Part 37

Patrols and Conflicts


Immobilizing the Slayer against the wall of a mausoleum, Spike shifted
into game face just inches from her widening eyes. The furious beating
of her heart, her shallow breathing, the faint scent of fear that emanated
from her was intoxicating. And, weirdly enough, almost sickening.

“Lesson the first,” he growled, flashing his fangs. “Never
get so familiar with a demon that you forget what he is.”


* * * * *


Right after the meeting, Spike drove the residents and guests of 1630
Revello Drive back home. In the car, his Slayer mentioned she wanted
to patrol, but by the time they had arrived home he had managed to convince her otherwise, though it wasn’t that easily done with all the passengers of the car politely pretending not to eavesdrop on the exchange. For some reason, he didn’t want them to know about Drusilla, and Buffy seemed to share his wish. She still looked tired, and he wanted her to have at least one more full night of rest before getting back to slaying. She finally agreed, on the condition that he would do a quick sweep, which suited him just fine. That never-ending meeting had made him antsy, and he would gladly kill something, anything at all, to get rid of his excess of energy. He wasn’t one for detailed planning, never had been, for the simple reason that his plans had the slight tendency of turning out for the worse, especially if he spent too much time on them.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who needed some exercise before bed. As he walked through his first cemetery of the night, he stumbled upon Manon. They frowned at each other, both surprised by the unexpected encounter.

“Trying to get yourself killed by patrolling alone, gamine?”

She shrugged before walking away, her eyes darting around, obviously
in search of prey. Automatically, he fell into step with her, as
he used to do when meeting the patrolling Slayer, before she became his.

“I’ve been doing it almost since the first night,” she replied with
a hint of pride. “And as you can see I’m still alive, vieillard.
Just doing my job.”

He let the name pass without comment. Old man. That was
just payback for him calling her kid.

“If you see it as a job, you won’t stay alive long.”

“Well, my chances of getting as old as Buffy are not that good to begin
with, are they?” she commented almost casually. “Andrea said she
was one of the oldest Slayers ever. Until you killed her.”

He should have been used to it by now, but it was always a blow to be
reminded that he had killed his Slayer. He didn’t mind hearing that
he had turned her, but ‘killed’ was just so cold. So far from the
point, too.

He realized something suddenly. There had been no anger, no wariness in her voice. And she wasn’t paying much attention to him at all as they walked, not keeping an eye on him anymore as she had done so far every night they patrolled. He should have been happy about it, after all he and Buffy had been repeatedly telling the girl that she risked nothing from him. But for some reason, it bothered him.

“You’re not afraid of me any longer,” he stated, puzzled.

A faintly smug smile came to her lips.

“Well, you’re not dangerous to humans, are you? Just to demons.”

Maybe it was the smile. Maybe it was the frustration of not having
found one single vamp to dust yet. Maybe it was the tone of her voice,
too confident, that screamed ‘tamed animal’. Maybe it was the sadness turned into anger he had repressed since Drusilla’s death, finally coming to the surface. Whatever the reason, something in him snapped.

Before she had a chance to react, he had grabbed her, pinned her to
a wall and shifted into game face.

“Lesson the first. Never get so familiar with a demon that you
forget what he is.”

Having made his point, he abruptly let go of her and took a step back,
slipping into his human visage again.

“Buffy made that mistake twice,” he said coldly. “First time,
she unleashed a demon that tortured and killed her friends before trying
to end the world. Second time, she was turned. If you want
to live, remember that even a seemingly tamed wolf can bite, for no other
reason than that he wants to.”

Very slowly, she nodded, and the caution was back in her eyes.
She wouldn’t forget.

“I don’t see why you care,” she said almost defiantly. “But since
you do, anything else I should know?”

Spike grinned at how fast she had put aside her fear. He thought
about her question for an instant. Who was he, to give advice to
a Slayer? But he might as well continue what he had started.

“Friends, family,” he said more calmly. “You were commenting on
how long Buffy has been a Slayer. They are the explanation.
Not just because they help her, but also because they are her reason to
keep fighting. If you have nothing, no one connecting you to the
world you’re supposed to protect, sooner or later you find yourself with
a death wish. And there will never be a lack of candidates to grant
that wish to you.”

Again, she nodded.

“You should go home,” he added, a bit tiredly. “Watcher-girl will
worry.”

And he cared because..? God, he was growing soft in his old age. First giving hints to the girl about surviving, now worrying that she might get in trouble. What next?

“She never knows,” Manon replied with a grin.

Quiet now, they started walking toward the cemetery’s exit. Now,
though, there was a sense of readiness coming from the kid, and Spike guessed that if he tried to attack her again she would be able to defend herself, or at least she would try. It was a good thing, but, at the same
time, he was a bit sad. He had been enjoying their growing comfortable companionship.

“It’s going to sound strange right after I warned you about trusting
any demon, but I wouldn’t hurt you.”

They had reached the street at last. She paused, looked up at
him, and smiled, an almost childlike smile.

“Je sais,” she said simply as she turned and left him standing there.

He shook his head and sighed as he watched her go, chastising himself
for feeling better that a kid - a Slayer - told him she knew he
wouldn’t hurt her. Growing soft? He was already a bleeding
nancy boy, yes.


* * * * *


Funny how quickly one could fall back into old habits. For Angel,
being in Sunnydale seemed to bring out two. Patrolling, and brooding.

The first he did without thinking, letting his instincts take over.
Hunt vamps, sneak up on them, dust with minimal fight, and move on to find
the next.

The second was just the opposite. Too much thinking. All
he should have been thinking about was that he would soon be human. That should have made him happy enough to forget everything else. Forget this stupid jealousy that Spike would share his reward. Forget this heart wrenching certitude that a human-again Buffy would not return to him. Forget the day that had never happened, both of them together and human. Forget that, if he survived this apocalypse, he would go home to LA human, yes, but alone.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Angel was mildly surprised to walk up
on his Childe. Surprised, also, that he was alone.

“What are you doing here?” he asked the blonde.

“Same thing as you, I suppose.”

He watched Spike light a cigarette and take a long drag. The last
member of his vampire family. Except for his Grand Childe.
They both would be human with him. And neither wanted to have much
to do with him anymore.

“Where is Buffy?”

A hint of gold, gone as quickly as it had appeared, in these midnight
blue eyes that were scrutinizing him while trying to pretend they weren’t.

“Home. Resting.”

Angel nodded, wincing inwardly. He had had an all too clear view
of Buffy’s scarred front. He remembered having been in her place
under Drusilla’s ministrations. He also had memories of inflicting
the same kind of torture. Drusilla was a quick study. Had been. He also remembered having been in Spike’s place, or almost. He had killed his Sire. Killed the woman who had offered him eternity. For Buffy.

Just a woman, barely more than a girl, not even a quarter of a century
old. Certainly, there were women more beautiful than her. Smarter. Sexier. So how had she made two Master vampires that between them had seen almost 400 years pass throw everything away for her, forget that she was the natural enemy of their kind, become her allies in her fight? Just a woman. Just a Slayer. And so much more. Which was why it was so hard to let go of her. And yet he was aware he would have to, eventually.

“You’re brooding, Peaches,” Spike snickered, pulling Angel out of his
thoughts.

They were still facing each other, but the youngest of the pair had
already finished his cigarette. He flicked it to the ground, stepping
on it before turning away and resuming his patrol. Angel caught up
with him easily, though he couldn’t have explained why. For a long
while, they were silent, dusting a few vamps, each acting as if the other
wasn’t there. It was Angel who finally broke the silence.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Does what hurt?” Spike replied, his voice carrying annoyance.

“Drusilla.”

The sharp intake of breath taken by the blonde was answer enough, and
Angel, for a reason he couldn’t have explained, wished Spike had not needed
to go through that. No one deserved to go through such a thing.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Spike hissed. “At least I didn’t
torture her or set her on fire.”

Angel flinched at the words as much as he would have at a physical blow. Point taken. Again, for a little while, the silence, so unusual from Spike. And, just as uncharacteristically, it was Angel who tried to initiate another conversation.

“So, what are your plans when you become human again?”

There was a slight hesitation in Spike’s stride, and if Angel hadn’t
been looking for it, he might not have noticed.

“Survive an apocalypse,” Spike growled. “And keep Buffy away from
you. That’s the extent of my planning so far.”

“I wouldn’t…” Angel started, then immediately stopped.

Yes, he would, and Spike knew it. He would try to get her back
if he thought he had half a chance. And trying to deny it would only
antagonize Spike, because he would never believe otherwise. So he
changed the subject.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “You won’t be torn before your soul and
your demon. It shouldn’t be too…”

He stopped again, this time because Spike wasn’t walking by his side
anymore. He turned around, wondering what he could have said this
time to anger his glowering Childe.

“You think I’m lucky?” Spike spat. “You think I want to
be human? Are you completely daft? You’re the one who dreams of it. I don’t. Vampire. That’s what I am. That’s all I want to be. For you it has become a shame, for me it was always a gift. Can’t you understand that?”

The proverbial light bulb was suddenly turned on in Angel’s mind.
That was it. The missing piece of the puzzle that was Spike.
A gift. That was the reason for his hostility. Did he really
think Angel regretted giving that life to him? Did he believe himself
an unwanted child? An unwanted Childe?

Angel wanted to tell him that, no, he didn’t regret. Had never
regretted. Despite everything. But already Spike was striding
away, angrily, once again. Angel just let him go, watching his proud
and stiff back, wondering if any words would ever be enough to fix whatever
was broken between them. Everything that concerned Spike was just
so complicated. Truthfully, he didn’t regret having sired him.
Even if the blonde was insufferable. Even if he had always been as
much a nuisance as a help. Even if he had turned Buffy and taken
her from him. Even if Angel had been on the brink of staking him
more times than he cared to remember. Even if he was insanely jealous of his Childe, for all the wrong reasons. Even if he hated him with all his heart, just as he knew Spike hated him. He didn’t regret, because, from both sides, it wasn’t just hate, however hard they tried to pretend.

Part 38

A Thousand Times Yes


When he returned home, merely an hour before sunrise, Spike was still
furious. Prowling around the town’s places that were most frequented
by demons had been of little comfort, but had at least allowed him to get
rid of his surplus of energy. The bloody Poof just didn’t understand
anything. Lucky?! The only thing he considered himself lucky
for was that Buffy was his. The one and only thing that made his
life worth continuing, with or without a heartbeat.

Despite the lingering anger, he opened the bedroom door as quietly as
he could and slipped in silently, careful not to wake his beautiful Slayer.
She had left a couple of floating candles lit in a round vase, for him,
undoubtedly, and the wavering flames cast shadows on her sleeping form. As his eyes drifted over her, he couldn’t help smiling lovingly. Yes, lucky.

Still quiet, he undressed quickly and walked into the bathroom, stepping
under a very hot shower. Dust and blood disappeared down the drain,
and, with them, slowly, his anger. He was rinsing the shampoo from
his hair when a cool body pressing against his back startled him.
Elegant arms encircled him, slender fingers drawing patterns on his chest,
one hand coming up to tease his flat nipples, the other sliding down to
his hardening shaft. Blunt teeth were scraping the back of his neck
softly, sending shivers down his body. For a couple of minutes, he
just let himself enjoy the ministrations of his lady, stifling the delighted
groans that were rising in his throat.

Intertwining his fingers with hers, he finally stopped her caresses
and turned around to face Buffy. Her head was tilted up, requesting
a kiss that he was all too happy to give. Chaste and tender at first,
just lips brushing together. Quickly, tenderness evolved into fiery
lust, and their tongues were dancing against each other, as were their
bodies and hands, wet skin sliding against wet skin, soft against hard.

They broke the kiss, both panting needlessly. Spike fumbled to
turn the water off, then scooped his Slayer into his arms, eliciting a
quiet laugh. He carried her back to the bedroom, stopping just as
he crossed the threshold, looking around him in appreciation. All
around the room, candles were burning, throwing dancing shadows on the
walls and ceiling, creating the illusion that the clouds of their sky were
moving, floating on the wind.

“Spike…”

She glided to the floor, standing right in front of him, her arms around
his neck, smiling up at him a bit shyly.

“Spike,” she repeated, ever so softly, “can I … I mean… do you want…”

She took a deep breath - she was so cute when she did that -
and said in a whisper:

“Will you be my Mate, as well as my Sire?”

He blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected it, not so soon after
her torture, and not when they were going to become humans. But he
was also surprised at the hesitation in her tone, as if she wasn’t sure
he would accept.

His answer was to claim her mouth again, and to try to tell her with
his lips and tongue how much he loved her, desired her, admired her, worshipped her. As they kissed, he guided her gently to the bed and they lay down, limbs tangling, stroking, pulling bodies closer.

“Was that a yes?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, it was a yes. A thousand times yes.”

As they rested on their sides, chest to chest, Buffy slid her leg over
Spike‘s, opening herself to him. Easily, he slid inside her, rocking
himself deeper progressively, with no haste.

His fingers trailed along her face, down the side of her neck that was
free of scars. Four times, as a human, she had been bitten and scarred. Four times on the same side. Even Drusilla had chosen that side. He had bitten her on the other side before, but the marks had faded, always. Her skin was so smooth. Precious silk. Cool and white alabaster. A blank canvas for him to sign, to leave a permanent mark.

“Where will you mark me?” he whispered.

She turned her head, reaching to kiss the hand that was caressing her,
her lips brushing on his wrist.

“Right there,” she replied. “Where I drank first. Where
you can see it and remember that you are mine.”

He smiled gently, repressing the urge to tell her that he would never
need reminders about that. Then his smile faded as he realized that,
maybe, he would need such a proof. Would the claim stand once they
became humans? A human claimed by a vampire couldn’t tell the difference from a drinking bite. For vampires, on the other hand, the claim became part of them, part of what they were, as if a piece of their Mate
existed in them. Until the Mate died, and the foreign piece vanished
with them. It wasn’t painful, it was just a sudden void where before
there was wholeness.

Buffy moving on top of him pulled Spike away from his worry. They
would know what would happen when it happened, and until then, they would
be vampires, Sire and Childe, Mates.

She sat astride him before helping him to a sitting position, her legs
sliding around him. He rested a hand on her lower back, pressing
her closer to him, and presented his other hand to her. She tilted
her head, offering him the unscarred skin he had been admiring earlier. He brushed his lips softly on her flesh, rediscovering familiar territory, trying to find the perfect spot. She had already found her place, and he could feel her fangs grazing against his skin, scratching lightly,
not hard enough yet to draw blood.

“Just bite, luv,” he murmured. “Your demon will do the claim part.”

Following his own advice, he shifted into game face and easily pierced her skin. The sweet ambrosia of her blood hit his tongue just as she bit his wrist. At first, it was only a double bite, like they had often shared, delightful and powerful enough to make them both quake as blood passed from one to the other and back. But suddenly, it wasn’t just a bite anymore. It was not about blood. It was about reaching out to the other’s essence, to the very core of what they were, and grabbing a part of that. A thousand suns exploding in the same second and setting the universe on fire.

Light.

Power.

Warmth.

Energy.

And pleasure.

A shout pierced through the overflowing sensations to reach Spike’s
conscience, and he couldn’t have said to save his own life if it was Buffy’s
or his. Or theirs.


* * * * *


It was so much all at once that Buffy thought for a second that she
was falling through Glory’s portal, again. So much energy going through her…

But no pain this time. Just pleasure that seemed to have no boundaries. Her whole body shook with a sudden, violent, orgasm, and she screamed. She was aware of Spike shuddering, around and inside her. She could also feel him deeper, almost as if he was nestled in her soul, a bright fire that lit her whole being, and she understood what it was to have a Mate.

Still quivering, out of breath, she rested her head on his shoulder.
He was babbling into her hair, repeating over and over that he loved her,
that she was beautiful, that he was hers. She wanted to say the same
thing to him, but words refused to leave her mouth. So she did the
next best thing. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him,
slowly, tenderly, trying to give him back just a fraction of what he had
given her.

Gently, he lowered her back to the bed, leaning above her, resting on
his forearms. Awe was plain on his face, and adoration. So
much. All for her. With strong and long thrusts, he made love
to her, rekindling in her the inferno their claiming had started.
An eternity passed in one batting of his eyelashes. Lost in his rhythm,
she didn’t realize his eyes were clouded until a burning tear fell on the
corner of her mouth. She couldn’t have said if she came first and
brought him over the edge with her or if it was the sudden rush of warmth
in her middle that triggered her climax.

Quaking, he laid over her body for a moment, his ragged breathing tickling
her neck, and she felt closer to him than ever. He rolled them over
then, until she was resting against his chest, his arms tight around her. She drifted into sleep, her cheek pressed to his slowly stirring chest, lulled by the rhythm of his heart.

Part 39

William


One by one, the flames of the candles wavered and died, until only a pale frame of light seeping around the curtains broke the darkness. William’s eyes were wide open, but he didn’t notice the last flame disappearing. He didn’t realize night was gone and morning well on its way.

At first, all he was aware of was Buffy’s regular breathing, her warmth
against his skin. It took him back to their relationship - was
it even a relationship? - before he had turned her, when she ran away
from him with the first rays of the sun, if not before, and he almost expected
her to wake up and leave. It wouldn’t be surprising if she did, after
all he was just a monster.

After a while, it came almost as a shock when he realized that he was
breathing too. Habit, he told himself forcefully. Mimicry of
his lover. But when he tried to stop, his lungs rapidly started burning,
and he had to start inhaling again.

And then it began, as if they had just been waiting for him to realize
he was back among the living to remind him that they were dead because of him. In the beginning, they came one at a time to confront him. For some of them, it was just a face, or not even that. For others, he could see clearly up to the last button of their fancy attire, up to the smallest tear in their too old jackets. One after another, they accused him, sometimes with only a date, a place, and sometimes with all the grim details of their deaths. Their deaths at his hands or fangs. He tried to close his eyes and shut them out, but it only increased their numbers. He tried to plead that it was the demon, not him, but they didn’t listen. They couldn’t listen. They were dead. Because of him.

For an eternity, he endured the litany of the accusations, while trying
not to hear it, not to let it affect him. Over and over, he repeated
to himself that he had to be strong. For Buffy, he had to.
For the heavenly creature that trusted him enough to sleep in his arms,
he would be. In ten days, the apocalypse was coming, and he needed
to be strong to help her. Help them. Too much was at stake
for him to allow the voices to touch him. They were dead.
He had to be strong for the living.

“Spike…”

Buffy’s quiet and still sleepy voice startled him out of his thoughts,
and for a blessed second the voices were quiet. He almost corrected
her, but caught himself just in time. Yes, he was Spike. He
had to be Spike.

She half rose from her lying position and leaned on her elbow, her other
hand pressed flat against his chest.

“You’re warm…” she whispered, now fully awake, her eyes widening in
surprise. “You’re alive.”

“Not just me,” he said through a tight throat. “We are.”

She let out a delighted laugh and again she was against him, on him,
pressing kisses all over his face and giggling softly. He managed
to smile, because her joy was such a beautiful thing to witness, almost
beautiful enough to make him ignore the horrible words that were still
ringing in his head.

“God I am famished!” she said between two laughs. “Breakfast?”

Without waiting for an answer, she was out of his arms and out of the
bed, gathering clothes before stepping into the bathroom. Yes, he
was hungry, too; if his stomach making weird noises did indeed mean that
he was hungry. Still trying to ignore the voices, he got up and opened
his closet. Paying only half a mind to what he was doing, he pulled
out tan trousers and a light blue shirt. Nibblet had given these
to him for Christmas the year before, and he had worn them only once, to
please her. Spike had worn them just once. Spike didn’t wear
these kinds of things. Frowning at the garments in his hands, he
shoved them back into the closet, grabbing instead jeans, a t-shirt and
a shirt, all of them black. Black suited him. Black for all
his victims. Black for a murderer. A costume. Spike’s
costume.

He was buttoning his shirt when Buffy called him to the bathroom.
He joined her, wondering what was wrong, and she pulled him to stand next
to her by the sink. Then she pointed at the mirror. A shockingly
blonde man stared at him through bloodshot blue eyes, raising a scared
eyebrow. Next to him, a laughing Buffy was making all sorts of funny
faces. He half smiled at her, and so did the man in the mirror.
With a different hair color and glasses in front of these too blue eyes…
No, it didn’t just look like him, of course. It was Spike.
It was him.


* * * * *


Buffy couldn’t help grinning at the look of amazement on Spike’s face
as he ran a hand through his mussed curls, then touched his scar, his features, almost as if not believing it was his reflection he was staring at. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for quite a while, true, but he had seen pictures, so he shouldn’t have been that surprised.

She remembered she had something else to show him, and touched his arm
lightly to get his attention.

“Look,” she said as she rolled her shirt halfway up her chest, exposing
her skin. “The burns are all gone.”

Again, as if not believing his own eyes, he let his fingers confirm
what he was seeing, trailing them lightly on the unscarred skin of her
front, and the caress sent shivers down her spine. Just the night
before, she had been covered in angry red marks. They didn’t hurt
anymore, but they should have taken days to disappear so completely, if
not weeks, even with accelerated healing.

Spike’s gaze and fingers traveled up to her neck, first where Drusilla
had bitten her, and the punctures were completely gone too, as if they
had never existed. Then he was checking the other side, and the barest smile touched his lips as he caressed ever so softly the two healed marks he had left just a few hours before. It seemed that Cordy, or whoever, had decided to heal her, but had understood the distinction between scars that were painful to see and welcome ones.

She looked down at Spike’s wrist as he rolled up his sleeve a little,
and lightly traced the two clear pink puncture marks she had made.

“The marks are there,” he said softly, “but I can’t feel you.”

There was sadness in his voice, too much of it, and Buffy hugged him
impulsively.

“I’m still yours,” she replied firmly.

His body was shaking in her embrace, and Buffy looked at his face, almost
expecting to see him crying. He wasn’t, but his eyes were tightly shut.

“Spike, love, are you OK?” she asked worriedly. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

The shaking stopped then, and he took a couple of deep breaths.

“Nothing wrong,” he replied, his voice rasping. “Just feeling
weird.”

A question was burning Buffy’s lips, but she wasn’t sure how he would
react to it. She knew when Angel had first been cursed the guilt
had basically broken his mind. There was just no good way to ask
Spike if his soul was torturing him. And if it was, he would tell
her, right?

“You would tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly, and a frown barred his forehead, gone as
quickly as it had appeared. He gave her a lopsided smile.

“Of course, luv. But there’s nothing to tell.”

She studied his expression for an instant, but all she could read on
his face was love as she caressed his cheek lightly.

Buffy’s empty stomach protested loudly, and she felt half embarrassed,
half amused by the rumbling. Giving a quick kiss to Spike, she took
his hand and pulled him out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen.
He had to be ravenous too.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she asked as she took out various
things from the fridge and cupboards.

“Anything,” he replied absently. “Anything you make for yourself
will be fine for me.”

In a few minutes, Buffy had cooked pancakes and omelets, and made coffee. Usually her improved cooking skills benefited Dawn or their guests, but this time at last she could truly taste what she had made. Covering a pancake with Nutella, she looked at Spike who was sitting on a stool opposite her. He was munching absentmindedly on what she had put on the plate in front of him, very obviously not caring what it was. He had talked so little since they had awoken, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. He had said before that he didn’t want to be human, and she could only wonder whether he was changing his mind or still feared he might not be himself anymore. Except for the unusual quiet and the slight broodiness, she could see no difference.

She followed his gaze, noticing that he was looking through the window,
and a huge grin made its way onto her face. Quickly washing down
the pancakes with some juice - apple and raspberries did taste better than
she would have ever thought - she grabbed Spike’s hand and pulled him with
her out of the house through the back door. He resisted, a look of
pure panic crossing his face as she tried to get down the steps and into
the sun.

“It’s OK, love,” she reminded him kindly. “We can go in the sun
now. Come? Please?”

To prove her words, she walked a few steps away from him, tilting her
head toward the sky, enjoying the warmth and light that bathed her.
Laughing, she raised her arms above her head, turning so that she could
feel the sun all over her.

Remembering her lover, she extended a hand to him, inviting him again
to join her. He frowned a little but took a couple of steps, just
enough to be able to touch her hand, not coming fully out of the shadows
of the house yet. As he held on to her fingers, he was looking at
his own, now in the sun. Gently, Buffy pulled him to her, for the first
time admiring him under direct sunlight. She’d seen him during the
day before, but she really hadn’t just been admiring him at the time.
Not much, at least. She was pleased at the tentative smile that slowly
bloomed on his lips.

“You are beautiful,” he said quietly, toying with a strand of her hair.

She felt a sudden rush of warmth in her body, and it had nothing to
do with the sun.


* * * * *


How could he have ever said, let alone believed, that she belonged in
the darkness with him, William wondered a little bitterly. She was
a child of the sun, and seeing her glowing in the light only proved it
once and for all.

He wished he could have felt her presence within him, felt the light
and warmth of his Mate, but that comfort had been taken from him almost
as soon as he had found it. And now he was alone, in the dark and
cold, with the voices, even if he knew he was in her arms, in the sun,
and listening to her laugh.

A shrieking Dawn suddenly jumped on him and Buffy, trying to hug them
both at the same time.

“I saw you through the window,” she said excitedly. “It’s so great! So wonderful!”

Oh yeah, bloody wonderful.

The two sisters laughed and talked for a while, and William just looked
at them, barely understanding what they were saying, their happy voices
almost drowned out by harsh, accusing ones. He had failed them both.
Didn’t protect Dawn when it counted, and let Buffy die. Two more
voices to add to the cacophony.

A hand touched his shoulder and startled him. He turned toward
Steven, who, despite his grin, looked a little concerned.

“You OK, Spike?” he asked.

“Will...” the blonde started, then stopped abruptly.

Spike Spike Spike I am Spike murderer yes but strong Spike need strong
need Spike.

“I will be,” he said with a forced smile. “Feels a bit strange, that’s all.”

“You should get inside,” Dawn said suddenly, a bit worried. “You
two are going to get sunburn if you stay out too long too soon.”

Sunburn. Yes, the sun burnt. The sun burnt bad men.
He was a bad man. He was burning inside, the soul burnt. But
the sun wasn’t burning his skin. Why wasn’t he burning?


* * * * *


The backyard was empty again, and Giles turned his back to the window,
leaning against the sill. He took off his glasses, drying with the
back of his hand the tears that had rolled down his cheeks. Buffy’s
laughter had awoken him, and seeing her in the sun, alive, was even better
than her last return to the living, because this time he wasn’t worried.

Or not much. She had been gravely, terminally, ill before being
turned. What if the illness came back, now that she was human once
more? His smile disappeared slowly at the thought.

He dressed quickly and joined the joyous impromptu breakfast party in
the kitchen. Joyous, that is, except for Spike, who seemed strangely
subdued. After the required hugs and congratulations, Giles managed
to convince Buffy to go to the hospital for a check up. Actually,
he convinced Spike, who didn’t leave much choice to Buffy. She was
still protesting in the car, claiming that all her wounds had been healed
- when had she been wounded? - and that it would have been stupid
of whoever had made her human again to leave the tumor in her brain in
the process. Five hours later, she was half sulking, half gloating,
as the doctors pronounced her in perfect health.

From the hospital they went to the Magic Box, where the Scoobies, warned
by Dawn, were all assembled. Angel was also there, beaming and breathing. He and Buffy hugged and laughed together, and Giles expected Spike to scowl at the display, or make it clear to the brunette that the changes didn’t affect his relationship with Buffy. But Spike said nothing. He just watched Buffy hug all of the Scoobies in turn, remained silent among the general laughter and excitement, as if none of it concerned him. The only explanation Giles could find to his detached behavior was that facing his human side - his soul - for the first time in more than a hundred years wasn’t that easy for the ex-vampire. But when he had tried to talk to him about it at the hospital while they were waiting for Buffy, Spike had just shrugged, never answering the question.

Buffy had been told in her dream that all three vampires would keep
their strength when they became humans, but again some confirmation was
needed about that, and Giles talked them into doing a bit of sparring.
It was quickly clear that they were indeed as fast and as strong as they
had been before, the two men having conserved their vampiric abilities,
and Buffy her combined Slayer/Vampire strength. They all needed to work
on their breathing, though. To Giles’ insistence, they did just that
for the rest of the afternoon, joined by Steven and later Manon.
Willow, Tara, Dawn and Andrea were in the Magic Box, researching the spells
they would need for the big day, and Xander, who had taken two weeks off
work, was busy sharpening and oiling the many weapons stored all around
the shop. The joined armies of hell and Quortoth could come, Sunnydale was ready.


* * * * *


Patrol. William could do patrol. Find vamps, stake them.
Easy. Easy because he could still sense the vampires, feel them. Yet he wasn’t one anymore, was he? So how could he sense them? Interesting problem to think about. Think about it and nothing else. He couldn’t let himself listen to them, or he wouldn’t be able to patrol. He wouldn’t be able to help his Buffy. He wouldn’t be able to do anything. If he listened to them, he would just curl up and wait for sunrise. Wait. The sun didn’t burn him anymore. So sunrise would do nothing to help. Nothing could help. Nothing but Buffy. When she slipped her small hand into his, the voices faltered for a second. When she smiled at him. When she called him ‘love’. When she kissed him. When she cuddled against him to go to sleep. So tired, she was, after a long and exciting day. So tired, he was, trying to shut the voices out. But they never faltered more than a second. Never. So he clung to his lover, his only protection against them all.

Part 40

Beneath You


After a few hours, even Buffy’s presence wasn’t enough to lessen the
voices, and William slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her.
He had to find something to do, anything at all to occupy his mind, and
give himself the opportunity not to hear them so clearly.

He tried to watch the telly, but there wasn’t anything on at that late
hour that could capture his attention enough to distract him. He
went into the kitchen and made himself some hot chocolate. If morning hadn’t been so long off, he would have busied himself making a nice breakfast for his lady. But anything he made now would be cold long before she woke. Later, maybe. But what to do until then? Aimlessly, he wandered into the dining room, his gaze falling on the laptops on the table. When he couldn’t sleep, before, he would sometimes go online and play games with other insomniacs. But killing monstrous creatures on the screen of his computer, killing anything actually, didn't sound so appealing now. He still turned the machine on, launching the word processing program instead of Netscape. For a while, he stared at the blinking marker on the virgin page. It was beating steadily, just like his heart, inviting him to let the words out. In another time, he had used ink and paper. But, strangely enough, it was just as rewarding to hear the soft noises of the keys he pressed as it had been to hear the faint scratching on the paper. The voices didn’t stop, and in truth he would have been surprised if they had, but as he concentrated on his writing he could push them to the back of his mind, and at last pretend he couldn’t hear. He let the words flow out, line after line. He paid no real attention to rhyme or meter and knew better than to think they were any good. But they were a way out, the only one he could find.

Morning came and found him still glued to the computer, his fingers
flying over the keyboard. Some time later, there was noise in the
kitchen, and eventually his love came to him, her arms encircling his neck
from behind as she looked over his shoulder at what he was doing.
He was back to the Internet, not even paying attention to the game he played. He had closed the word processor at the instant she came in the room, his document saved and protected with a password. He wasn’t afraid she would mock his lack of skills if she read what he had written, not really, she was too kind for that. He just couldn’t let her see how much it burnt, how much it hurt. She was happy, and he would be damned again before he did anything to spoil her happiness.


* * * * *

We sleep against each other
We live with each other
We caress, we cajole
We understand, we comfort
But in the end we realize
We are always alone in the world

We dance with each other
We run after each other
We hate, we hurt
We destroy, we desire
But in the end we realize
We are always alone in the world

* * * * *


Again, the day passed in a flash for Buffy. She was a little amused
that it had gone just like any other day had gone when she was a vampire. She had awoken alone in bed and found Spike in front of the computer. Ate breakfast and chatted with Dawnie and Giles. Checked her email for new orders for the shop and printed what she found. Tried to coax Spike into showing her what he was writing, because, yes, she had noticed that he was only pretending to play and was using the word processor. He stubbornly refused, she pretended to sulk, he made it up to her by rubbing her shoulders as she liked. After lunch, they went to the Magic Box, walking there through the streets and not the sewers, enjoying the sunlight. Training and research. Steven was describing to them the demons he had fought in the hell dimension where he had grown up, remembering their strengths and weaknesses, as well as the most efficient ways to kill each of them. Giles insisted on them doing more breathing exercises and more sparring. Soon, almost too soon, it was dark, and time for patrol.

Spike’s behavior was a bit off, though she couldn’t have said in what
exactly. The most obvious difference so far was that he hadn’t lit
one single cigarette since they had awoken alive. She had confiscated
all his stock, even the packet she wasn’t supposed to know he kept in the
back of the living room’s cupboard, and stolen his lighter from his duster’s
pocket. She had been prepared for the fight and had her arguments
ready, the main one being that now smoking would kill him.
But there had been no fight. No protests. He hadn’t even mentioned wanting to smoke. Yet that was not why she was a little worried about him. She had managed to talk to Angel out of the blonde’s earshot, and the brunette had confirmed that he, too, had noticed Spike didn’t look as well as he wanted them to think he was. He thought that being confronted by his soul was probably affecting him far more than he let on. But when she tried to make Spike talk about it, he just smiled and told her she was worrying too much.

They were patrolling through the park with Manon. Somewhere out
there, Steven and Angel were doing the same thing. The night was
quiet and slow, few vamps or demons were around. It seemed that the
word had gotten out that Sunnydale was a bad place to hunt now, with two
Slayers and their surprisingly strong male help patrolling every night.

Tingles down her spine. Vampire close. On a bench, by the
pond, a couple nuzzling.

Before Buffy or Manon could make a move, Spike was by the bench, stake
out. Buffy realized his mistake; she shouted and tried to warn him. Manon, on the other hand, was quiet as she ran to him, and she managed to change the course of his arm as it plunged down, so that the stake pierced the man’s shoulder, and not his heart. The man screamed in pain, then again in fear when Manon staked the woman who had vamped out by his side, and finally he fainted. As Buffy approached, Spike was frozen, his wide eyes, staring at the human he had almost killed.


* * * * *


The man’s mouth had been at the girl’s neck. So he had to be the
one. No time to wait or check or make sure or lose time. He
had to be. But she was dust now. And the man’s breathing was
laborious, the stake still stuck in his shoulder. The young Slayer
was looking at him, talking to him, but he didn’t hear her words, because
suddenly the voices were screaming louder than they ever had. The
older Slayer was quickly at the unconscious man’s side, applying pressure
on his wound with one hand, dialing 911 on her cell phone with the other. Then she was talking to him, too, but he wouldn’t let himself hear her. Once more, he had failed her. Once more, he had proven he was nothing but a killer. He didn’t want to know if it was contempt or disgust on her face. So he ran. Away from the bleeding man, away from her, away from the voices. But they all followed.


* * * * *


Buffy gave the phone to Manon, instructed her to press on the man’s
wound to slow down the bleeding and to wait for help, and only then ran
after Spike. It was dark, and she was afraid she’d lose sight of
him, but thankfully she did not, though he had quite a lead on her.
At last, he stopped running and entered a building. Buffy could only
frown, perplexed, when she realized it was a church.

She slipped in through the half open door, her eyes adjusting slowly
to a darkness that was only broken by a few candles scattered around the
room. She couldn’t see him and was wondering whether he had found
a way out when he stepped in front of her from the shadows, startling her.

“What the hell are you doing?” she gasped, surprised.

“It didn’t work,” he murmured, his voice emotionless. “I tried,
but it didn’t work.”

“You tried what?” she asked, puzzled.

He remained silent, his head slightly tilted, his eyes fixed on something
past her shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at, but
there was nothing there.

“It was an accident,” she said softly. “Accidents happen.”

She raised her hand to rest it on his chest, but he flinched and took
a step back, his arms drawn protectively in front of him, as if afraid
she was going to hurt him.

“Spike…” she started, but she didn’t really know what to say.

“Yes, Spike,” he said blandly. “Thought it was William, but still
I hurt, still I kill, so it must be Spike.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Buffy protested. “And it was an accident.”

She tried again to get closer to him, and again he avoided her, walking
along the wall, staying in the shadows, until she wasn’t sure where he
was anymore, except for his voice, so quiet, babbling about Spike and being
weak and killing and burning.

“What is burning?” she asked, trying to get his attention back.

“Angel should have warned me,” he continued, seemingly ignoring her
question. “It’s here. With me. All the time. The
spark. They made us human and put the spark in me, and now all it
does is burn.”

And suddenly the ramblings made sense.

“Your soul?” she whispered. “Is it your soul?”

He gave a quiet laugh, and that startled her because he was now behind
her and she hadn’t noticed him getting there. She turned to him,
confused and sad.

“I asked you,” she pleaded. “You said you were fine. I could
have helped. Done something.”

He shook his head, walking past her, ignoring her again as he resumed
his ramblings.

“Nothing to do. Now everybody is in here. Talking.
Everything I did. Everyone I... And him…it…the other…the
thing…beneath…beneath you…it’s here too. The demon is gone.
But Spike is still here. Everybody. They all just tell me…go. Go to hell.”

Buffy felt chilled, and it had little to do with the cold inside the
stone church. For two days, he had hurt this much and let so little
of it show? For two days, she had lived by his side without realizing
what hell he was going through? She had asked him. She had
tried to make sure he was OK. How could she have known he was lying? Could she have done anything differently and found a way to help him?

“Why… Why didn’t you…” she started, but again he interrupted her.

“I do shame on you. I did before. I still do now.
Even human I am beneath you. I just wanted to be yours. All
I ever wanted. All. Just love. Be loved…”

Slowly, he was approaching the large cross by the end of the church,
never looking back at her again, his voice pained and so quiet that she
had to strain her ears to understand. She wanted to go to him, but
she was frozen in place, hypnotized by the soft words of her lover.
Tears started streaming down her face, but she never noticed them.


* * * * *


“My mother, my sister, they loved me. But then I became a monster. Not good enough. Never again… Cecily. Beneath her. Nothing but death... Drusilla loved me. I thought she did. Really believed. So long, I believed. But in the end, not good enough... Not bad enough. Even when she came back, she wanted more. More than me. And I killed her. Angelus... He hated me, I think. And loved me. Don’t know which one more. Thought I had a father to love me at last... But Angel doesn’t care. One way or the other. Doesn’t care about a Childe. Has a son now… Thought Nibblet loved me. Needed me. But found someone
better, she did too… Someone who won’t fail her. Won’t leave
her alone and scared to cry and bleed… And you. Don’t deserve
you. Don’t deserve your love… Broke my promise and you died for it. Betrayed you with Adam. Left you to fight Angelus alone. Killed you. Hunted and broke your trust. Let Dru go and hurt you… Tried so hard to be the kind of man you deserve. Any kind of man. So hard. But even when I try to do good, I hurt you. Always end up hurting you… Always. Don’t deserve your love. Some day you will realize that… Remember that I’m beneath you… And I’ll be alone. Alone with all of them. Those who shout at me. Those who scream. Those who hate me… Those I killed... So many. So much hate. Too much… I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I want to forget again. Can I forget..? Can we all forget? Can we rest, Buffy..? Please, can we rest?”

William’s voice broke - or was it Spike’s? Did it matter anyway?
- on the last words. He was touching the cross now, and still was
surprised that it didn’t hurt. It should have hurt. He was
a killer, a monster, and crosses hurt his kind. Why didn’t it hurt? He wanted it to hurt. Maybe if his flesh hurt then the burning of
his soul wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he wouldn’t hear them then and
he could rest a little. And still, his skin wasn’t burning.

He fell to his knees, choking on dry sobs. He didn’t know how
long he remained there, staring at that piece of wood and metal that so
stubbornly refused to give him an escape. The escape came from behind him. An angel of light wove her arms around him, pulling him, turning him, until his face was against her shoulder. At last the tears could flow. They trickled onto her skin as she stroked his hair softly
and held him close to her comforting warmth.

“I love you,” she said quietly, and he only cried harder.

Part 41

Lost


If someone had asked her, Buffy couldn’t have explained how she managed
to get back home with her reluctant companion. Not only did she have
a hard time convincing Spike to leave the church, he also didn’t want to
go to Revello, protesting that he was a monster and didn’t belong in a
house. Between cajoling him, half threatening him, and simply ignoring his complaints, Buffy was able to lead him home, pulling him gently but forcefully for half the way. After a while, he stopped trying to
struggle, stopped talking. His eyes were unfocused, and he held on
to her hand so tightly it almost hurt.

Buffy wasn’t sure what to think about what was happening to him.
The incident in the park had clearly affected him deeply, and she could
only hope it was only temporary. Surely, after getting some rest,
he would be calmer, more lucid. He had to be. She didn’t know
what she would do if he was not. He had talked about hearing voices. She could do nothing about that. It would have been so much easier if his problem was due to a demon. Demons, she could slay. What could she do about his soul? It wasn’t a curse, and shagging him into perfect bliss, as appealing as it sounded, wasn’t a solution,
and would probably only bring on another round of ‘I don’t deserve you’.

When they arrived home, she led him to the kitchen and asked him to
wait for her. He looked at her with glassy eyes, and she wasn’t sure
he had understood, or even heard her. He didn’t move when she let
go of his hand however, so she figured he would be fine for a few minutes.

Glancing back at him a couple of times, she joined the people assembled
in the living room. Giles, Dawn, Steven and Angel looked at her with
various degrees of expectation and worry as she let herself fall into an
armchair, mentally exhausted.

“We found Manon,” Angel said finally, filling the awkward silence.
“She told us what happened. The guy will be OK.”

Buffy nodded, feeling a bit numb.

“Spike is losing his mind,” she said slowly. “When he was somewhat
coherent he admitted his soul is hurting him. He said he hears voices.”

Her voice broke, and her eyes traveled to the people around her.
All seemed concerned, though their relationships with Spike were all completely different.

“We have to help him,” Dawn said firmly, despite the tears in her eyes.

“But how?” Buffy asked tiredly.

She looked up at Angel. He was the one who potentially held the
key, because he had been in Spike’s place, or almost. She didn’t
voice the question, but Giles did.

“Angel, maybe your experience can help him,” he said slowly, almost
reluctantly. “Did you hear voices when you first got your soul back? How did you silence them?”

“I never did silence them,” the ex-vampire replied morosely. “I
just learned to live with them.”

“So, how did you learn?” Steven asked, frowning.

Angel passed a hand on his face. Obviously, these weren’t memories
he was fond of.

“I had a century to get used to them. And I found…someone.”

There was no need for him to say whom he had found, especially when
he was looking at anyone, anything, but her. Spike didn’t have a
century; he had barely more than a week until the big battle. But
at least he already had Buffy.

There was some noise in the kitchen, and Buffy rushed there in time
to see Spike taking a mug out of the microwave. She grimaced as she
caught the smell, and berated herself for not having gotten rid of the
now useless blood packages immediately. She gently but firmly took
the cup away from him before he could sip.

”Love, you can’t drink blood,” she said kindly.

“Why not?” he whined. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll make you some chocolate. You can even have marshmallows. How is that?”

“I want blood,” he insisted. “I’m a vampire. Vampires drink
blood.”

“You are not a vampire anymore,” she reminded him softly, watching for
his reaction.

He looked at her for an instant, head tilted, obviously puzzled.
Then he frowned, a deep look of concentration on his face. He touched
his features lightly, and his frown only deepened.

“I can’t change,” he whispered.

There was such a sense of loss in his voice that Buffy felt her eyes
fill with unwanted tears. She fought not to shed them. Spike
needed her support, not her tears. Unsure about how to comfort him,
she simply hugged her lover, hardly noticing the four people who were watching them from the kitchen’s entrance.

“Spike? Are you…”

Dawn’s quiet concern was interrupted by a deep, mournful moan from the
bleached blonde. He extricated himself from Buffy’s arms and crouched on the floor, arms around his knees, rocking back and forth. He was muttering under his breath, bits of sentences that made sense in a painful way.

“Bad man. Bad Spike. Left Bit. Cry. Hurt.
Bleed. Blood. Drink blood. Vampire. But no more. Still Spike but no blood. Just burn. Spike burn. Spark burn.”

Buffy knelt by his side, drawing him against her, and rubbed his back
soothingly.

“He doesn’t like being called that anymore,” she said to the
others, wishing she had thought about telling them before. She had
found out the hard way as she was bringing him home. “It just makes
him more agitated.”

“Try calling him William,” Angel suggested quietly as he came a bit
closer to them.

As the name passed his lips, Spike looked up at the brunette, his muttering
stopping instantly. He scrambled back to his feet, a bright smile
lightening his features.


* * * * *


William Spike William Spike approached the man. He was the solution. He had the gift. He could give it again. Make him alright again. Fix him. Take the spark away. Stop the burning. Stop the hurting. He implored with his eyes as he pulled on his shirt and bared his neck, but still Angelus was immobile, making no move to take what William Spike William Spike was offering. Oh yes. Angelus liked begging. That was why. And he would do anything. Anything to be right again. Even begging.

“Please,” he murmured, arching his neck a little more. “Make me
again. It hurts too much. Please.”

William Spike William Spike expected mocking laughs at his admission of weakness. Or maybe blows. And he hoped for a bite.
What he didn’t expect were tears on the brunette’s cheeks, and the embrace
he was pulled into. Confusing. Why would his Sire cry?
Why wouldn’t he take offered blood? William Spike William Spike tried
to focus on the words the other man was saying, but they didn’t make much
sense.

“I can’t. I swear I would if I could, but I cannot make it go
away. You have to be courageous, Will. I know it hurts but
you are stronger than the hurting, aren’t you? I know you can be. You were always so brave. We need you to be.”

He pulled away from his Sire’s arms - no, not his Sire anymore, he
wasn’t a vampire anymore - and looked around the room. The Bit
was crying softly, cuddled against Steven. Why was she crying?
Was she hurt again? The Watcher looked worried, but then, he always
did. Angelus - or was it Angel? - seemed so sad. Why
was he sad? Oh, right. Dru. He had to be sad about Dru. Dru was gone. Maybe he couldn’t change William Spike William Spike because she had to bite first. Like the first time. Yes, that was why. And Buffy. His Buffy. He didn’t deserve her, but in his mind at least he could call her his. Her eyes were red and she was looking at him with such love - love he wasn’t worthy of. Something was wrong, he didn’t know what, but they were all affected by it. He needed to be strong. Courageous. Angelus had said so. Be strong for them. For Buffy. Because if he let them - her - down again, the burning would just get worse, he was sure of it.

He tried his very best to smile, and said, to them all as well as to
the others, inside:

“I’ll be strong. I will.”

He wasn’t too sure which ‘I’ it was, and he wasn’t really quite sure
he knew who they needed, but he would try.


* * * * *


Buffy woke with a start. Something was wrong. A noise. Something breaking. Then a whimper. She realized that she was alone in the bed. Shaking off the remains of sleep, she got out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, where the sounds were coming from. The door wasn’t closed completely, and when she pushed it open she couldn’t repress a gasp. Spike was in front of the sink, his hands clutching it, and staring at the mirror on the wall. Except that the mirror was broken, pieces scattered in the sink and on the floor. His right hand was bleeding heavily, the blood dripping along the white porcelain, mixing in the water from the faucet. He was mumbling, too low for her to catch what he was saying.

Quietly, she walked to him, trying to avoid stepping on the broken glass,
hissing when she still nicked her toe. He turned his head toward
her then, but did not look at her face, his gaze going down to her feet.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and soft.

“It’s nothing,” she replied just as softly. “You’re hurt more.”

Reaching his side, she carefully pried his right hand off the sink,
pulling it under the warm water. She washed away the blood and made
sure no glass was embedded in his skin before wrapping it in a towel.

“You’re hurt,” he repeated, mumbling. “My fault again.”

“It’s not even bleeding anymore. But your hand is. Let’s
go fix it.”

She turned off the faucet and grabbed the first aid kit under the sink,
then coaxed Spike out of the bathroom. She made him sit on the bed, but
he refused to let her look at his hand.

“You first,” he said, gesturing at her foot, still avoiding looking
at her face.

With a sigh, she made a show of putting a band-aid over the little cut
on her toe, then sat down by his side.

“Your turn now,” she said in a decisive tone.

As she pulled antiseptic, cotton and bandages out of the box, he remained
immobile, looking at what she was doing, but never returning her gaze.

“Why did you break the mirror, love?”

She was dabbing antiseptic on his cuts, wincing because she knew it
had to sting, but he didn’t make a noise, didn’t shiver or give any hint
that he felt the burn.

“He was looking at me,” he replied, almost too quietly for her to make
out the words.

“Who was?”

“Him. The demon. The killer.”

His voice broke, and then he added, tonelessly:

“Me.”

Carefully wrapping his knuckles in bandages, she hesitated about what
to answer to that. She had thought they had managed to reach him
downstairs. He had talked sanely for a little while with all of them,
had shared some hot chocolate with her, then they had gone to bed and he
had spooned against her as he usually did. But obviously nothing
was any better. As she was done with his hand, she placed the kit
on the floor and moved up the bed until she was leaning against the headboard, pulling him to rest against her.

“You are not a demon,” she said softly as she threaded her fingers through
his hair. “You are not a killer. You were once, yes.
But not any more. You haven’t been for a long time. You have
been helping people and doing good things.”

He started laughing then, his head still against her chest. But
soon the laughter turned into tears.

“You have no idea,” he sobbed. “So many of them. I hurt
so many…”

She rocked him lightly against her, murmuring comforting words, trying
to soothe him.

“I know. I know you have hurt people,” she said after a while.
“But it was your nature then. A tiger hunts to feed, so did you.
We can blame neither.”

Again, the laugh, almost maniacal, in sharp contrast with his suddenly
sane sounding voice.

“You dust vampires, Slayer. For no other reason than that they
kill to feed. You should have staked me long ago.”

It was the first time he had called her ‘Slayer’ in a long time, and
the word sounded very strange coming from a man who was clutching her shirt, now damp with his tears, as if holding on to it for dear life.

“It’s my job,” she replied quietly. “You can’t blame me either
for doing what I was born to do.”

“Not blaming,” he said quickly. “Just love. Love you so much.”

She pressed her lips to the top of his head, sighing softly.

“I love you too. And I don’t blame you. Nobody blames you. We all love you and need you.”

He shook his head slightly, which was strange with his cheek pressed to her.

“Don’t,” he said bitterly. “Not love, just need. Pretend
to because I wish... But they see the monster. They always
did. And so did you. Hate is all I have. All I deserve.”

“Look at me.”

He did as she requested, his head raising slowly and turning until he
was looking at her, almost shyly, as if he didn’t dare meeting her gaze. She pulled on the collar of her nightshirt, and his eyes were drawn to her neck.

“Remember what this means?” she asked softly as his fingers came up
to brush on the healed scar, the last one he had given her.

She saw him hesitate, biting on his bottom lip, a habit she knew he
had picked up from her.

“Mine?” he whispered, the question clear in his voice.

“Yes, yours.”

Catching his wrist, she drew it to her lips. She placed a soft kiss
on her mark and felt her lover shiver at the touch.

“I claimed all of you,” she said softly. “Spike and William.
The one who used to kill and the one who is good now. I love all
of you. And I need all of you. Are you still mine?”

This time, there was no hesitation. “Always yours.”

“Then never say you don’t deserve my love or that I will stop loving
you again. Because neither is true. You are the best thing
that happened to me in a longer time than I can remember, and I love you.
Promise you won’t say it again?”


* * * * *


William-who-was-also-Spike stared at his Slayer for a long moment.
She wanted a promise, but he wasn’t sure he could keep it if he swore.
She didn’t know what she was saying. Soon she would see, realize
he had been right. Like they all had realized it. But then,
she only asked him not to say it. So he was free to think as he pleased as long as he didn’t voice it.

“I promise,” he whispered.

She pulled him tighter to her, holding him as she had earlier, in the
church, with his head tucked under her chin. She was whispering sweet
reassurances that he wanted very much to believe, but he knew better.
He let her words caress him, listening to the tender voice rather than
what she was saying, concentrating on her warmth, on her fingers playing
in his hair.

Closing his eyes, he allowed her to lull him in to a sleep he had been
fighting since he had learned he would be human again.

Part 42

To Greet the Sunrise


It was the same beach Buffy remembered from before. Except
that this time, it was night, and there wasn’t even the light of the moon
to dance on the waves. And yet she could see around her, clearly
enough to recognize the place, to see Spike sitting in the sand a few yards
from her, facing the sea. She took a couple of steps toward him,
and suddenly she wasn’t alone anymore. Cordelia was at her side,
dressed in the same long, flowing white dress as before. She placed
a hand on Buffy’s arm, stopping her.

“I didn’t know it would be this bad,” Cordelia said, and there was
a twinge of remorse in her voice.

“But you knew it would be bad,” Buffy half questioned.

“Well, duh.”

Apparently, being a - what was Cordy exactly anyway? An angel?
- whatever she was didn’t prevent her from doing such a mundane thing as
rolling her eyes.

“He was beginning to feel guilt even before,” she added impatiently. “Of course I knew it would be worse with his soul back. But not this much worse. And yes, I am an angel. Kind of.”

Buffy frowned, crossing her arms defensively on her chest.

“You’re reading my mind!” she accused.

Again, eyes rolling.

“If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here now. So are you going to
help me help him or just argue with me all night?”

Buffy’s eyes returned to the still figure that was Spike. He
hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t given a clue that he had heard a word of their
conversation.

“I don’t know how to help him,” Buffy whispered sadly, feeling deeply
helpless.

“Your presence soothes him a little,” Cordy said softly, squeezing
her arm gently. “That’s a start.”

Together, they approached him, and Buffy sat by his side, leaning
against him. The only sign he gave that he was aware she was there was
a quiet sigh.

“Hey love,” she murmured, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he replied just as quietly. “If I do nothing, if
I think of nothing, it’s like they’re not there.”

“Oh, but they are,” Cordelia said from behind them.

There was a bright flash of light, and suddenly the ocean was gone,
replaced by an immense crowd of people, all of them glaring at them, at
Spike, most of them gesturing and talking, either in screams or whispers,
although, somehow, she could hear nothing they were saying. Buffy
frowned slightly, wondering what was going on, but Spike’s soft moan and
the shudder that ran through him made her realize who all these people
were. He had said earlier that she had no idea how many people he
had killed, and at this instant she realized he had been right. Spike
was shaking now, his eyes were blinking rapidly, traveling over the multitude
in front of them. Buffy wrapped an arm around his shoulders and glared back at Cordelia.

“You’re supposed to help,” she hissed. “How is this making
things better?”

“He needs to see,” Cordy said slowly. “And so do you.”

“See what?”

Still furious, Buffy let her gaze slide over the many faces, when
a few familiar ones caught her eye.

“Hey! You didn’t kill Giles!” she protested. “Or Willow!
Or Tara… Xander… Dawn… Why are they all here?”

“I hurt them. All of them,” he replied tonelessly. “Let
Watcher be tortured. Kidnapped and scared Red and Xander. Hit Tara. Didn’t protect Nibblet. All hurt because of me. “

“Oh, no, you’re not playing that game,” Buffy growled. “All
of them, they consider you a friend now. Friends hurt each other
sometimes, and then they forgive. It just happens. If I had
to remember all the times I hurt any of them I would quickly go insane.”

(Good choice of words there, Buffy.)

(Get out of my head, Cordy.)

“Make them disappear,” Buffy said out loud to Cordelia. “They
don’t belong in there.”

“I can’t do that. Only Spike can.”

He flinched at the name, very slightly. Buffy placed a hand
under his chin and gently turned his face toward her.

“Make them go away. You’ve saved them or helped them often
enough not to feel bad about anything. They. Are. Your. Friends.”

His eyes flickered to the crowd, and then were back to her.
She checked quickly, and was happy to see that the Scoobies were gone. But in their place stood four women, four sisters.

“God, Spike!” she sighed. “How many times do I have to say
it…? I don’t belong in there. If not for you, I wouldn’t
be alive today. And neither would Faith. So take the both of
us out. Now.”

He opened his mouth, obviously to protest, but she glared at him,
daring him not to comply.

“Bossy chit,” he said with the ghost of a smirk.

When Buffy looked again, her image and Faith’s had disappeared.
The two other Slayers were there still. As Buffy’s eyes swept over
them, the Chinese one gave a small bow, and the tall girl in a black duster
flashed her a quick smile. And then they were both gone. Glancing at Spike, Buffy was sure he hadn’t made them disappear, because he seemed as puzzled as she felt.

(Cordy… did you do that?)

(No, I didn’t. And neither did he. It wasn’t supposed
to happen. Not complaining though.)

Once more, Buffy’s gaze traveled over the assembled crowd.
No one else she could recognize there. Except… No, she wouldn’t say a word about her. She didn’t have the right to tell Spike what to think, or feel, about Drusilla.

“Would you two look this way, please?”

In the same movement, Buffy and Spike turned toward the… the angel,
might as well call her what she was. On the sand behind them was
another group of people. Much smaller and far less grim than
the one in the ocean. The Scoobies were there. Angel, Steven,
Buffy, Faith. And a bunch of other people, some of them children,
that Buffy had never seen.

“The others are the people you killed or hurt,” Cordelia said to
Spike, almost lecturing. “Or rather, they are the people you think
you hurt. As Buffy showed you, some of them don’t belong there. These people here are the ones you helped. Some of them you saved, like Faith or Buffy. Others, you just helped. In various ways. Proving to someone they aren’t a demon as they feared. Saving someone else’s marriage. Helping a kid and his father find each other, and let me tell you I had given up hope on those two, they’re just as stubborn… OK, not the point here. The point is you didn’t just do bad things in your life. Or unlife. You did good things too. And you started doing them before you had your soul back, which is even more laudable. You’ve been on the good team for a while, Spike. You’ve been making up for your past, slowly but surely, and…”

“I hunted,” he interrupted her abruptly. “Scared people.
Bit them. Just a few weeks ago, I did.”

Cordelia let out a small irritated sigh, and gave Buffy a reproachful
glare.

“Yes you did. And the families of those people are in front
of you. You helped them; even if someone else we won’t name convinced you
it was wrong.”

Buffy felt her cheeks burn suddenly, and had to bite back an angry
comment.

“Your methods aren’t the ones traditionally used by our side,” Cordy
continued. “But they work, and all the Powers care about is your
intentions.”

A slight pause, for emphasis mostly, and she said, almost solemnly:

“Now you have a choice. You can keep wailing about your guilt
and wallow in self-pity until your past kills you. Or you can live
on to be a fighter for the light, and concentrate on the good you can do
in the future. Which one will it be?”

As Cordelia talked, Buffy stopped looking at her, and watched Spike
instead. Very slowly, his frown disappeared, and his features relaxed
slightly, until all that was left on his face was timid hope.

“So I can really make up for…”

He gestured toward the ocean without looking at the people there.
Cordelia and Buffy answered in the same breath.

“Yes.”

“That’s a lot to make up for,” he commented thoughtfully.

“Afraid of the challenge, Big Bad?”

For a second, his face closed, and Buffy cursed herself for the teasing
name that had rolled so easily off her tongue. But then, he smirked
at her, and she breathed more easily.

“I fear nothing, Slayer.”


* * * * *


Of course he was afraid. And afraid was a weak word to describe
what he felt. But now there was a little light of hope shining for
him. He wasn’t completely lost, after all. The girl had said
so. She wouldn’t have lied. Deep inside, he knew she hadn’t
lied. Spike was being offered a chance to atone for his mistakes. Not erase them, nothing could erase them. But do some good to compensate a little for the bad. To find the balance between William, who was good but too weak to do anything, and Spike, who had done so much and most of it bad.

“You’ll have to fight that battle alone,” Cordelia said after a short
instant. “I can’t make the pain stop. All we did here was show
you that your soul can be redeemed. It won’t silence the voices.”

Spike nodded slowly. “I understand. But I’m not alone.”

He glanced quickly at the smaller crowd, the one that proved he was
worth something, then gave a warm smile to his Slayer. She covered
his lips with hers in a tender kiss and when she pulled away everybody
else had disappeared and they were alone on the beach again.

Cuddled against each other, they faced the ocean once more, the water
coming close to their feet in quiet waves. The silence was comfortable. Too much had been said in too little time. Slowly, the horizon lightened, the black becoming first dark blue, then increasingly brighter until pinks and oranges were battling and melting together in a symphony of colors. At last the sun appeared, and to Spike it felt like the whole world was coming to life. Except… something was wrong with this picture.

“Luv? Since when does the sun rise in the west?”

Buffy laughed, a clear joyful laugh, the perfect music for a beautiful
sight.

“It’s a dream,” she chuckled. “Who cares where it rises as
long as it does?”

Then she kissed him again, and he truly couldn’t have cared less
about the sun or dreams.


* * * * *


When Buffy woke, Spike’s arms were woven around her, his face resting
on the pillow just beside hers. There was the faintest trace of a
smile on his lips, and she told herself she had never seen him sleep so peacefully. Afraid to disturb him, she remained perfectly still, letting only her eyes run over his features despite her need to touch him. She was impatient for him to wake, to see whether he would be as sane here as he had been in their dream. She was afraid too. Cordelia had warned him he would still hear the voices, and she could only hope he would be able to…

“Are you watching me?”

The quiet question interrupted her train of thoughts, and she couldn’t help grinning. Spike’s eyes were still closed, but his lips were curling up slightly.

“What makes you think I would?”

“Don’t know. I guess because I’ve watched you sleep so often.”

His eyes fluttered open, the pale blue tinted with just a little gray.

“’Morning Buffy,” he purred, pulling her closer.

“Good morning… William.”

A slight frown crossed his forehead, immediately wiped away.

“Sounds weird when you say it. I think I prefer Spike.”

She caressed his cheek lightly. “So you’re feeling better?”

“Better. Yes.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me again, would you?”

“I didn’t lie,” he pouted.

“Oh yes you did. You said you were OK and you weren’t.”

A mischievous light gleamed in his eyes, and she had no doubt he was
much better than the day before.

“You can’t blame an insane man for not knowing what he says.”

So, his ramblings amused him, uh?

“I’ll show you insane,” she grumbled playfully, and launched herself
at his ribs.

Before long, they were both giggling and panting, though neither was
ready to admit defeat in the tickle war for quite a while.


* * * * *

There are things you can do
And those you mustn’t
All the things you can’t tell
And those you shouldn’t
Lives so inviting, yet burning and hurting
Yes, but nothing is worse than not living
From wisdom to drifting, from regrets to disgust
With you beside me, I fear nothing

When judges decide if I do bad or good
If I'm really truthful, I can’t even tell
When voices slither, when images bleed
There’s only that mystery
That just belongs to me
When I’m close to the light
For one breath I hold it
With you beside me, I fear nothing

There are things you think
You didn’t see quite so
But you just keep quiet
And walk a bit faster
Looks you don’t give, moves you don’t make
Conscience slightly guilty, not so proud of yourself
When it gets too heavy, when the blues goes too far
I still have you beside me, and I fear nothing

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