?

A thought occurred to him then. Maybe he really was dead -- dust -- and this was hell. Or, he thought, glancing at his mother, could it be heaven? If his soul had been in heaven it brought no memory back with it. 'Course, he'd figured the soul was just as damned as the rest of him now. If this was heaven, it was nothing like he'd imagined it. Nothing like Buffy'd described.

No. If this were heaven, the thought of never seeing her again wouldn't cause him so much despair.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to abandon that train of thought. When he opened them again he saw the Addams's house, where he'd made such a bleeding fool of himself over that Cecily bint. Suddenly it felt like it really had happened only yesterday. A moment later they passed the stable where he'd first met Dru. He'd always thought of that as his birthplace; but now a cave in Africa held that distinction. The stable held only death. Except, it didn't, did it? Now it was simply the place where he'd been left for dead but then rescued in time. It made no sense. Not only the torturous trip down memory lane, but, well, why would she have left him there? What changed? Spike felt the strange sensation of his heart speeding up as a thought occurred to him: maybe finding out what had gone wrong was the key to getting back.

The carriage came to a stop in front of his family home -- a place he had thought he'd never lay eyes on again. Especially since this whole block had been demolished in the sixties to make way for a ruddy car park. Spike got out without waiting for the driver. His mouth went dry as he stood frozen in place, staring up the steps at the front door.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, and he turned to help his mother out of the cab. She looked up at him with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, Mum." She raised an eyebrow. "Mother," he corrected.

She nodded, but as she pulled her shawl more tightly around her she didn't look convinced. "You behave as though you haven't been home in ages."

"Bit knackered, is a--" He caught himself, and sighed internally. Mind your speech, Mate. And by the way? "Mate"'s right out. He straightened his posture and gave her an apologetic smile. "So much has happened. The laudinum, the police interview ... it's all taken a lot out of me."

"Yes, well." She patted his arm. "All the better to get you settled so you can rest." She started up the steps, and he followed.

A woman opened the door to them. Short, plump, and at least ten years older than his mother. She had a no-nonsense look about her, but she smiled warmly as they entered. Spike remembered liking this woman.

"Good to see you feeling better, Master William," she said.

Spike just nodded, trying to recall her name.

"Mrs. Stanley," his mother supplied, "will you turn down William's bed for him? Perhaps you should also draw him a bath."

"That won't be necessary," he cut in. "Please, Mama," he said before she could protest. "I just want to clean up, get out of this sod-- er, this suit." Get some time alone to figure out what the bloody hell is happening to me. "I can manage myself."

Mother studied him warily, then nodded as she handed off her hat and shawl to the housekeeper. "You've some time until supper. Try to rest."

He smiled. "Of course."

She returned his smile, comforted at last. Then she tilted her head and watched him expectantly. Was there something else he was supposed to do? When he made no move, she tapped her index finger against her cheek. Oh, right. Spike leaned down and planted a kiss there. She looked satisfied, but then her eyes fell on his bandage. She reached up to stroke it. "Do be more careful in the future, William."

"Yes, Mother."

With a sigh, she reached up to tousle his hair. Then she turned and whisked into the parlor, giving more instructions to Mrs. Stanley. Spike watched her for a moment before starting for the staircase.

Just walking up was an exercise in the surreal. Family portraits stared down at him as he went, people he hadn't spared a moment's thought for since he'd died but who had been so important to him before. Like his father, who glowered down all disapproving, as though he knew Spike wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe he could tell him how to get home? He bet Red could make him do that. Too bad she wouldn't be born for another hundred years. Nor Buffy ...

"Focus, Spike," he muttered to himself as he reached the landing.

His room sat at the opposite end of the hall, looking just as he remembered: cluttered and disorganized, despite Mrs. Stanley's best efforts at keeping it clean. Stacks of books covered the night table and window seat. Papers lay piled on the writing desk, threatening to spill onto the floor if so much as a fruitfly sneezed too hard. Spike crossed over to them, picked up a handful, and read:

My lady's locks, an ebon delight,
cascading curls aglow with starlight.
He dropped the papers back on the desk with a disgusted sigh. This new big bad must really hate him. Even he couldn't imagine that he used to be such a naive prat. He shook his head, then caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and jumped. The sight of himself standing across the room raised his hackles and he prepared to fight. Then he realized: his reflection, was all.

Was all?

A young man with bloody ridiculous hair stared back at him with a tilted head and an expression of wonder. Maybe just a little sadness. His glasses were crooked. Spike reached up and adjusted them, a little disconcerted to see his movements matched in the mirror. It wasn't that he'd forgotten what he looked like. He'd seen pictures, security camera footage, sketches -- hell, he figured his evil twin these past few weeks was about as perfect a likeness as it gets. But this was different. It was all backwards. The bloke in the mirror matched him movement for movement, but it was all opposite, wasn't it? Stupid thing to surprise him, really. Not like he'd never looked in a mirror before; but he hadn't had cause to think about it in so long. It was almost funny. He was lefthanded, his reflection was righthanded. The scar in the mirror was on his left eyebrow instead of ... hold up.

Spike crossed over to the mirror and leaned in close. He ran a finger along his eyebrow, smooth and unmarred. 'Course it was. The scar was still twenty years off. He dropped his hand and leaned against the basin stand, looking to see what else was different. Except for the scar and the specs, it should be the same face, right? The face he died with, aged no more than a day. So how come it felt so strange to have such wizened, world-weary eyes looking back at him from underneath those poofy bangs?

His eyes dropped to the bandage on his neck. More newness. First time 'round, that wound had already healed by the time he'd dug his way out of the grave. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the bed, then turned back to the mirror and unwrapped his neck. Tilting his head for a better look, he traced the bite. Drusilla's, all right. He knew it like he knew her signature. Least that much had happened right.

With a sigh, Spike took off his glasses and rolled up his sleeves, then bent over the basin and splashed water on his face. He felt around until his hand found a towel. As he dried off, he straightened up and opened his eyes.

And looked right into the eyeless, hooded face of a Harbinger.

Spike jumped, but then it was gone, and he wasn't even sure he'd really seen it. He leaned in for a closer look, pressing his hands against the glass, almost hoping it would give, suck him through like some expensive horror movie effect. Or at least bring the image back up. Just show him some sign ... prove to him that he wasn't out of his mind. Or maybe that he was.

"Really, William, you're not that handsome."

Spike spun around. A man lounged in the doorway. Blond hair, mustache, insufferable smirk. "Who ..."

The bloke straightened and sauntered into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "What do you mean, 'who'? It hasn't been that long since I was last in London."

Spike just stared, racking his brain to place him.

The man laughed. "They said you almost got your throat sliced open. They said nothing about hitting your head." As Spike continued to stare, the laughter faded. "Oh, come now, William. We're practically brothers!"

Nothing.

"Cambridge? We shared rooms for four terms! You can't be serious."

It was coming back to him. Spike smiled. "Hello, Charlie."

Charlie looked at him sideways. "You almost had me."

Spike quirked an eyebrow. "Almost?"

"Wasn't fooled for a minute."

"Course not," said Spike. Charlie just stood there with a quizzical expression. "Um ..." Spike motioned to a set of chairs beside the fireplace. "Please, have a seat." Had to remember he was someplace where etiquette was expected. "So ... what brings you to London?"

"Business, of course. I won't bore you with the details." Charlie pulled off his gloves as he sat down. "I arrived only this afternoon, but when I heard my old chum William was the talk of the town I had to come and get the story straight from the horse's mouth."

Spike paused, half-standing, half-sitting, and gave his friend a pointed look. "I'm quite well, Charlie, thank you for asking."

"I was getting to that." His eyes flicked down to Spike's neck. "My God, William. What in blazes happened?"

Good question. Spike's eyes drifted to the fire. "'La belle dame sans merci,'" he said softly, tracing the bite with his fingers.

Charlie sighed, loudly. "Oh, William, for heaven's sake."

That got him a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Everyone is saying that you fled the Addams's party after Cecily broke your heart."

"That's not what -- well, that is what happened. What of it?"

"What -- William, everybody thinks that you were trying to get killed. I refused to believe it, but ..."

"But what? And who said that?"

"Everyone is saying it!"

"Well it's not true!" Spike jumped out of his chair and paced in front of the fire.

"But you said ..."

"Said what?"

"La belle dame ... isn't that Cecily?"

Spike stopped, and considered. "Indeed it is. But I didn't mean her. I was talking about the one who gave me this." He pointed at the bite mark.

Charlie's eyes went wide. "What, you mean a woman did that to you?"

Spike nodded absently. "Believe me, Charlie, I am completely over Miss Cecily Addams."

"What, just like that? But only in your last letter you said ... oh." Charlie laughed. "Lord, William, don't tell me this cutthroat lady thief has stolen your heart."

"What? No." Not this time. "Nothing like that."

"Glad to hear it. You do have an awful habit of setting your sights on impossible women." Charlie checked his pocket watch and stood up. "I'll have to press you for details later. For now I must be off."

Spike nodded. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Will you feel up to a round at the club this evening?"

Club? Oh, right. "Mother's having Cook fix all my favorites tonight. I can't skip out."

"Meet me after, then. Give you a chance to set the record straight about your suicide attempt. Perhaps we can even set forth a nasty rumor about Miss Addams."

Spike smiled at that. "Now, Charlie, that wouldn't be gentlemanly."

"No, but it would be fun. I'll see you there?"

"Yeah. Yes." Spike nodded. "I'll be there."

"Very good. Until then, get some rest. I'll see myself out."

Spike watched him go, marveling at how easily he'd slipped back into the role. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen his old friend, and realized he could still remember how he had tasted. He squeezed his eyes shut against that memory. When he opened them again, he looked at the mirror.

You do have an awful habit of setting your sights on impossible women.

The only woman he cared about was about to face the fight of her life a hundred some-odd years in the future. Spike sunk back into his chair and stared at the fire as he considered the possibilities, even the ones he didn't want to face. God help him, if he had to live out the rest of his life without Buffy ...
No. This trip down memory lane had been fun, but it was time to end it. There had to be a way back -- had to be!

For now he would rest, and after that he would enjoy dinner with his mother. Then he would figure out just exactly what the hell was happening to him.


***

Mum hadn't been pleased when he'd told her he was going out. The old William would have caved and sent Charlie his regrets; but sod it all, he needed to get out. He couldn't just sit around, stewing in his fears and driving himself even more brain-buggered. Nor could he relax and enjoy the fantasy. He felt an overwhelming need to do something. And he needed a drink. Make that drinks, plural. Something a great deal stronger than the sherry his mother kept hidden in the larder.

The sun hadn't yet set when he left. He went two blocks sticking to the shadows before remembering that he didn't have to. Couldn't get used to that. Not that he had any intention of getting used to it. Another block, and he reached the stable. He didn't know how long he stood outside. Long enough for the evening shadows to grow longer and almost disappear. What was it he'd told Buffy about his turning? That dying had made him feel truly alive? God, but he'd been full of shit that night.

He took a deep breath to steel himself, and grimaced at the smell of horses. Animal sweat, straw and manure. Something else, too. Blood. Even his human nose could detect it. He entered, but halted just inside, letting the memory wash over him. Shredded pieces of paper lay scattered on and around the bale of hay he'd been sitting on when ...

He jumped, realized he was standing in the same spot Dru had been when he'd first laid eyes on her. He moved forward, bent and picked a scrap of paper out of the straw. It contained a single word, neatly scripted in his own handwriting: "effulgent." With a rueful smile, he let it go and watched it flutter to the ground. He raised his eyes again and saw the spot where she'd seduced him.

Murdered him.

Damned him.

He'd never thought of it in those terms before. But as he crouched beside a patch of straw stained with his blood, the full weight of what Drusilla had done struck him so hard that he flinched. He put his hands out to steady himself.

Do you want it?

Yes. God, yes.

But he hadn't known what she was offering. If he had, would he have taken it? He honestly couldn't say. He couldn't hate her for it, though. Couldn't stay angry. She hadn't known any better. He couldn't make that excuse for himself -- not really -- but for her, it was true. All she'd wanted was to make herself a playmate.

"So why didn't you?" he asked, his fingers finding their way to her bitemark on his neck. "Why didn't you finish it, Dru?"

"Please tell me you're not developing a morbid fascination with your own death."

Spike stood and looked back at the entrance. "Charlie?"

"Although, it could help your poetry. Turn you into the next Edgar Allan Poe. But hopefully with a less dismal ending." Charlie grinned at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was on my way to see if you wanted to ride to the club together. But then I saw you come in here and simply had to follow."

"I just --" Spike looked around and shrugged. "I was curious. Nothing to see here, though."

"Well I could have told you that. Now come along. This place smells like a stable."

Spike caught himself smiling. "Off we go, then." He followed his friend out of the stable. Charlie kept casting sideways glances at him as they strolled along the street. Finally, Spike had enough. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Then stop looking at me."

"Fine." They walked a few more paces before Charlie sighed. "It's only that, well, you seem different since we last met. More ... oh, I don't know. You're standing straighter, for one thing."

"Guess dying tends to change a man."

"You didn't die, William."

"Came close, didn't I?" Spike shrugged. "Call it a new lease on life." Call it whatever you bloody well like, just don't make me act like that priggish tosser all evening.

"Indeed. I believe I might very well like the new you."

"The new me is glad to hear it."

They passed by a pub. Looked rough, long as you didn't compare it to Willie's. Full of loud working class blokes and barmaids with cleavage pushed up to their necks. Just the sort of place where Spike felt right at home. But not William. Not by a long shot.

"All right. There is the new you, and then there is a complete stranger masquerading as my old chum William. Which would you be, then?"

"Huh?" Spike realized he'd stopped outside the pub and was staring in. Charlie had walked on past and now stood leaning on his cane, staring at Spike like he'd ... well, like he'd gone all bumpy. Spike rubbed his forehead just to be sure. Nope, still smooth.

"You don't want to go in there."

Spike shrugged. "Long as we're here ..."

"You're joking."

"What? Surely you've been inside a pub before."

"I ... well, yes, I have. Frequently. But the point, you see, is that you haven't."

Spike grinned, enjoying Charlie's shock. "First time for everything," he said; then he went inside. He strode toward the back, ignoring hostile glances from the regular patronage, and found a table relatively sheltered from the noise. As he sat down he saw Charlie doing his best to squeeze through the crowd without bumping into anybody.

Reaching the table, Charlie eyed him suspiciously. "I'm beginning to suspect that perhaps you have done this before."

Spike smirked and turned his attention to the barmaid coming to greet them.

"Nothing for me, thanks," Charlie said before she could ask, and pulled a silver flask from his coat.

"What'll ye have?" she asked Spike.

"Whiskey. Strongest you got."

She looked him up and down incredulously, then shrugged and went to get his drink.

"I wish you would stop looking at me like that," Spike finally said to Charlie.

"But I can't help it. I don't know who you are anymore."

Spike frowned, his good mood fading. "Wish I could tell you." The waitress set his drink in front of him. Spike picked it up, drained it, and handed her the glass. "I'll need another one of these."

The expression on Charlie's face changed from bemused to concerned. "What's happened to you, William?"

Spike opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again and shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

Spike nodded his thanks to the barmaid as she set a second drink in front of him. He twirled the glass on the table, watching the golden liquid swish around inside. "Let's just say, I've been through a lot since last you saw me."

"Now that, I'm inclined to believe." Charlie took a swig from his flask and put it away. Then he leaned back in his chair and took a long, hard look at Spike. "You seem ... older, somehow."

"I feel about a hundred years older."

Charlie shook his head. "What exactly did Miss Addams do to you?"

Spike sighed, irritated. "It's not about Cecily." He took a drink of his whiskey.

"What is it, then?"

Maybe he should just lay it all out there. Tell Charlie the whole story. Spike considered this, then shook his head. "It's about --" He stopped as a familiar shape flitted into his line of vision over Charlie's shoulder. Spike stared at her. "Drusilla."

Charlie frowned. "I don't know any Drusilla. What family is she ..." At last he caught on and followed Spike's gaze. "Oh. Oh!" He laughed. "Well, one thing hasn't changed, William. You're still refreshingly naive about women." Then he frowned again. "That is, unless your new lease on life includes taking members of the oldest profession to your bed."

Spike spared him a glance. "She's not a whore, Charlie."

"William, of course she's ..."

Spike tuned him out, focusing solely on Dru as she slinked from man to man, all seduction, charm and grace. She looked lovely, with black ringlets spilling out from beneath her hat, over her shoulders and down the back of her burgundy dress -- the personification of beauty and death. This felt familiar. Then he remembered why. They used to play this game. She'd go in, play the temptress, the whore. He would sit in the back, just as he was doing now, and watch her hunt, enjoying the way she toyed with her prey. Then she'd lure one out to the back alley. He would follow, and together they would feast.

He wondered vaguely if perhaps he'd somehow been split in two halves, good and evil, and if William the Bloody Fledgling was waiting out in that alley for his sire to bring him his first meal. Then another thought occurred to him: what if she was his way back? Maybe this was his chance to put things back the way they were supposed to be.

The tip of a cane waved in front of his face. "William!" Charlie sounded irritated. "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

"What? No, sorry."

"I said, I do believe you're drunk."

"Why?"

"Look at you! Sitting there all vacant, swaying back and forth ... and you're a little green around the gills."

Spike did feel a bit nauseated, but not because of the whiskey. "'M not drunk! Only had two, takes a hell of a lot more'n that to get me --" Ah, bugger. Not a vampire anymore, you nit!

"Since when?"

"Shut up, Charlie."

Charlie laughed. "Perhaps it's time we got you home. Or maybe we should go somewhere and get you a strong tea. I wonder if they serve ... ."

But Spike's attention was back on Drusilla as she took a burly sailor by the hand and led him towards the back door. If he was still evil, Spike would be making a joke about seafood right about now. "Excuse me, Charlie," he said as the couple passed right by their table. He grabbed his glass, took another drink, then stood up and bumped right into the sailor, splashing the remainder of his whiskey all over him.

"What the ... Christ!" the sailor shouted.

Spike did his best to look mortified. "Oh, dear, I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't see you there."

"Watch it, will you?"

"Of course!" Spike pulled out his handkerchief. "Here, allow me," he said, dabbing at the whiskey stains on the man's uniform.

"Oi! Bugger off, you poncey git!" He looked around, searching frantically. "Now you've made me lose the bird."

"Bird?" Spike looked confused as he adjusted his glasses. "I didn't see a bird, but I'd be happy to help you look for it. Was it a parrot?"

"William!" Charlie hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, just piss off," the sailor said, and went back to the bar.

Charlie looked appalled. "Would you mind explaining to me --"

"Later, Charlie. Back in a mo'." Spike went out the back door to the alley. It appeared empty, but no telling what lurked in the shadows. He walked down the street a little ways, peering into the dark. "Drusilla?" No answer, though he thought he heard a rustle that might have been a skirt. "I only want to talk, to ask you something, Pet. Please, Dru --"

"Now I can't imagine what you'd be wanting with my little girl," a voice said behind him. Spike froze, the hair all along his spine standing on end as he recognized the Irish brogue. "And I especially can't imagine why you'd go and chase away our supper. But no harm done, I s'pose." A heavy hand clasped his shoulder and spun him around. Angelus grabbed his throat and grinned, showing off his fangs. "You'll do in a pinch."

***
To be continued

****************
PART FOUR
****************

Spike clawed at Angelus's hand, but his grip only tightened. Spike couldn't breathe. He felt himself lifted up, his toes barely dragging the ground, then not touching at all. Then Angelus threw him across the alley. He hit the wall and bounced, landing in a heap face down on the cobblestones.

Slowly, Spike pushed himself up, shook his head to clear it and to stop the ringing in his ears. He tasted blood in his mouth. He didn't like it. This made him laugh. He glanced up and saw a pair of ugly brown boots stomping towards him, which made him laugh harder. A hand reached down and grabbed his collar, then hauled him up and slammed him against the wall.

"Mind telling me what it is you're finding so funny?"

"Nothing," Spike said, managing to get his laugher under control. "'S just, I thought it was meant to be Dru. But you'll do in a pinch."

"Will I now?"

"You're not my ideal for a sire, but I don't s'pose it'll make that much difference in the long run, will it?"

Angelus seemed a little taken aback. He looked Spike up and down. "That's awful big talk coming from a dandy such as yourself. And what makes you so certain I intend to sire you?"

"Guess I'm not." Spike shrugged. "Do what you want, mate. Just do it quick. Don't know about you, but I'm starting to get bored." As Angelus took a moment to think about it, Spike made a show of looking around. "By the by, where's Darla?" He laughed again and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't tell me. You had a fight and she locked you out of your room again."

Angelus's eyes narrowed. "And just how is it that you know Darla?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Indeed I would." Angelus grinned. "But you can tell me later." He grabbed Spike's face and forced it sideways, cheek pressed against the brick as a hand on his other cheek pinned him there. Another hand grabbed his collar and jerked it open, exposing Dru's bitemark. "Looks like my girl already got a taste of you."

"Just finish it," Spike said, closing his eyes and bracing himself. He hated this. He didn't want to live through that again, to do it all over. But if that was the only way to get back ...

"William! Where did you -- what are you doing?"

Spike opened his eyes. Charlie stood in the alley, a picture of bewilderment. "Charlie, get away. Run!"

With a growl, Angelus glanced toward Charlie. "Nice distraction," he said, turning back to Spike. "And here I thought you were sincere. Don't worry, though. I'll get your friend Charlie when we're done here, and he can join you."

"That's not how it's supposed to happen," said Spike.

Angelus shrugged. "You'll find I don't do well with 'supposed to'." He lunged, and bit. Spike didn't cry out this time. Until he saw Charlie again, coming up behind Angelus, cane raised over his head. "Charlie, no!"

With a growl, Angelus dropped Spike and spun around. When Charlie saw his face he dropped his cane and staggered back toward the pub. Tearing his glasses from his face, Spike grabbed Angelus's shoulder. When he turned back Spike jammed the earpiece into his eye. Angelus howled in pain. Without looking back Spike ran, grabbing Charlie and pulling him back into the pub and through the crowd, not caring who they jostled or pissed off along the way.

Out in the street, he kept running, still dragging Charlie by the wrist. He couldn't keep going, though. He was so bloody human now; he had limits. A stitch in his side, a tightening in his chest and frantic pleas from Charlie all told him to stop. But he couldn't. Not yet. Wasn't safe.

He spotted a church at the end of the block and pulled Charlie towards it. Once they were inside Spike collapsed, dropping to his knees and leaning forward to rest his head on the floor, gasping for air. Beside him Charlie stood doubled over, hands braced on his knees. Least Spike wasn't alone in being out of shape.

Soon as he could talk, Charlie straightened and looked down at William. "What. The bloody hell. Was that?"

Spike rolled onto his back. "That ... my dear Charlie ... was a vampire."

Charlie stared at him for a beat. Then he burst out laughing. Spike pulled his collar aside and showed him his new bite wound. Charlie stopped laughing.

"But. That ... no. It can't be."

"'Course it can."

Charlie went to the nearest pew and sunk down. He pulled out his flask and took a long drink.

Spike got to his feet. "That empty yet?"

With a grimace, Charlie shook his flask. "I'm afraid so."

"Good." Spike pointed at the holy water. "Go fill it up again."

Charlie stared at his flask, then looked back at the holy water. "That really works? Are you certain?"

"Oh yeah, it works. Burns like a son of a bitch." Spike headed down the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. A table on his right held candles and various religious artifacts. Carefully, Spike reached down and picked up a small, wooden crucifix. He took a moment to marvel at being able to hold it in his hand.

"What now?" Charlie called from the back.

Spike tucked the cross into his coat and went to meet Charlie. "Now we go home."

"I lost my cane," said Charlie.

"Yeah, you did."

"You lost your glasses."

"I'll get along without them. Now come on. Let's get a cab."

Spike saw Charlie home first. Along the way, Charlie kept silent as Spike explained to him the rules of basic vampire safety. When they reached his hotel, Charlie swallowed, and nodded, and got out of the cab. Then he turned back to Spike.

"We're going to have a talk about all of this, William."

Spike just nodded his head. He stayed until Charlie got safely inside, then he directed the driver to take him home.

Mrs. Stanley met him at the door. "Master William!" she gasped when she saw him. "What's happened?"

Spike looked down at his disheveled clothes. "Got into a bit of a row. Is Mother still awake?"

"She retired about an hour ago."

"Good. Now listen. I don't want you to open the door to any strangers, and don't invite anybody in until you check with me first. Understand?"

"But your mother won't --"

He raised his voice. "Do you understand?"

The housekeeper nodded. "Yes sir."

"Good. Sorry to shout, but it's important. And, um, don't tell Mother about how I look." He smiled. "You know how she worries."

"Yes. And rightly so by the look of you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stanley."

She gave him one more disapproving look, then went about her business as an exhausted Spike headed upstairs. He pulled off his coat as he trudged into his room, then shrugged off his suspenders, unbuttoned his shirt, and dropped it in a heap beside the wash stand. Examining his new wound in the mirror, it struck him that he looked even more like a stranger than before.

God, what if he was really stuck here? Doomed to live out the rest of William's life, to die a lonely old man decades before Buffy would even be born. And what would become of her if that were the case? He didn't kid himself that he mattered that much in the grand scheme of things -- hell, a lot of people would have been a lot better off if William the Bloody had never existed -- but he'd saved her life enough times to know that he mattered in that context, even if he never mattered to her.

Spike sighed. He was too bloody tired to think about it. Not to mention just plain bloody. He grabbed a rag and cleaned himself up. Then he went to his bed and collapsed. A minute later, he was out.

"Spike?"

Her voice was so close now. So close ...

"Oh my God."

"What ... what did they do to him?"

Not just her, then. Both his girls. They'd both come for him.

"My guess is they bled him." Was that ... Giles? "But for what?"

"From the shape of those cuts and the scary evil seal on the floor? I'm thinking it wasn't the Red Cross here for a blood drive. Spike? Talk to me!" A frustrated sigh. "Find me a way to get him down. Xander, Anya, there ought to be a ladder somewhere in this basement. Go get it. But don't get lost."

"Well that's easier said --"

"Wait!" Red. Well then. Gang's all here. "There's a crank dealie over here. This ought to lower him."

"Great. Spike, we'll have you down in a minute. Can you open your eyes?"

Yes. Yes, he could. He could do anything she asked of him. He opened them to see her, but a blinding light hit him and he squeezed them shut. God, please, not again ...

"Xander! Don't shine that in his face!"

"Sorry. Hey Spike, we'll have you down in a jiff, just hang in there. ... Okay, I didn't mean to pun just then. You don't all have to look at me like that."

"Go help Willow."

"Right."

A creaking noise, and he was moving. Soon he was right side up, then a gentle thump, and he stopped.

A hand on his cheek, featherlight caress. "Spike. Look at me."

He did. The light from Harris's torch lined her face, lit her up from behind. She didn't glow like the other one. But God, she was vibrant.

"Buffy?"

"It's okay." She stroked his hair out of his face. "You're gonna be okay."

"I went home."

"Home? What --"

"My mum was there. She petted my hair too."

She pulled her hand away.

"Nice to see he's still with the crazy." No. Not so, Harris. Not anymore.

"He needs blood."

"Well, we've still got bags and bags of it back at the house, so --"

"I don't know if he can wait that long."

Spike licked his lips. Had to go and mention blood, didn't she?

"Giles, bring me that knife."

Xander stepped forward. "Wait ... Buffy, you're not gonna ..."

She ignored him, looked at Giles. "Help me cut him loose."

"Yes, of course."

Spike turned his head to see Giles. "Dad? Izzat you?"

Giles glanced up at Spike, then to Buffy. "Good to know his cunning wit's undamaged."

Spike turned back to Buffy. "Thought I'd never see you again."

She frowned at that. When she spoke, she was quiet. "You had to know I'd come after --"

"Not that. Knew you would. But I ... I was stuck. I tried to get back to you, but ..."

William?

"But, Angelus, he ..."

"It's okay. We're gonna get you out of here and take you home."

William!

"No. Don't, don't wan' go back ..."

Hands holding his face. "Spike?"

Hands shaking him. William!

No!

"Spike! Stay with me!"

I'm trying ...

"William, wake up!"

He opened his eyes and blinked up at his mother.

"It's past noon," she said, pressing her palm to his forehead. "Are you ill?"

Spike knocked her hand away and sat up, looking wildly around his old room. "But I was ... I can't be back ..."

"William, what is the matter?"

Spike looked at her. "She was right here. They all were!"

"Who?" With an exasperated sigh, his mother reached for him. "Darling--"

"No!" Spike pulled away from her. He drew his knees up and rested his head on them. "I can't do this. Please make it stop. Just let me go back."

"Son ... you had a bad dream, is all."

He raised up and shook his head, then wiped his nose on the sheet. "No. Not a dream. It was --" But then it hit him. It had to be a dream, didn't it? Buffy ... he did believe she would save him, if she could. She probably had bigger problems, though. The others? Harris? Giles? Dawn? He'd be lucky if they'd deign to piss on him if he was on fire. Hell, Giles wasn't even in the sodding country! Of course it was only a dream.

"William, you're beginning to frighten me."

He looked at her then, at the way she was twisting the sheet in her hands. He reached out and took one. "Sorry, Mama. You're right. Had a bad dream."

"That's all?"

He nodded. "That's all."

She sighed, clearly relieved, and patted his hand. Then she stood up. "In that case, please get dressed and come downstairs. You've a visitor."

Spike's eyes widened. "Who?"

"Cecily Addams."

He sighed, in both relief and irritation. "I told Mrs. Stanley --"

"I know very well what you told Mrs. Stanley. She told me your instructions." She eyed him disapprovingly. "She also said that you'd been in a fight and that you came home smelling of cheap whiskey."

"Bleeding narc," Spike muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

His mum began to pace, wringing her hands. She looked like she was searching for the right words. "William," she said at last, "are you in some sort of trouble? Is it ... is there a gambling debt, or perhaps --"

"No, Mother. Nothing like that."

"Then what is happening with you? Why are you behaving so strangely?"

Spike ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I almost died, Mother. I got a good look at what my life was before and I didn't like what I saw."

"And you think a life of drinking, fighting, and coming home covered in blood is preferable?"

As a matter of fact ... He shook his head. "I went out with Charlie, we stopped in a pub. Things got out of hand. That's all." He sighed. "I don't expect you to understand ..."

She sat back down on the edge of his bed. "I want to, William. Oh, I do wish your father was here --"

"He'd congratulate me for finally behaving like a man," Spike muttered.

"That's not true."

"It is, and --"

"Your father was more proud of you than you will ever know!"

Spike shut his mouth and blinked at her, completely taken aback. Then he shrugged. "Can't imagine why."

She reached out and caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "For the same reasons I am."

That hit him where he lived. Spike squeezed his eyes shut. "Mama --"

"You are handsome, and full of wit and charm. You have a clever mind, a loving heart and a kind, gentle soul. None of that is anything to be ashamed of, my William." She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

Spike found himself at a loss for words. Good thing, though. He didn't trust his voice at the moment.

His mother smiled. "Miss Addams is quite fortunate to have you for a suitor. Now get dressed, and hurry." She stood up. "She's waiting in the front parlour." With that, she turned and swept out of the room, leaving Spike alone.

***

To be continued ...

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