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PART FIVE
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She stood at the window, her back to him as she watched some scene or another unfold in the street. She had no idea he'd come in. Spike stole through the room to get a better look at her. Pretty enough, he supposed, but not nearly as beautiful as he remembered. Least, not from this angle.

"Cecily."

He startled her. She turned to him, hand spread across her chest, eyes wide. Too wide, in fact, and widely set. So this angle wasn't any better.

"William," she said, a touch breathless. "I didn't hear you come in." She looked him up and down. He hadn't put on his suit jacket, nor had he bothered with his hair. So he faced her in his shirtsleeves, all disheveled-like. No doubt she felt right scandalized. "I thought your mother informed you that I was here."

"She did. What do you want?"

She smoothed her skirt and took a deep breath, making a good show of composing herself. "I heard about your ... unfortunate incident," she said at last.

He narrowed his eyes. There was something about her ... something a little out of place. He couldn't put his finger on it, though. "And, what? You thought you'd come over, make sure I'm pining away over you? See if you can get me to take the more direct route of slashing my wrists next time?"

She pursed her lips, looked down at her clasped hands. "I confess that I used rather harsh words with you that night. Perhaps moreso than necessary." She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "I only wanted to ... what's happened to your glasses?"

"Lost 'em."

"Oh." She said nothing else, just kept on staring.

Spike slowly raised an eyebrow at her. "You only wanted to..."

Cecily smiled demurely. "I wanted to make certain that you were well, and that --"

"That you weren't responsible?"

"Well ... yes."

Spike smiled, gently if not sincerely. "Fear not, Cecily. As far as I'm concerned, what happened at your party is ancient history."

"I'm pleased to hear it," she said, her smile widening into a grin. She took a step toward him, and a sense of familiarity struck him. Something in her smile, her walk, the timber of her voice. "I admit, I might have been a bit hasty to dismiss you so completely. It's only that, well, you caught me by surp--"

"Halfrek."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

His hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist. She gasped and jumped back, but he moved with her. "You're that friend of Anya's, the vengeance demon. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

"What? I don't know anyone named --"

"Did you do this? Did you bring me here? Did someone make a wish?"

"William, you're hurting me!"

She struggled, but he grabbed hold of her upper arms. "Answer me!"

"I don't--"

He gave her a shake. "You can send me back. You have to -- she needs me! You have to send me back!"

"Let me GO!" She screamed on the last word, beating her fists against his chest.

Tears spilled down her face. Spike released her and dropped to his knees before her. "Please... Please. I wish to go back."

She backed away from him towards the foyer, rubbing her arms. "They said your mother was advised to have you committed." She took a kerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. "Perhaps she was the hasty one."

Spike felt his whole being harden. He glared up at her. "Get out."

She stared at him, shocked. "I have never been treated so --"

"You're going to be treated far worse if you don't GET! OUT!"

Shock turned to terror as Cecily picked up her skirts and fled out of the house. Spike let his head fall backwards as he squeezed his eyes shut against the prick of tears. God, what the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just enjoy his time here? He was home. He was alive. And he was loved. He also could have had Cecily eating out of the palm of his hand. This could be his chance to do it all over, to live the life he -- William -- had always wanted, without the bloodshed and the horror. Nothing to feel guilty about. No more nightmares. Even if none of this was real, wasn't it preferable to hanging on a bleeding cross in the cold and dark with death refusing to come and put him out of his misery? Why was he so bloody desperate to get back there?

Stupid question, really. He knew the answer. Hadn't stopped thinking about it one second since he'd woken up in the hospital. He thought about his dream from the night before. The way she'd caressed his face, her conviction that of course she had come for him. They all had, as if he was one of their own. For a moment he let himself believe that it had been more than a dream. That, for a brief time, he'd been lucid and that had all been real. And they were working even now to get him out of there while he was stuck in the recesses of his own memory and imagination.

"William, come here please."

Well, that certainly sounded real enough. Pissed off, too. Spike got to his feet and dragged into his mother's sitting room.

She sat in her favorite wingbacked chair, book open face down across her lap. Her eyes looked stern, and more than a touch worried, as she peered at him over the top of her reading glasses. "Explain to me the meaning of what just happened in there."

Just like that, a hundred and twenty years melted away, and another twenty after that, as the Big Bad found himself reduced to a quivering boy. "I can't," he mumbled.

"You can, and you will."

Right. Sorry, mum, she looked like this vengeance demon I know from the future, thought she might know how to send me back there. Guess I was wrong. So, do you want to telegraph the white coats or shall I? "I ... she ..." With a sigh of frustration, he raked a hand through his hair. "Did you hear what she said to me?"

Mother's face softened. She laid her book on the table beside her chair, removed her glasses, and set them on top. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. "I did hear. She was wrong to say it. But you gave her reason, William."

"I lost my temper," he offered.

"You've done that a lot lately. It's not like you." Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she took in his less than presentable appearance. She shook her head. "The poor girl sounded terrified. And do you have any idea what she'll tell her family about it? Her friends? Everyone we know will be talking about us as if--"

"They already are, Mother." The stricken look on her face made him wince. "Me, at any rate," he amended. "Cecily's already convinced everyone that I tried to commit suicide over her."

"I see." She clutched at her skirts. "Did you?"

"What? No! If you think I'd off myself over that stuck-up bint--"

"William!"

"Well, she is, Mama. Do you know what she told me the other night? Before I left her party?" His mother remained silent, waiting as he replayed that night in his head. But it was overlayed with a fresher memory -- another night, another confession, another woman speaking those words before storming off in her righteous anger. The sting had yet to wear off of that one, but not because of the words themselves; because of the truth behind them. Spike swallowed. "She said that I'm beneath her."

Mother's eyes widened. Then her eyebrows knit together in fury as she sprang from her chair. "How dare she?" Spike stood back as she began to pace. "Stupid girl! Just because your father made an honest fortune through hard work ... Do you know that her great grandfather won her family's fortune at the poker table? Beneath her? She has no idea what --" She stopped, noticing him watching her, an eyebrow quirked in bemusement. "But that's not the point," she said, smoothing the front of her skirt.

"What is the point, Mother?"

She seemed to consider this, then she sighed. "A broken heart is no excuse to hurt a woman, no matter how superior she may believe herself to be. Really, William, you know this."

Spike dropped his head and stared at a knot in the pine floor, unable to look her in the eye. "Yeah," he said. "I know." Bugger. Guilt hurt even more as a human. At least when he was dead he didn't have to deal with this weight on his chest, pressing on his lungs and making it almost impossible to breathe. "I ... Excuse me." Without giving his mother a chance to protest, he fled from the room. He made it as far as the stairs before he collapsed. Sitting on the steps, he put his head between his knees and fought to slow his breathing.

God, what kind of selfish son of a bitch was he, even with the soul? If this was real ... if he really had been given a second chance? He could fix everything. Undo it all, all the pain and chaos and death he'd sown across the ages ... he could take it all back. Even what he'd done to her. Not just what happened in the bathroom -- all of it. All of the torment he'd caused her and her friends. He could make sure none of it ever happened.

Couldn't he?

I believe in you, Spike.

"Yes, but for what, Love? For this?"

Someone rapped on the door. Spike scooted up a few steps, out of view of the entryway, expecting Mrs. Stanley to take care of it. When the knock sounded again, Spike called her name. She didn't answer. With a sigh, Spike got to his feet, took a deep breath to steady himself, and went to answer the door.

"It seems that someone isn't handling his first hangover very well," Charlie said at the sight of him.

"Not hung over," said Spike. "Just ... had a bad morning, is all."

Charlie opened up his pocket watch and raised his eyebrows. "Bad afternoon, you mean."

"Whatever." Spike stood back and waved him inside.

"I saw Miss Addams in the park, surrounded by her entourage. She was spilling dramatic tears and cursing your name." Spike opened his mouth to explain, but Charlie cut him off. "You can tell me about that later. After you've told me just what the bloody hell happened to us last night."

Spike rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Not now, Charlie."

"Yes, now. I'm not leaving here until you've explained a few things to me. Such as why there are vampires roaming the streets of London and how you happen to know so much about them. And, by the by, when exactly did prim little William, the Bloody Awful Poet, get replaced with the swearing, whiskey swilling, William the Too Bloody Confident For His Own Good?"

"Or Spike, for short."

"Yes, that's fitting," Charlie said, his deadpan expression belying his sarcasm.

The corners of Spike's mouth quirked up as he motioned for Charlie to follow him. "Upstairs. Don't want to disturb Mother."

"Don't want to frighten her out of her gourd, you mean."

"That too."

"And while you're at it, you can also tell me what this has all got to do with that woman at the pub."

Spike paused on the stairs and turned to look at Charlie. "What makes you so sure this has anything to do with her?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "William, with you it's always about a woman. I trust at least that much about you hasn't changed. Speaking of which, who is Buffy?"

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear that name?"

"I ran into Dr. Comfrey this morning. He mentioned that you kept calling that name when you were in hospital. Who is she?"

Spike continued up the stairs. "You wouldn't know her. She's not from around here."

"I should think not. With a name like that she's got to be an American."

Spike smirked in spite of himself as he led Charlie to his sitting room. As Charlie settled by the fireplace, Spike paced the room, scratching the back of his head. Where to start and how much to tell were two excellent questions, neither of which he quite knew how to answer. He should probably make something up. But there were some people he just couldn't lie convincingly to, and Charlie was one of them. 'Sides, he obviously wouldn't stop asking questions. Spike scrubbed a hand over his face and turned to regard his old friend. Charlie would no doubt think him a complete nutter, but at least he could be counted on not to turn him in for it.

Charlie regarded him in turn, wide-eyed and expectant. "Well?"

Nothing to lose by going for it, Mate. Spike took his seat across from Charlie and leaned forward, elbows on knees, the better to look him in the eye. "I died in that stable, Charlie."

Charlie rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair. "If you're going to be morose and philisophical --"

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

Charlie studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Give me a moment," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out his flask and took a swallow. "Now. You've got my utmost attention. Please continue."

Continue he did. Charlie remained impassive as Spike outlined his whole life story -- or at least the Cliff's Notes version -- his only reaction taking a pull on his flask at the more disturbing bits. When he was done they sat in silence, neither wanting much to look the other in the eye.

"Well," Charlie said at last. "That's quite the dilemma you've got there."

"Tell me about it." Spike got up and crossed to the window, where the afternoon sun spilled into the room. He closed his eyes and savored the feel of it on his skin. It felt good, he had to admit. Still, it didn't compare with her touch.

"If you don't mind my asking, what happened to me on your first sojourn through life as a vampire?"

Spike glanced at him. "I killed you. Kept your flask as a souvenir."

Charlie considered the flask in his hand, then replaced it inside his coat. "Well. In that case I vote that you don't get turned again."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it is! You're not dead, so ... don't die. What could be simpler?" Charlie looked proud of his solution, but his expression quickly changed to one of sympathy. "I suppose that does mean you'll never see this Buffy again ... but there'll be other girls. I think Cecily's beginning to come around, for one. A woman doesn't cry like that over a man she cares nothing for."

Spike rested his head against the window. "Have you not heard a word I said about her?"

"I heard you. I'm only trying to be reasonable."

"This defies reason." Spike straightened, went back to his chair, flopped down and stared into the fire. "Ever been in love, Charlie? I don't mean longing for a girl from across the room, or even courting her and deciding she's a good match to share your life with. Or your bed. I'm talking about the kind that changes you, tears you down until you're less than nothing and then rebuilds you bit by bit into something you never dreamed you could be. Something better. The kind that gives you the strength to do whatever needs be done to make things better. Better for her."

"And you said you'd given up poetry."

"Don't mock this, Charlie."

Charlie sighed and straightened in his chair. "I'm not. This all sounds terribly romantic. But William, forgive my bluntness, but it sounds as if there is little hope of this woman ever loving you."

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it? You're talking about throwing your life away for some fantasy bird. I think I make a very good point!"

Spike gritted his teeth. "She's not a fantasy."

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Charlie took a deep breath and leaned forward. "William, I care for you like a brother. Believe me, I am not taking this lightly. But what you told me ... it simply isn't possible. Have you even considered the possibility that you dreamed this girl? This other life?"

"No."

"Well then--"

"Charlie." When Charlie met Spike's eyes, he continued. "Before last night you'd have also told me the existence of vampires was impossible."

Charlie pursed his lips and nodded. "Touché." He stood up and tugged at the hem of his coat. "William, I don't mean to be indelicate. But supposing this Buffy is real -- or, will be someday -- from what you've told me, it sounds as though she might be better off without you."

Ow. That stung beyond belief. Couldn't argue with it, though. Even so, Spike shook his head. "It's more complicated than that!" He sprung from his chair and began to pace. "I have done unspeakable things. I haven't told you the half of it. Some of them, yeah, I even did to her." His eyes burned. He squeezed them shut and rubbed them with the heel of his hand. "But I did some good too," he said once he'd composed himself. "I helped her. I saved her! What if ... what if I'm not there and she ..." He stopped as the possibilities hit him, each one a stake to the heart. "And it's more than that. She's the Slayer. Each Slayer dies, the next one rises. Two of them died by my hand. What if the whole line gets buggered up now? What if she never gets chosen?"

"What if she gets to be a normal girl and live her life without the horrors you described?"

Spike hung his head. He didn't bother to fight the sob that forced its way out of his chest.

Charlie shuffled his feet. "William, I ..." He cleared his throat. "We're probably making this out to be much worse than it is. You're but one man. A good man, but, well, you can't possibly be that important in the grand scheme of things. There are hundreds, thousands of other factors that will affect that girl's life. Assuming she even exists."

Spike sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Yeah."

Charlie moved to stand before him. "My advice? Live your life. Just be William. He's really not that bad of a chap. I myself am quite fond of him."

Spike managed a smile.

Charlie sighed. "I hate to leave you in this state, but there is a meeting I must attend."

"Right." Spike nodded. "Go on, then. I'll be fine. Won't do anything rash."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"All right, then." Charlie turned to leave, then paused. "You know, you really should try your hand at prose for a change and write all of this down. The future you described is a damn sight more entertaining than anything that Wells fellow ever came up with."

"Yeah, maybe," said Spike. "Thanks, Charlie."

"My pleasure," Charlie said, then he showed himself out.

Spike just stood there for a long while after Charlie left, willing himself not to think. Thinking hurt too much. Gradually he became aware that his eyes still burned, and his face felt sticky. He dragged into his bedroom and over to the basin. He'd wash his face, then crawl back into bed and pull the covers over his head and pray to wake up back in Xander's closet and find that this entire week had been one long nightmare. Or even in chains in Buffy's basement. Hell, he'd even settle for the ruddy school basement. Anywhere but here. He trudged to the washbasin, emptied the pitcher into it, and splashed the cool water in his face.

"Spike."

He froze. "Buffy?"

"Spike, please!"

He raised his head. Magic mirror time again. He could see her, kneeling on a dirt floor. She looked battered and war-torn. He could see himself, too. Not William's reflection, but his true self, bloodied and beaten, draped across her lap in a cruel parody of pieta. All around them were bodies in black robes. Unconscious or dead, he couldn't tell.

He himself looked dead to the world. She took his head in her hands, gave it a shake. "You have to wake up!"

He touched his fingertips to the mirror. "I'm trying, Love. I don't know how."

She lowered her face until her forehead rested on his. "Please?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I need you, Spike."

"Buffy," he breathed. Then something moved out of the shadows behind her. What little light penetrated the darkness made its white skin gleam as it raised a clawed hand to strike. "Buffy!" Spike screamed, pounding on the mirror. "Behind you!" But she didn't hear, and she didn't see it moving in for the kill. He banged against the mirror with both fists, shattering it beneath them. Shards of glass rained down, revealing nothing but a smooth, blank wall behind.

Spike sunk to his knees, the washstand the only thing keeping him upright. "No." Something hot and sticky ran down his arms. His hands were bleeding. He plunged them into the basin and watched red ribbons float and swirl, making shapes in the water.

I killed her.

That thing had been raised by his blood. She'd been too wrapped up, too focused on him, his bloody useless corpse, to see it coming.

"NO!" He shoved the washstand over, and the basin shattered on the floor, splashing blood and water everywhere. Struggling to stand, he grabbed the pitcher and threw it against the wall where it made a satisfying crash. "Wake up!" he shouted. He ran to the desk, shoved all of the papers and books and trinkets onto the floor. "Wake the hell up, you stupid!" He slammed his head on the desk. "Bloody!" Did it again. "Buggering!" Punched himself in the face. "Son of a!" Again. "Bitch!"

The door flew open, and Mother and Mrs. Stanley rushed in. "Good heavens!" Mrs. Stanley exclaimed. "Master William, what's gotten into you?"

Mother grabbed his face in her hands. "You're bleeding!" She guided him to the bed. "Hand me those towels," she ordered Mrs. Stanley as she forced him to sit. "My dear, what have you done to yourself?"

"Doesn't matter," he said as she pressed a towel to his nose. "S' too late. Nothing I do matters now."

"What doesn't matter? Son, please! Tell me what is happening to you!"

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. "I can't wake up."

"William, you are awake!"

Spike laughed. He reached up to caress his mother's face, then pulled her down to kiss her forehead. "Love you, Mama," he whispered.

"William?"

"I'm sorry." He gently pushed her aside; then he ran. Out of his room, down the stairs, and out of the house. He kept running. Didn't know where. Didn't care. He followed the Thames and ignored the looks he got from passing strangers. When he couldn't run anymore he walked. Aimlessly, weaving up and down side streets. At some point he registered that the sun had gone down. He didn't care. Didn't matter. None of it was real.

Maybe ... maybe that wasn't real. All part of the mindfuck. Or maybe he saw it wrong. He'd broken the glass before he saw what really happened. She could've been fast enough. Strong enough. This was Buffy. The girl was hard to kill.

Sure. It's only happened twice so far. Just because you couldn't ever do it ...

Spike stopped. He swallowed, blanching at the taste of blood. He wiped his hand under his nose and it came away bloody. 'Course, his hands had bled too, ran up his arms and soaked his sleeves with it. Christ, he was a mess.

He brought his hand to his mouth and took a taste. Swished it around in his mouth and held it there. It was real as any blood he'd ever tasted. He grimaced and spit it out.

Fuck.

"FUCK!"

A woman passing by gasped, and her companion shot daggers at Spike. He answered back with a two-finger salute, and they hurried the hell away from him.

Spike ran a hand over his face. What the hell to do now? No use fighting it, this place was real enough. And if it was real ... then maybe he could change the course of history. Maybe he could save her. From this death, and the ones that came before ... maybe he could save her from ever being the Slayer. Just like Charlie said. All he'd have to do was go on living his life. And it didn't have to be a bad life. Maybe Charlie was on to something with that book idea. He'd been to the future, he could blow Wells out of the ...

Wells.

Had he really said Wells?

What should have sent him into a tailspin instead brought perfect clarity. "Charlie ..."

A scream interrupted, high-pitched and piercing. Close, too. Spike's senses went on alert. He listened, but heard nothing more. Damned human hearing. He set off in the direction he thought it had come from. Up the street and around the corner and into--

Dru.

Her back was to him, but her form was unmistakeable, outlined in the darkness against a stack of crates. He slowed his approach. As he drew near, she turned with a snarl, yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.

Spike stopped and squared his shoulders. "Drusilla."

"It's you." Her features melted into human as she stepped out of the shadows and into the lamplight.

"You remember?" He forced himself to stay put as she came to meet him.

"Oh, yes. I remember. You tasted like ..." As she spoke, she reached out and ran a finger down the side of his face. Then she put it in her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning at the taste. Shit. He'd forgotten he was covered in blood. Unarmed, too. Brilliant, Spike. Dru pulled her finger out of her mouth and her face lit up. "Strawberries in mummy's garden."

"Then why didn't you finish, Pet?"

"He told me not to. Said you weren't for me."

"Who did?"

"Don't know his name. Said he was your friend. Said he was my real daddy." She leaned in to lick the blood from his chin. Spike swallowed hard, but kept still. "Said you're not my wise, brave knight." Dru pulled back. "But he lied. Didn't he?"

"Yeah, Love. He did."

"Mine," she murmered as she leaned back to taste more blood that had dried on his lips. Then she kissed him. He went with it, opening his mouth to drink in her intoxicating, mad beauty. But even as he held his old love Spike let himself wonder, what if? What if he went into this with all of his memories intact, knowing what he knew? Would he be all that different from where he was when he decided to get back his soul? He could do it again, endure the trials again. Then he could hide out, take himself out of the world for a century ... or maybe he could help. Help the Slayers. Then when the time came he could find her, and they could do it again without all the bullshit that came before. As he thought all this, Dru kissed a trail from his mouth to his neck. Her lips parted against his throat, and all thought came to a halt as he tilted his head back for her. But she pulled away.

"No."

Spike blinked. "Dru?"

"No!" She stepped back. "He spoke the truth. You're not for me, never were." She shook her head, her face twisted into an angry pout. "You're meant for her."

"Drusilla, please!" He reached out for her, but she shoved him, hard, knocking him down and sending him skidding across the street.

"I'll not make you for her," she said.

Spike winced as he pushed up onto his elbows. "Dru --" A hansom cab drove between them, and he waited for it to go by. When it passed, she was gone.

He struggled to his feet, stood there a moment rubbing the back of his head. Defeated, he turned to go home; but as he did something caught his eye, a glint of white amid the crates where she'd first stood. Spike felt his stomach turn as he went to confirm his fears. Hidden in the stack was a little girl, no more than eight, plump and pretty. And dead. With a trembling hand Spike reached down and tilted her face up to get a better look.

He knew the face. It was one of the thousands that had haunted him since he'd won back his soul.

He staggered back as images of himself and Dru luring her into the alley with promises of dollies and candy gave way in his memory to flashes of Drusilla laughing and applauding as he made this little girl scream.

His stomach turned again, and he dropped to his hands and knees and emptied it onto the street. Then he stood up, wiped his mouth, and turned in the direction of home.

It all made sense, now. He knew what he had to do.

***

TBC

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PART SIX
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He couldn't go home. He'd said his goodbye; going back would only make things harder. Couldn't check into a respectable hotel either, not in his condition. So he found a brothel, where they gave him a room and some spare clothes, took his money, and didn't ask any questions.

First order of business, clean himself up. Wouldn't do to go in smelling like blood. After that he slipped a girl an extra twenty quid to fetch him any spare wood she could find, along with a knife.

At dawn he got dressed. The clothes they'd provided were a little big, but that was all the better to hide his new stakes.

Then it was time to go to church.

He stood on the church's front steps, watching the old city come to life as his fellow Londoners woke up and began their day, completely unaware of the war he was about to wage. On his way out of the brothel he'd nicked a bottle of gin. He pulled it out of his pocket, took a good long drink, then poured out the rest. Inside he refilled it with holy water. Then he ransacked the vacant church for more weapons. Crosses, rosaries, communion wafers -- he loaded his pockets, tucked what he could in his waistband.

Of course, his best weapons would be daylight, and the element of surprise. Fortunately he had both on his side for a change.

He knew where they slept. Darla found a spot she liked -- usually some highfaluting place with room service and a good view -- and they all stuck with it until it stopped being safe. Not too hard to rack his brain and remember where they'd been staying in those first weeks after he'd turned, before he pissed off half the city and forced his little family to flee London and go underground.

Family. He'd never stopped thinking of them like that. Not even after they all broke up, not even as he longed to be part of Buffy's family. Not even now, when he was nothing more to them than a candy wrapper. Though there'd never really been any love lost between him and Darla. Taking her out wouldn't be a problem. Angel -- Angelus -- soul or no soul, no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, there was always a small part of Spike that looked up to the elder vampire, craved his respect. 'Course, all he really had to do was consider how fucked up Buffy had been and all of the myriad ways the blame could be laid at Angel's feet, and it wasn't too hard to work up a healthy dose of murderous rage.

Drusilla was a different matter. Even as he'd pressed the stake to her breast to prove a point to Buffy, he hadn't intended to harm her. Didn't want to. The thought of a world without Drusilla in it made him want to heave. But he thought of the little girl in the alley, and thousands more like her who would all die if he allowed Dru to live. There was no choice, really.

Standing outside their hotel room, Spike shook off all doubt and tried the door. Locked. Bugger. Wouldn't be a problem for Spike the vampire, he'd just kick the door open and go bursting in; but William the human would only succeed in hurting himself. This William, however, still had Spike's lockpicking skills.

He fumbled with the lock a few times, thanks to his trembling hands. But he got it open, quietly, and let himself inside. Angelus and Darla slept on the floor beside the fire, in various states of undress. They both looked well sated, and if he knew them it meant they were both deeply asleep. Neither was the type to cuddle, and so they lay apart from each other. That could work to Spike's advantage.

Drusilla lay curled up in the middle of the big bed, clutching a porcelain doll to her chest. She looked the picture of innocence. As he took a step forward, she let out a whimper and he froze. She whimpered again. A nightmare. She had a lot of them in the early days. Hell, it had taken her a good twenty years after he'd first met her to stop having them regularly, and she still had them on occasion clear up until she'd left him. He remembered waking and pulling her to him, holding her close and whispering soothing promises in her ear until she calmed down. As much as he hated Angel for scarring Buffy, he hated Angelus far more for the permanent damage he'd done to Dru.

He fought the urge to go to her now. God, how was he gonna do this? Kill her? She'd been his lover, his partner, his --

Buffy did it.

Spike closed his eyes a moment. Then he opened them and looked at Angelus. He remembered that morning at the mansion. He'd gotten what he wanted and fled, but not before noting that Buffy fought a losing battle. Had he stayed, helped her, killed Angel himself, how might the following years have gone for her? Would she have been able to let herself love again? Spike's shoulders shook in a single, silent laugh. Wasn't he as much to blame, then, as Angel for the suffering that followed? But she had done it. She loved Angel, desperately, and she had plunged the sword through him and sent him to hell to save the world.

Didn't he owe her the same courtesy?

A pair of heavily curtained French doors stood directly across from him. They led out onto a balcony. Spike remembered that they'd chosen this room because of its eastern view, which placed the balcony in shadow in the afternoon. But mornings were a different story.

Spike strode to the doors and opened them. Sunlight blanketed him and the floor behind. It stopped mere inches from Darla's curled fingers. Inconvenient, that. Well, at least he had someplace to run. He pulled out a stake and a cross as he approached the sleeping couple. Ideally he'd do Angelus first, but he lay on his side and Darla blocked the way to his heart. Her first, then. He raised the stake and took aim.

"No!" Drusilla shouted.

Freezing, Spike looked at her. Still asleep. Still dreaming. He blew out a sigh, then went to raise the stake again. Darla's eyes flew open and her hand caught his wrist. The stake clattered to the floor.

"Wh--glmph!" She gagged on the cross that Spike shoved in her mouth. Didn't stop her muffled screams, though, and she clawed at his arm, shredding linen and skin and drawing blood. Angelus began to stir. Wasting no time, Spike grabbed a fistful of Darla's hair and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the sunlight.

Angelus jumped to his feet and Dru shot upright in bed just in time to see Darla flare up. Spike jumped away from her, further into the sunlight, as she smoldered away to nothing. Angelus's eyes narrowed -- wait, no. Eye. A black leather patch covered the one Spike had punctured at their last meeting. "You," he snarled.

"Grandmother!" Dru cried.

"Sorry, Pet," Spike told her.

"You don't know what sorry is," said Angelus, "but you're about to find out."

"Yeah?" Spike squared his shoulders. "Why don't you c'mere and show me?"

"That light won't last forever. And I got all the time in the world."

"It's all wrong!" shouted Dru. She stood and started pacing, clawing at her nightgown. "It's all come apart. It's Daddy's game and we're all lost!"

"Daddy's right here, Precious," said Angelus. "I won't let him hurt you."

"No!" She shook her head. "Can't stop it. Can't beat it. All it wants is to bash and burn until all that's left is pixie dust and darkness. Just like in the beginning."

"What does?" Angelus pointed at Spike. "Him?"

She stopped pacing, and laughed. Then she locked eyes with Spike. "You know. It whispered its name in your ear as you cried in the dark place."

Spike stared at her in confusion. "What ..." Then it dawned on him. Of course. He swallowed. "From beneath you ..."

Again, Dru laughed, like he'd just told her favorite joke and screwed up the punchline. "No, my sweet, silly Spike." He blinked at the mention of his name. Dru walked to the edge of the shadows and leaned forward as far as she dared. "From beneath you." Swaying a little from side to side, she began to hum as her eyes zigged and zagged their way down Spike's body. When they landed on the ashes at Spike's feet, her face twisted in rage. She let out a shriek and lunged at him.

"Dru, no!" Angelus grabbed for her too late. Spike staggered back as her hands closed around his throat. A halo of flame engulfed her and burned his skin. She opened her mouth in an anguished scream, but from it shot only flame. Instinctively, Spike grabbed hold of her soulders to push her out of the light. She crumbled in his grasp.

Spike stared at his ash coated hands, her silent cry still ringing in his ears.. He barely had time to register what happened before a hand grabbed his collar and flung him back into the room. He crashed into a table, knocking it over and splintering it beneath him.

Angelus charged, casting off the blanket he'd wrapped around himself. Spike grabbed hold of a broken table leg and forced himself to stand. Angelus kicked it from his hand and landed a punch to Spike's nose. He staggered back, but Angelus caught him by the throat, lifted him up. He roared, full of rage, and threw Spike at the door. Spike crashed through it and bounced off the opposite wall, landing in a heap in the hallway, the wind knocked out of him.

Run, his mind screamed at him, but before he could recover Angelus was on him again. "You killed both my women," Angelus said as he dragged Spike back inside. "For that I think I'll kill you twice." Spike struggled. He punched, kicked and clawed, even bit; but Angelus overpowered him, pushing Spike down on the bed and tearing open his shirt to expose his neck. Angelus pinned him there with the weight of his whole body as he sunk his fangs into Spike's throat.

Spike didn't cry out. Instead he channeled his pain and anger into getting a hand free. Reaching down to his pocket, his fingers closed on the first thing they touched. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how it hadn't broken in the fight. He yanked out the gin bottle and smashed it over Angelus's head. The vampire hollered and rolled off him as his drenched skin sizzled. Spike pulled out another stake, and with a scream he drove it home. Then he collapsed on the bed and lay there, panting and choking on dust and blood.

He had just gotten his breath back under control when he heard a gasp from the doorway. Spike pushed himself up on his elbows, expecting to see a bellhop or a frightened neighbor. Instead he saw a horrified Charlie, taking in the state of the room.

"William! I came to ... I followed ... my God. What have you done?"

Spike sat up and wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve. "Killed 'em all."

"But ... who? Why?"

"Vampires. Because it was the right thing to do. Sorry to disappoint you."

"What do you --"

"Oh, give it a rest. You're not Charlie."

The other man looked genuinely hurt. "William ... I think I should take you home. You're not well."

"No, I'm not well. But I'm not crazy either, so don't bother denying it." Spike stood up. "You're the thing's been pulling my strings."

Charlie just stared at him in shock. Then a grin broke out on his face and he began to laugh. "You'll have to pardon the anachronistic lingo, but, duh. And here I thought I'd put on such a good performance."

"Well, you got sloppy."

Charlie seemed to consider this as he crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb. "How so?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "H.G. Wells?" He snorted. "The Time Machine won't be published for another fifteen years."

"Damn." Charlie shrugged. "I've never really been one for the written word. I tend to leave that to the other side."

"What happened to the real Charlie?"

"You tell me. You're the one who killed him."

"I ... but ..." Spike sighed. He looked down at the stake he still held in his hand. Something told him it wouldn't do a lick of good against this thing. He threw it on the floor.

Charlie tsked at him. "Poor Spike. You really thought you could change things? Make a difference? Really, how many times must I tell you that you make no difference at all?"

Spike looked around at the damaged room. He gestured to it, spreading his hands wide, and shrugged. "Then why? What's the sodding point?"

"The point?" Charlie stood up and came into the room. "I'm evil. Pure evil, in fact. Must I really have a point? This has been fun! You remember that, don't you? Causing misery and torment just for the hell of it?" He sighed. "You used to be so good at it, too. Now look at you. Snivelling about changing the world and giving the Slayer a better life. So bloodly predictable, too. You're a disgrace to demonkind."

"I'm not --"

"Not what? A demon?" Charlie laughed. "Maybe not here in dreamland, but believe me, old chap, in the real world an occasionally bumpy forehead and allergies to the sun and all things holy are still a permanent part of the package. You're all demon. The soul doesn't change that. Just makes it inconvenient."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "The real world?" He looked out the French doors at the city, then walked out onto the balcony. "So you're saying that this all really is just a dream?"

"It's all the reality you're going to know. So you might as well get used to it."

Spike turned to regard him. "Not planning to let me wake up, then. You must really need me out of the picture. Hey, here's a thought. Why not kill me?"

"That wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, now would it?"

"Right." Spike smiled. "Or maybe you just can't. Slayer won't let you."

Charlie's turn to snort. "You really are confident that she gives a damn about you. Misplaced confidence, judging from what I've seen."

"Mm. Maybe. 'Course, that would explain all the dead minions I saw surrounding us both in the magic mirror. Speaking of which, maybe I'm not as deeply out of it as you'd like me to believe." Spike turned back to the balcony railing and leaned over. He was at least six stories up. High enough to do the job. "What's that they say about falling in your dreams? If you hit the bottom, you die?" He climbed up on the railing and turned around. "Wonder how that works if you're already dead."

"Splendid!" Charlie smiled. "You know, I tried to get that Angel chap to off himself once. Not even your precious Slayer could talk him out of it." As he spoke, his stature shrunk and his features changed into a perfect likeness of Buffy. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him pleadingly. "Strong is fighting!" she cried. Then she burst out laughing and rolled her eyes. "God, can you stand the melodrama?" She sighed and shook her head. "If it wasn't for the Powers and their stupid miracle snow ..." She glanced back at the dust covering the bed. "If only I could get you to do something like that for me in real life. Hey!" Her face lit up. "There's a thought. Maybe I could pit you two against each other. Shouldn't be too hard, what with your mutual seething hatred and all. Wouldn't it be cool if you staked each other? Poof! No more soulful vamps!" She grinned up at him sweetly.

Spike smirked down at her. "Get buggered, bitch."

"Ooh, sexy! Is that the kind of talk that got her to 'pry apart her dimpled knees' for you?"

He refused to be goaded. "This some kinda reverse psychology? 'Cause you're not talking me down. 'Sides, like you said, it's all a dream. Can't hurt me to fall."

She shrugged. "If you say so. But, trying to apply logic to the workings of the source of all chaos? Kinda silly if you ask me." She walked toward him. "Go on, Spike. Jump. You can do it." She stood beneath him and looked up, her face earnest. "I believe in you, Spike." Then she broke into a grin and backed away, giggling.

"No," he said, "but she does. That's why you can't touch me."

She stopped laughing, her face ugly in its hatred. "We're not finished."

Spike laughed. "We're really not."

With that, he leaned back. Sunlight bathed him for the last time as he fell, eyes open, watching the world rush up and away. Then it all went white, washed out in a blinding light, and then darkness, and cold, and hard ground beneath him.

Gradually, he became aware of her face hovering over his. "No." He could barely find his voice.

"Spike ..."

He summoned every remaining ounce of strength to scoot away, gritting his teeth against the pain that spasmed through his body. "Leave me alone. You can't ... can't touch me. Can't hurt me anymore. Can't make me--"

Her lips covered his. Soft, warm, tender lips that were real and solid and oh God Buffy was here and she was real and she was kissing him. Energy shot through him and he raised a hand to tangle in her hair and pull her closer, to savor the taste of her.

She tasted like home.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered as she pulled away.

He couldn't find words. He could only shake his head.

"Good." Her hand stroked his cheek. "Can you walk?"

"Think so."

She nodded. "Everybody's waiting. I sent them on out of here after the first fight went down. They're probably starting to worry."

"First ..." He looked around, saw the minions' bodies just like in his vision. Then he noticed how beat up she looked. "You're hurt."

She offered him a weak smile. "Same to you."

"That thing ... they used me to raise it. I saw it, saw it attack you." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Thought it killed you."

"Tried to. Didn't."

His turn to smile. "Shoulda known." He tried to push himself up to sitting. She had to help him. "Buffy, I ... I wanted to ... God. I tried to change it --""Change what?"

"Everything!" He looked around the cavern, as if the words he was looking for might be hidden in its shadows and crevaces. "I thought I had a chance to undo it all. To fix it so you never had to be the Slayer, and so that I never --"

"Spike, look at me."

He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"You can't change the past," she said, smoothing back his hair. "We just have to figure out how to live with it."

He nodded, then blinked and tilted his head as he replayed what she'd said. "We?"

She held his eyes a moment, saying nothing. Then her lip trembled, ever so slightly, and she looked away. "We should get going." She got to her feet and then helped him to his, wrapping her arms around him to support his weight.

"Buffy."

"What?"

"I know I'm pretty useless at the moment, but I want you to know ... if there's anything you need from me, anything at all ..."

She stopped walking. Slowly, she looked up at him.

"You." Her voice held a slight tremor. "I need you, Spike."

Spike just stared at her, dumbfounded. Her face betrayed about a dozen emotions, not the least of which was sincerity. He choked out something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he had to lean on her for a moment, bury his face in her hair until he got himself under control. When he felt he could look at her again without blubbering like the sentimental git that he was, he raised up and met her eyes, wet with unshed tears.

"You have me," he told her.

"Yeah," She smiled. "I do."

***

The End

Notes: I stole "Get buggered, bitch" from Dancing Lessons. I'm pretty sure it was one of alkibiadhs's chapters. adjrun gets special thanks for giving my brain a good kickstart when I got stuck on the ending after I was blown away and severely intimidated by ME's version of the Spuffy reunion. Thanks also to hold_that_thought, little_bit and Fiona for their harrassment encouragement. It's easier to stay motivated when you know people are waiting impatiently for the next part and offering to rough up your beta readers if that'll hurry up the process. And yet more thanks to my beta readers for coming through without any of said roughing up, and for helping me make it better.

Hope you enjoyed it. --cj