What is Choice?
Chapter Seven: Was in Another Lifetime, One of Toil and Blood

Will walked to his car, not heeding his surroundings at all. It took him five minutes to even find his car, he was so confused. When he finally got into the vehicle, he didn't even bother putting his key in the ignition. He just sat, staring out the windshield.

'What just happened?' he thought to himself. He had no idea what was going on. They had been together, blissful from finally speaking their feelings, and then, he had left her reading his book. The book . . . the first big thing he had ever accomplished in his life. He had never done anything that important before. Knowing that she was going to read it had tied his stomach into knots. He was so hopeful that she would like it. Would be able to read his words, and see beyond them, into his mind, into his heart and soul. It took so much, to leave her in the kitchen with his pride and joy, and not hang around, asking her as she turned each page, "Do you like it?"

So he had retreated to the bathroom, and stood under the spray of the shower. The water, first hot and then lukewarm, before becoming downright chilly, slicked down his body, and all he could think about was how she was going to react. To the book, and to the first page of the book. He had typed the dedication page last; in fact, he had written it this morning, after getting the good news from his agent. Even now, he could see the page in his mind's eye.

"To Buffy, who answered the question I didn't even realize I was asking."

Will frowned as he realized he was staring at her apartment's windows. They were dark, and he wondered what she was doing. Was she crying, those giant sobs that had pierced his heart? Was she furious? Was she missing him?

'Sure she misses you, mate, after screaming at you, pounding on you, and refusing to talk to you,' that little voice in the back of his mind sarcastically commented. Will groaned, and shook his head. He had to get away from here. He started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot, only to realize that he didn't know where he wanted to go. He had planned to stay at Buffy's. He could go to his mother's house, of course, but he knew she'd want to know why he was in LA in the middle of the week, and especially why he wasn't staying at Buffy's place. He sat at a three-way intersection, and tried to figure out where to go, what to do.

A car idled behind him as he tried to make up his mind. The driver finally gave up being patient and laid on his horn. Will, in no mood to be polite, flipped him off and gunned his car, turning left towards the freeway. He drove fast down the roads, barely obeying posted signs and completely ignoring the speed limits. He rolled down the windows, and turned on the stereo. The CD in the player was the Sex Pistols, and he screamed along with Johnny as he started driving north.

Will didn't care that he was driving too fast. Didn't care that he was swerving around cars, ignoring the horns and flashing lights. He drove, and part of him couldn't help hoping that if he drove fast enough, he could outrun his thoughts. Outrun his memories. Because he kept seeing Buffy's face in his mind, tears streaking down her cheeks as she demanded, "Who told you about me? How did you find out?" He kept remembering how he had felt when she started crying, his shock at her words, and his disbelief.

What in the hell was going on? Had he managed to fall for another nutcase, a woman who had no grasp on reality? If that was so, Buffy had hidden her crazy tendencies damn well. Because if she expected him to believe that she was some all-powerful superhero . . .

It was too much for him. Barely checking his mirrors, Will wrenched his car into the lane for the upcoming exit. Driving fast through the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp, he found he was not that far from downtown LA, in a somewhat seedy area that seemed to be trying to reclaim itself. He could smell salt on the breeze, and figured he must be near the ocean.

He drove down the road until he spotted just what he was looking for. A bar.

He swung into the parking lot, not caring that he took up two spaces when he parked. He slammed the car door, and stormed into the place.

When he entered, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights. The place was dark, smoky, and filled with loud music. There was a small dance floor, but this place obviously wasn't out to attract the club-hopping sort. This was an honest-to-God bar, where people went to drown their troubles or use alcohol to help start some.

Will didn't think he'd ever found a place more suited to the mood he was in.

He found a seat at the bar, and gestured to the bartender, a muscle-bound guy who obviously doubled as the bouncer for the place. The bartender nodded at him, and Will said, "Wanna run a tab," flashing his credit card. "Whiskey, and keep it coming." The bartender nodded again, and plopped down a glass and poured him a shot. Will lifted the glass, tossed back the burning alcohol, and slammed the glass back down.

"Again," he said. The bartender shrugged, poured another glass, and then left the bottle sitting on the counter before wandering to the other end of the bar. Will once again threw back the drink, and refilled his glass.

The alcohol hit him quickly, although he just felt a bit dazed. "But then, you already felt like you'd gotten your fucking teeth kicked down your throat," he muttered to himself. He stared into the glass, wondering how in the hell he had gotten screwed like this. Here he was, a decent, hard-working bloke. He had found a woman who seemed absolutely, positively perfect to him. Her mind was brilliant and quirky, she had the face of an angel, she had the biggest yet shyest heart he'd ever seen, and a sex drive that had always impressed him.

Will groaned and dropped his head onto the bar. Sex with Buffy had been a revelation. Mostly because it wasn't just sex. It was love-making, and he hated the fact that he was a big enough poof to even think that. But that's what it was: not screwing or fucking, but love-making. At least, that's how he had always felt. Even during the hottest, wildest times they had together, he had still seen it as making love.

He snorted. "Such a nancy boy you are," he said, as he propped his head up with one hand. His other hand lifted the whiskey to the mouth, and he took a sip. "Had to be all romantic," he sneered, taking another swig. "Had to be all soft. 'Oh, you're my girl, Buffy,' 'Oh, you're my inspiration, Buffy,' 'Oh, I love you, Buffy'." He finished off the last of the whiskey in his glass. "Some inspiration you were."

Her actions when she read his book were just so . . . odd. She had seemed angry, yet he could see fear swirling in her eyes. She had approached him, her anger surrounding her like the corona around a star. He had backed up against the cabinets, because he felt like a wildebeest about to be attacked by a lion. She had looked at him like he was prey, something to be destroyed. The anger had gone out of her quickly, and he was left with a crying, hysterical woman in his arms, babbling about baking and betrayal. He had tried to understand what she was saying, but it was just too ludicrous to be believed. He had somehow stolen her life and based his book on it?

Will stared at the whiskey bottle, and started peeling one of the corners of the label. It was ridiculous. His book was supposed to be your traditional metaphorical coming of age story, using the fantasy leit-motif of supernatural demons representing your own personal demons. He had thought, as he wrote, that he was basing it on his own feelings when he was 18, coming to a new country with his mother, his only family who had been told she might only have three months left to live, and leaving his girlfriend behind. The fear and anger and sadness, tinged with unexpected pleasure--that was the emotions and memories that had shaped the book as he wrote.

The coming-of-age story was one of those plots that every writer wrote some variation on at some point in their career. It was so damn common. And his "twist" on the cliched story wasn't that original, he knew. When he first started developing the idea, in fact, he had hesitated from giving in to the emotional appeal it held for him. He had thought it was too ordinary, not special, not memorable. But that day, when he had looked over his ideas and decided to go with it . . . suddenly, what had looked ordinary looked unique. What looked happenstance seemed chosen. Fate became destiny.

That feeling--that 'click' of a key fitting into a lock--had been with him ever since he wrote the first word of the book. He'd never written anything so quickly. Even with extra work and spending as much time as he could with Buffy, he'd managed to churn out the book in six weeks. He'd stay up all hours, writing until the sun came up, only to go to work, put in a full day, and then come home. He'd fit in a phone call to Buffy, eat a little, and then put in another few hours of writing before finally collapsing into bed.

Will had wondered in passing how this was happening, but he'd just ignored the feeling and kept writing. He hadn't wanted to jinx himself and think himself into writer's block. So he had kept writing, not letting himself ponder the choices he was making in the story. Why have the hero fall in love with one of the creatures he killed? Why did he write Luke as deeply scarred by that first love, growing increasingly unable to connect to others? How did he decide to let Luke share his power with others in order to save the world, rather than trying to do it all by himself?

Now he wished he had thought more about the choices he made. About the words he picked and the ideas he'd developed. Because maybe then he could understand what the hell Buffy had meant when she said he had written her life.

Because he couldn't understand it. Couldn't believe it. Because if he believed her, that meant she had kept things from him. Lied to him. Maybe she wasn't crazy like Dru, just a lying bitch. So his luck with women once again held true.

He drank some more whiskey as he thought over the problem. It was impossible. Incredible. First, you had the question of, how in the world had he tapped into her life so much that every major event of her life was in his book? It would imply the existence of powers and possibilities that he couldn't comprehend.

But more importantly, if he accepted that he had somehow, in some way, used her life for his book, what the hell did that mean? That demons were real? That there were people out there, fighting against evil and the darkness that he had thought was only metaphorical?

And that Buffy, little Buffy who barely came up to his shoulder, had the strength to take on vampires who had been linebackers when they were alive?

Will snorted, and pushed away the glass. It was a crock of shit. There was no way in hell that any of it was possible. He knew exactly what was going on. He knew that bitch all too well. After the fuzzy "I love you" moment, the stupid bint had gotten too scared with the idea of being in love, and so she'd grasped for the first pretext she could find to push him away. Threw a pretty little fit, saying that she'd been betrayed, turned on the waterworks, and confused him so much that he gave in and left, rather than talk things out with her.

"Although probably a good thing at this point, as I want to fucking strangle her," he grumbled under his breath as he left the bar and headed to his car. He weaved as he walked on the pavement, the whiskey in his system affecting him too much. He managed to get inside his car, but slumped down in the seat, not bothering to start it. He knew he was in no shape to drive. He knew he should go and sleep this off. But he wasn't even sure where he was, much less if he could even find his mother's house. Not that he wanted to see her at this point.

Will leaned back against the headrest, and wondered what he was going to do. He didn't want to see his mother. He didn't want to keep drinking; he knew he'd just end up getting in a fight. He couldn't see Buffy, and he didn't know at this point if he wanted to see her. Rich was on vacation with Rosie in Hawaii for their anniversary, and he certainly didn't feel like interrupting that.

"I need more guy friends," he muttered. Then, he realized he did have a guy friend . . . kinda. He opened up his bag and dug around for his cell phone. Only last week, Buffy had given him Xander and Willow's phone numbers, saying it was always good to have them in case. He had shrugged and gone along with it; although he didn't know them that well, both of Buffy's friends had seemed like good people, and besides, he'd do anything to keep her happy. So, he'd programmed their numbers into his cell phone's address book, and had then forgotten about it.

He quickly flipped open the phone and punched a few buttons.

"Hello?"

"Xander! Friend of Buffy!"

"Will?" Xander sounded confused. Not surprising, but Will ignored it and carried on.

"Yeah, s'me. Look, I need you to do me a favor."

"Well, sure, I guess. Anything for Buffy's boyfriend."

Will's lip twisted. "Not so sure I am anymore, mate. We had a fight, although calling it a fight is a bit of an understatement. On par with saying the Pacific is damp."

"Ooookay," Xander said. "Have you been drinking?"

"How'd you guess?" Will asked, knowing that he was slurring his words a bit.

"Painful experience. Where are you?"

"Umm . . . a bar called Soulless. It's on . . . " Will craned around in the car, looking for a street sign.

"Don't bother," Xander said. "It's just down the road from me. You're lucky that you ended up in my backyard when you decided to go on a bender. I can drive, but it's not the easiest thing to do at night with only one eye. Hold on and I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"Xander, you are a prince among men. I take back any insults I've ever made about you," Will said.

He heard Xander faintly saying, "Huh? Insults?" as he disconnected the phone.

Will sighed and dropped the phone on the seat next to him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the steering wheel. He was so tired. He was strung out from finishing the book, and the excitement that had caused. Then, the reunion with Buffy, the anticipation of showing her the book, and then the emotional meltdown . . . it was no wonder that when you combined all that with half a bottle of whiskey, he was feeling out of sorts.

He was jolted out of his drifting, half-formed thoughts by a knock on the window. He looked up and saw Xander. He grinned, grabbed his phone and his bag, and stepped out of the car.

"Insults, huh?" Xander said, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Will waved one hand in the air. "A joke, mate. Anyway, I am a good responsible citizen and wouldn't dream of driving while intoxicated. And besides, I need another male to join me in cursing females, not to mention the man who invented whiskey." He swayed a bit, and Xander put out a hand to steady him.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun. I hope you're not a singer when you're drunk," Xander said, pulling him towards a Honda Civic.

"Of course I sing!" Will insisted loudly. He cleared his throat, and immediately began singing, "Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated!"

"So do I," muttered Xander, as he got Will settled in the car, where the Brit was insisting on regaling the neighborhood with the Ramones' greatest hits.

**

"Girls are stupid," Will said again as he looked up at Xander. He knew that he was rather drunk at this point. But he had gotten past the loud, obnoxious singing and was now on the obnoxious self-doubting whinging.

He knew that Xander was both confused and annoyed at his behavior. He knew that Xander wanted to call Buffy and dump this mess in her lap. After all, that's what he'd do, if Rich came to him drunk and moaning about some fight with Rosie.

"I'm stupid, too," Will said. "Told her I loved her. And I do, you know? S'bloody incredible, being with her. And she said she loved me back! I couldn't believe it. And then I had to bollocks it all up. Left her reading my book, and came back to a different woman," he explained to Xander, who still looked confused.

"What do you mean a different woman?" said Xander, who sat down on the chair that matched the sofa Will was currently sprawling across.

"She had read the first couple chapters of my book. It's a great book," Will said, proudly. "All about fighting the forces of darkness, with one person able to defeat the evil in this world. But it's all meta . . . meta . . . " he trailed off, not quite remembering what he meant.

"Metaphors?" Xander suggested.

"Yeah, that!" Will said. "Metafives. Anyway, I come out, and she starts yelling at me. 'Someone betrayed me!' 'How did you know about me?'" Will shook his head. "Don't know what she meant. 'Cause it's impossible, what she said. She said it was her life! That everything in the book happened to her!" Will snorted. "As if. Bloody bitch just got scared with the warm fuzzies, and needed something, anything, to pick a fight over."

Will looked over at Xander, and noticed that the other man had gone pale. "Hey, what's up, mate? I'm the one who's supposed to be pale-got that English skin, doesn't tan, just burns . . . " he trailed off, knowing he was approaching the passing-out stage of his evening.

Xander stared at Will. "Oh, man. I can't believe this." Xander got up and started pacing. "It is impossible--it couldn't be true. Because it's just unthinkable!"

Will groaned, Xander's pacing making him dizzy. He closed his eyes and drifted off, to the sound of Xander's babbling.

**

The feeling of a thousand knives stabbing into his brain awoke Will. He turned over awkwardly and stared at the room he was in. He ran through a mental checklist. Still in his clothes? Check. On a couch? Check. Fuzzy tongue, churning stomach, and an anvil for a head and the world was making horseshoes? Check.

In short, he was majorly hung over.

Will sighed, keeping his eyes shut. He slowly felt things coming back into focus, and he waited, half-hoping that he'd realize last night was a dream. Although it couldn't compare to the weird experiences he'd had while he slept. He had dreamt of blood and violence, and then of a girl who looked suspiciously like Buffy. Of falling in love and changing his whole world for her, but to never feel like it was enough.

He humphed. "Too close to the truth, mate," he said out loud. Still, it had been a bit disturbing; the images had been so vivid. But hell, that would be expected, with the amount of liquor he had put away last night. Weird dreams would be part and parcel of the whole experience.

Will decided to try sitting up, and had managed it without tossing his cookies, when a high electronic trilling made him want to pierce his own eardrums.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered, forcing his eyes to open. He slowly pulled himself off the couch, and looked around for his bag. The whole time, he kept ordering his stomach to stay put and not get any ideas to do anything further about that whole nausea thing. The phone kept ringing, and he finally found his bag and dug out the phone.

"Yeah?" he said, not caring how he sounded.

"Will?"

At the sound of her trembling voice, he felt several emotions race through him. Happiness that she had followed through on her promise to talk to him today. Sadness that they had fought. Fear that she didn't trust him. But somehow, the anger over her unbelievable excuses won out.

"Yeah?" he replied, curtly.

He heard her take a deep breath. "Well, I had said we could talk tomorrow, and since it's now tomorrow, I thought we could meet for breakfast, and I could try and explain what happened last night."

He didn't say anything. He was doing all he could not to crush the phone in anger. The little bitch thought he'd fall for the sadness and hope in her voice, and let her play him. Well, he had been played before by women more talented at head games than Buffy. He wasn't going to let it happen again.

He had let himself waste three years of his life, hanging around, waiting for Dru to finally come back to him, for real. He had bent over backwards, letting his soul get chipped away by her games. And at the end, he had been left with nothing.

Never again.

"I don't think so."

He could practically hear her mouth drop open. "What? I mean . . . I thought you wanted to talk. And I want to talk to you. I need to . . . to apologize."

"Well, you know how you said last night you couldn't deal with it right now? Well, I can't deal with you right now."

He didn't care that he loved her. He couldn't let himself think about that. If he did, he'd forget his anger and get his heart trampled again.

"Will, I don't understand," she said, her voice sounding choked. "I know this is all confusing, but I was able to figure things out last night. I know what's wrong."

"So do I. It's you, pet. You decided to play a little game on old Will. You got scared when we said the dreaded three little words, so you had to figure out a way to destroy things. And you picked a fine way to destroy me, love. You attacked something that I had poured my heart into, and you accused me of betrayal. Not only that, but if the book is your life, which I doubt, you've been lying to me the whole time! I've figured everything out, so I don't think we need to talk."

She was sobbing now. "Will! Why are you doing this? Last night--I'm so sorry. It was such a shock for me. And there was no way you could know what was going to happen when I read the book, because I haven't told you everything about me. But I want to tell you now. Please, Will, I have to tell you. It's the only way you'll understand."

"I don't think you understand, girl. There's nothing to explain. I can't find smaller words than 'I don't want to talk to you,' that could be processed by your pea-sized brain."

Will let his words flow out, letting the anger rule. His heart may be screeching at him that he was a heartless bastard and a pathetic excuse for a man, but he refused to let himself listen to his heart breaking.

He listened to Buffy sniff, and said, "Goodbye."

"Will!" she said quickly.

"What?" he said, trying to sound disinterested.

She paused, and then said, tremulously, "I love you."

"No, you don't, love," he sneered, before he hit the end button. He quickly turned off the phone, dropped it on the floor, and headed to the bathroom to puke his guts up.

**

Will stumbled out of the bathroom, feeling even more like shit. You'd think throwing up till you saw your feet come out of your mouth would make you feel better, but it didn't work like that.

He paused when he saw Xander, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Hey, mate, thanks for letting me stay here last night. I was . . . messed up."

Xander looked at him, and Will nearly shivered at the ice in Xander's gaze.

"I heard the end of your phone call to Buffy."

Will stepped back. Xander looked murderous. Like he wanted to tear Will apart with his two hands. Xander took a step towards him.

"I tried to call her last night, after you passed out, but I couldn't get through. Couldn't warn her. And then I heard what you said to her." Xander paused, and Will swallowed hard. "Will, I know you're hurting. You're confused. You're hung over. For those reasons, I'm not going to kick your ass, although we could argue that you deserve it. But I want you to get the hell out of my apartment."

Will looked at Xander for a moment, before he had to drop his eyes. Couldn't take looking at Xander, his normally kind face set in a hard expression, the eye patch that normally looked a bit goofy making his face seem dangerous. He wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to explain to Xander. But he couldn't find the words. So he picked up his cell phone and his bag, and walked stiffly out of Xander's apartment into the bright sunshine.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked down the street. He felt like he was burning bridges, not after he had crossed them, but as he crossed them. The flames were licking at his heels, and it was only a matter of time before he plunged into the cold water, broken on the current and the debris.

He plodded towards the bar, planning to retrieve his car and then get the hell out of this town. Go back to San Diego, lick his wounds, figure out what to do. Try to put his life back together without Buffy. How quickly she had fallen into place, making his life so incredibly full. Now, the emptiness was so complete, he wondered if he could make it through.

He stared at his feet, before letting his gaze drift. The road was lined with small stores, their windows full of pawned items, homemade crafts, or food. It was still early, so most of them were still closed, the glass protected by iron bars. As he walked past one second-hand store, though, he glanced at the window, and stopped in his tracks, staring ahead of him. Part of him didn't want to turn back to the window. He had a feeling that something in his life was about to change, and he didn't understand how or why.

Slowly, Will turned his head. The item in the store's window that had caught his attention was a long, leather duster. It looked battered and worn, like it had gone through years of abuse, but at the same time, it looked well-tended; he noticed a rip that had been repaired around one of the sleeves.

He let his bag drop to the ground, as he walked towards the window. He put his hands on the glass, trying to get closer to the coat. It called to him. It looked imposing and intimidating on the mannequin, but he knew how it felt. How the weight settled over his shoulders, how the leather flapped against his legs, how the cuffs hung just a hair too long over his wrists.

"What the hell?" he said.

And like that, Will remembered who he was. Who he had been. What he had done. Who he loved.

Spike stepped away from the window, not caring that he could see his reflection. He stared at his hands, and looked up at the sunlight. He felt the breath going in and out of his lungs. Felt his heart beating.

In an awed voice, he said, "Bloody hell."

End, Chapter Seven
 

What is Choice?
Chapter Eight: Just Listen to The Reasons
and The Hints That I've Been Giving

Ever since the phone call, Buffy had retreated into herself. She went to work. She finished her classes for the semester. She spent time with Dawn and her friends. But she was pretending, and her sister and her friends knew she was pretending. So far, none of them had called her on it, although she knew that Dawn was preparing to make some overtures towards talking.

But she couldn't do it. She had been so proud of how far she had come with him. She thought she had finally put the specter of Angel behind her. The scars he had left on her, while still there, had started to heal. But Will had made Angel look like an amateur.

And if it wasn't enough to have to deal with Will utterly crushing her heart, there was Spike. Who was Will, in one of those "Ben-is-Glory" ways.

Buffy sat in her living room, trying to pay bills. She always used to do these kinds of chores at the kitchen table, but since that night two weeks ago, she'd been unable to spend much time in that room, much less sit at the table. She sipped her mug of tea, and tried to concentrate. Yet her mind continued to spiral back to the mess that was her life.

She tossed her pen on the table, and screamed in frustration. Of course, she had forgotten Dawn was home, who came running out of her room at Buffy's screech.

"Buffy! What's wrong?"

Buffy sighed. "Sorry, Dawn. Just had to let that out. Ignore me."

Dawn looked at Buffy, her head tilted to one side. "Are you sure you want me to do that?"

"Dawn, the last thing I need right now is pop psychology," Buffy said grumpily.

"No, what you need is to stop hiding and start talking. To Will for sure, but if not him, to me, or Willow or Xander. Buffy, you had started to come back. But now, you're worse than you ever were before."

Buffy gazed at her sister, who seemed so much smarter than she was. So much more intuitive, more observant.

"You remind me of Spike," Buffy said, not thinking.

Dawn's face grew puzzled. "Spike? Who's Spike?"

Buffy felt her heart shrivel up even more. Obviously that one point she was wondering about-whether memories of Spike had been returned to everyone else-was settled. Looked like she was the only person in the world who knew that they all owed their existence to Spike.

She felt some tears well up in her eyes, but ignored them. "Oh, no one. Just having random thoughts."

Dawn nodded, but kept her gaze fixed on Buffy's face, her eyes begging Buffy to open up.

Buffy dropped her eyes, unable to look at her sister. "Dawn, I know that you're worried about me. And I think I'm finally getting to a place where I can talk about things. And you'll be the first one I talk to. But I can't do it yet." She looked up at Dawn, her face hopeful. "Please, give me more time."

Dawn looked at her for a moment, then nodded. She gave Buffy a quick hug, and headed back to her room.

Buffy watched her leave, and then leaned back against the couch. She looked up at the ceiling, and let the tears fall. But she didn't know who she was crying for. Will, or Spike.

**

It was confusing, not even knowing what name to call yourself in your thoughts, much less getting used to answering to one name when you were thinking of yourself by another name.

He went back and forth on whether he should accept his fate, and go by Will, or if he needed to remember who he really was, and thus be known as Spike. Whenever he thought he had made a choice, something happened to change his mind. He turned around when someone called him "Will," or overheard people talking about Spike, and wondered if they were talking about him, only to find out that the conversation was about Spike Lee.

He knew, though, that the reason he pondered this so much was because it kept his mind off her. The girl with one name, and who stimulated one response in him. Buffy, beloved Buffy.

It had been fourteen days since he had talked to her. Since he had broken her heart, and his. Since he found out the truth. Since he had awoken from the Matrix-like dream and found himself alone in the real world . . .

"Bloody hell," he said, rolling his eyes. "Next thing I know, you'll be wanting to go help the hopeless and get hair gel tips from Angel."

At times, it was like an odd case of multiple personality; even though their personalities meshed for the most part, their thoughts could be diametrically opposed on some issues, and Spike was never shy of making his feelings known. Will chose to pick his battles more carefully, the result being that he tended to win his more often.

All the memories of Spike's life had returned to Will in that moment, standing on the sidewalk in front of the pawn shop. The first thing he had done was wait for the shop to open, and then went inside and bought the duster. He didn't know if it was Spike or Will who wanted the coat more. And while it wasn't the most practical garment to own in Southern California, it was important to both of them. For Spike, the coat represented the way he had been able, back in Sunnydale, to leash his demon. For Will, it reminded him that nothing was necessarily as it appeared.

His friends and work colleagues were beginning to wonder what was going on with him. He had bleached his hair when he returned to San Diego. He didn't slick it back, but kept it in loose curls. He didn't worry about the British expressions that slipped into his speech now; before, he had worked hard to keep his accent but not necessarily the words. Will found he liked the jolt of surprise from his coworkers when he was yelling "Bollocks!" at his computer when it froze up in the middle of a writing a press release.

Will knew now that while he'd never really wanted to be human when he was Spike, he was happy with his life. But Will was also beginning to perceive things differently. He had gained over one hundred and twenty years of experience and memories, and that's bound to change your attitudes on politics and society. And it made him think and appreciate different things when he saw them through that prism.

So, in short, he was gradually figuring out what was Will, what was Spike, and seeing that there really wasn't many differences between the two of them. Other than the name confusion, he thought that eventually, things would be smoothed over.

Will sighed. If he was choosing to accept Spike, and treating it as part of him, that meant he had to focus on the Buffy issue. And he wasn't sure if he'd be able to figure that out at all.

He went out on the balcony to enjoy the sunshine. So many things in his life now made sense, now that he knew about Spike. His love for sunshine and the outdoors, for one. Will smiled, nostalgically, thinking of the day with the Gem of Amara. Didn't have it long enough to freckle, but at least now he knew that he didn't freckle, didn't really tan.

Of course, the reason he didn't hang onto the Gem was Buffy. Buffy, who centered in so much more of his life now. Will had thought she had played a large part in his life before, but once he realized the history that they had shared, he realized the truth.

Without Buffy, he was nothing. He wouldn't be here, if not for Buffy. He had suffered and despaired, true, but without that pain, he wouldn't be human now, wouldn't have known the bliss of loving and being loved by Buffy, even if that bliss had been short-lived.

Will leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the ocean. The way he saw it, the first question he needed to ask was whether Buffy was worth the pain and heartache involved in trying to win her back.

Part of him wanted to point out that she hadn't trusted him, when she first read the book, to tell him what she was going through. Hell, she hadn't trusted him to tell him what her life had been like before she moved to LA.

But even more troubling then the question of trust was the dark doubt that haunted his mind. Buffy had said she loved Spike, right before he closed the Hellmouth. And she said she loved Will. But did she really love him, at all? Either version? Had she twice deluded herself, and him, into thinking that she cared for him, loved him? Could this all be some cosmic joke played on him? Something to torture him, give him a hell on Earth since he had managed to cheat his way out of the literal hell?

But she had lied to him. Hadn't told him about her life before he met her. Did that mean that anything that had happened between them was real? Had she really loved him?

Will sighed. If he knew that she loved him, really believed it, he'd be so much more willing to go after her, make things work between them. Before, he wouldn't have cared if she loved him back. Spike was happy to love Buffy, and give her anything she needed. But now, as Will, he needed more. He didn't know if he trusted her. He didn't know if she loved him. He might have been a fool for love before, but that didn't mean he had to stay that way.

**

Buffy tapped her hands against the steering wheel, trying not to give into her urge to slay some of the cars ahead of her. Stuck in traffic on the freeway, there wasn't much to distract her from her thoughts. She scooched down in her seat, and pondered the eternal questions.

Why do you park on a driveway but drive on a parkway? Why is the sky blue? How could Will's eyes be the same blue as Spike's?

She still didn't completely understand why the Fates had made the choice they had. Why they returned Spike to Earth in a body so similiar to his old one, with a personality that reminded her so much of Spike. Then, when they had restored her memories, why hadn't they restored everyone else's? Would have made things a lot easier to explain, if Will knew. It was like the Fates wanted this all to happen. Wanted them to meet, fall in love, but then be destroyed by the knowledge of who he once was. And what she had done to him.

Buffy closed her eyes. She wished that she couldn't believe what she had done to him, but she couldn't make that wish. Because she knew how easy it would be for her to abuse someone that she didn't see as human, as real. Spike, as a vampire, had just been a demon to her. Old Buffy wasn't able to see past the label, even when her heart and her eyes had given her proof otherwise. Resurrection trauma aside, she had acted with as much feeling as she thought Spike had. In other words, none.

She wasn't sure if that was still the case with her. If nothing else, the erasure of Spike from her memories had helped to blur the year following her return to life. She couldn't remember much of her depression, or how she had pulled herself out of it. If she hadn't gone through the emotional pain of her relationship with Spike, would she have been so closed off during the battle with the First, to her detriment? There was no way of knowing now, but with the knowledge she had, Buffy knew that she couldn't exist within such narrow boundaries of human equaled good and demon equaled bad.

The traffic eased up a bit, and she inched forward.

So, she had established that she had messed up, big time, with Will. It appeared that she had also messed up with Spike. The Fates had talked about a choice, living with the truth or living with the lie. Buffy guessed it meant she had to choose whether Will/Spike was worth all the turmoil that affected their relationship. She had to admit that whether he answered to Will or Spike, she loved the soul and spirit that existed within his body, and she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. If she couldn't accept that, she needed to move on. Tell herself that it was over, and try and put her life back together.

Buffy gazed at the brake lights of the car ahead of her, and it was like staring at a chain of stop signs, telling her to stop, think, wait, stall, put off any decision. 'Protect yourself,' the voice in the back of her head whispered. 'It's too late for you and him.'

The red seemed to hypnotize her, and she found her thoughts drifting away from Spike, from Will, from the confusion that affected her every move. The color made things seem so much easier. She loved him. She wanted to fix things. All she had to do was make the first move. Call him, beg him to listen to her. Forget about her pride and sacrifice anything she could to make him hear her. It would all be worth it if she could get him back.

A car horn interrupted her trance. Buffy realized the traffic had started moving, and she hit the gas. As she drove down the freeway, she started making plans. She tried to imagine phoning him, speculated on the different reactions he might have. She focused all her energy on him, using every nugget of knowledge she had about Spike and Will.

Maybe if she thought and prepared enough, she might be able to ignore the cold fear surrounding her heart. A fear that told her she was too late.

**

Will entered his house, happy to be home. Ever since he had sold his book, he had wondered why he kept his job. Now more than ever, he knew that he didn't want to stay at the college, writing puff pieces on the newest dean and describing the donations that the fat-cat trustees kept making. Yet his breakup with Buffy had also put the book in limbo, and until he knew what he was going to do with the manuscript, he couldn't possibly quit his job.

He ate a sandwich and grabbed a bottle of beer before heading into his study. He turned on his computer and opened up the file that contained the text of his book. He had resolved that tonight, he'd look over his novel and decide what to do with it. He could either substantially edit the book, and in effect, turn it into something new that might not please his publisher. He could scrap the whole thing entirely, and withdraw it from his publisher. While he could legally do that, Will didn't know if his career would be able to withstand something that would appear so fickle. Or, he could let the book stand, and let it be published.

Will gazed at the monitor, and was transfixed by the blinking cursor. He didn't know if he could edit the book. Didn't think he could change the book without destroying it. And if the book was the only thing that remained from his relationship with Buffy, he didn't think that withholding it from publication was the right choice. Maybe he should let the book go ahead, and serve as a memorial to a time when he thought he had it all, only to lose the most important thing.

Because he could have had it all with Buffy. There had been none of the things that had doomed the relationship between Buffy and Spike. No belittlement of who he was, no anger over Buffy's choice of him. Hell, he'd even been able to get along with Xander, something he would never have thought possible in the old days.

But he couldn't tell Buffy what he had discovered. And if he couldn't tell her, he couldn't be with her. He wouldn't lie to her, or anyone, the way she lied to him.

He shook his head. "What a poofter you are," he muttered. Why the hell should it matter? If anything, he could give her a taste of her own medicine. Of course, that would require going through the agony of making up, only to dump her. And he didn't think he could be that cruel to her. He knew what Buffy had been through, knew her fears. Didn't mean he wasn't still angry with her. Just meant that the anger was tempered a bit with the desire to have things be finished. This limbo they had been in for the last month was stupid. He should just pick up the phone and call her. Pick up the phone . . .

He jumped in his chair when his phone rang. Rolling his eyes, he picked up the cordless and said, "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Buffy. Please don't hang up."

If he hadn't already been sitting, he would have collapsed into a chair. She was calling him? Bloody hell.

He sat in silence, not sure of what to say, before Buffy said, "Well, at least you haven't hung up."

Will sucked in a huge breath. "Hello." Saying something seemed to loosen his tongue and made his brain start working. "I can't say that I was expecting your call," he said, his voice cautious.

"No, I know this must be a surprise. But I had to risk it, even if you just hung up on me. I just felt . . . I decided that I didn't want to live in doubt any more."

"Doubt of what?" he asked, curious.

"Lots of things," she said, sounding hesitant. "About what I felt, and what I had said to you." She paused, and said in a rush, "I couldn't let you doubt me."

Will frowned, and wondered how honest he wanted to be with her. Wondered if she could handle the whole truth. Before he could even contemplate the matter fully, though, his mouth decided to start talking. "It's easy to doubt, when you feel like you're not trusted."

"You thought I didn't trust you?"

"Well, look at it from my perspective, Buffy. You read my book and tell me that I've somehow managed to tap into the real story of your life. Now, first, you're telling me this just after . . ." His voice trailed off, and he tried to not relive that joyful moment. Of course, he failed.

He quickly rushed ahead, tripping a bit over his words. "You tell me this after we've just confessed how we really feel. So I start wondering if you really meant what you said. And you've also got the issue that if I believe you, and accept that you had this life fighting demons and whatnot that you haven't told me about. You lied to me, by omission. It was like getting a right hook to the jaw, followed by a kick in the gut."

Buffy's reply was slow in coming. "I can certainly understand how you feel . . . Will." She said his name with some hesitation, and he wondered why. "But how could I know how you'd react? I've been so lucky to find friends who knew about my life, and were willing to fight with me and help me. But for every person who could see the truth and accept it, there were ten, twenty, fifty who couldn't. Couldn't accept the idea that demons really exist. Couldn't accept the idea that a short blonde girl was the only thing standing between them and hell on earth. Hell, I'm just the type who'd normally die in the first ten minutes of the movie, if life were a horror movie."

Will sighed. "So why keep things secret now? I mean, you're not still out there, are you?" He had never noticed any signs that she was patrolling, never saw any fresh scars or wounds on her body.

"No, I'm . . . retired. Basically, there are plenty of Slayers--that's what I was, a Slayer. When I started, the story started with 'one girl to fight the forces of darkness'. But I kept changing things, so then there was two; me and another girl. Then, there was me and a bunch of girls who could become Slayers. And then, all of the potentials became Slayers. So there wasn't much call for the oldest Slayer on record to keep Slaying." Buffy's voice sounded a bit shaky, like she wasn't sure of telling him all this. "From what I read, you got most of it just right in the book."

"Ah, the book," Will said, feeling a bit shaky himself. Hearing her talk about her life before, even with his knowledge of the facts, was still a shock. If he hadn't lived it once, he wouldn't believe it, still. "I was just sitting here wondering what the hell I'm going to do about it."

"What do you want to do?" Buffy asked.

He felt his anger dim a bit at her concern. "It's tough to say. I don't think I could change things and not wreck it. And I don't know if I can withdraw it from publication without being dropped by my publisher and my agent." He paused, and decided to make the offer to her. "If you say the word, I'll yank it. You and I will be the only ones to know about it. Regardless of how things are between us, I don't want to expose your secret, even if it's a distorted version of your past."

He heard Buffy inhale sharply, obviously surprised. He wondered what her response would be. Because in his heart of hearts, he wanted to publish the book. He knew it was the best thing he had ever written, and his heart let out a small cry at the idea of no one ever seeing it.

"Publish it."

"What? Say that again? I thought you said I could publish it," Will said, surprised.

"I want you to publish it. It's good, Will. Even the little I was able to read . . . I could see how good a writer you are. I can't let you hide your talent from the world. I want you to go ahead," Buffy said, her voice sounding calm and forceful. Then, though, she paused, and sounded more hesitant when she said, "That is, if you want to publish it."

"Buffy . . ." he said, still a bit shocked that she was willing to let the book be published. The Buffy he remembered had wanted a normal life, and had refused to see how special she was, how appropriate her unique life was to her personality. And the thought, that even though she now had that normal life, she was willing to be reminded of her past, interfering with her perfect new life . . .

He didn't know what to say, so he just said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said, her voice sounding weak, almost like she was crying.

"Please don't cry," Will said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. "I can tell this is hard for you. But I'm so grateful to you. I almost can't believe it."

Buffy sniffed. "I mean it, Will. Please believe me--I don't want you to keep not believing me."

Will frowned. "Huh? What?"

He heard a gasp, and then Buffy quickly said, "I have to go. It was good talking to you, Will."

"Wait, Buffy!" he said, but all he got in response was the dial tone. Will hung up the phone, and looked back at his computer, his mind still a bit dazed.

What had she meant, she didn't want him to keep not believing her? Was she referring to those last moments in the Hellmouth? So did that mean she loved him? Spike, Will, whatever his name was? He shook his head, and tried to focus on his work. He had to contact his agent and let her know to go ahead with publication. He had a lot of work to do. And he couldn't think of Buffy, or how maybe she did love him. Because if he thought about it too much, he'd twist himself around to thinking that maybe he could tell her that he knew about Spike, and find out if she really did love him . . .

'Not a fool for love, huh?' his mind sarcastically pointed out to him, as he tried to lose himself in his work.

**

That night, Will tossed and turned in bed. After finishing some revisions on the book and talking to his agent, he had decided to turn in early and get some sleep. Of course, his brain apparently decided that it needed to dwell excessively on Buffy. He found that his anger over her lie had diminished. Even if it was a month too late, she had called him, and wanted to tell him the truth only to reassure him. Obviously, she was finally starting to grow up.

After staring at the ceiling for an hour, he gave up on sleep. Will got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, and went out on his deck. He lit a cigarette and stared out at the ocean, the water pale as silver in the moonlight. He listened to the waves crashing into the shore, and not for the first time, felt small and insignificant in the face of such power.

"You're not that ordinary, boyo."

Will's head whipped around, and he saw the man standing in the shadows against the wall of his house. The man's mouth quirked up, and he stepped into the light shed by the full moon. A bit shorter than Will, the man was dressed in nothing special, although the atrocious shirt and the hat perched on his forehead might make you look at twice at him. But then you'd spot the bright blue eyes, sparking with mischief, and you'd revise your opinion from "harmless" to "troublemaker."

The man strolled over and stood next to Will, leaning forward and resting his arms on the railing. Will frowned, the man seeming familiar to him. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, aye. Under some different circumstances, partly because you were answering to a different name then. And partly because I was alive then."

Will looked the man over. "You're not a vampire."

The man chuckled. "Not at all. Hard to be a vampire if you're half-demon." The man's face shifted, showing red eyes and blue spikes, before shaking his head and resuming his normal appearance. "My name's Doyle. Now, I'm a messenger for the Powers that Be."

Suddenly, Will remembered. "The Mick-you worked with Angel."

"Right in one. I had an unfortunate run-in with a giant Christmas ornament of death, and so, here I am now. The Powers use my image for interacting with those that require guidance. Or those that require some needling," Doyle said, a smile flashing over his face.

"So which am I?" Will asked.

"Little of both, methinks. I've been sent to give you the kick in the ass you need."

Will rolled his eyes. "The world being what it is, I know this is about Buffy. Because everything is about Buffy."

Doyle grinned at him. "Nah, there's a few other people that the world gets to revolve around, on occasion. You were one of them, in fact. Your stint as Little Mr. Sunshine shook up a lot of people in my neck of the woods. Big surprise for everyone."

"Nice to know that I can always cause trouble, even when I'm saving the world," Will grumbled.

"None of that, or else I'm going to have to invoke the name of my former employer."

Will stood up straight and glared at him. "I do not brood."

"Never said you did, Will my boy," Doyle said, smiling as he looked at the ocean. "But returning to the point of my visit, and since you were so kind to bring her up, let's talk about Buffy."

Will mirrored Doyle's position. Gazing at the waves, he said, "She called me earlier, and she explained things a bit. But I don't know. I felt like she wanted to fix things. I can understand her not explaining about being a Slayer. Even without getting my memories back, I'd understand once she told me her feelings." He trailed off, not sure what to say next.

"But that leaves the bigger problem. Does she really love you?"

Will snorted. "Well, she said she loved Spike, but she waits till the absolutely last bloody minute to tell me. Shit for timing she has. So what am I supposed to think, when she says she loves me, again? How can I believe her? And you know, it's a double-edged sword, the honesty thing. How can I tell her, 'Hey, Buffy, I found out that I'm really the reincarnated soul of a vampire who killed and destroyed for a hundred years, until he fell so in love with you he got his soul back'?" Will shook his head. "Before tonight, I would have said, not telling her about what I know now would be a great revenge, if we got back together and were all happy couple. But now, I don't want to lie to her, whether we're together or not."

"It's a pickle," Doyle said in agreement.

Will laughed bitterly. "Try a fucking barrel of pickles, mate." He sighed, and gazed at his hands. "I just don't know, if I tell her the truth, if we can get past it. And . . . if I tell her, I think I'll always be haunted by the idea that I'm still not enough for her," he said, his voice dark and lonely. "I've never been enough for her. I've never been able to measure up to Angel. Even when I got a soul . . . what I did to her was too bad to overcome. And I knew that. I accepted it. But coming back, and being able to love her . . . it was like going to heaven." He sighed. "The problem is, we're not supposed to have heaven on earth. There were signs at the beginning, I think, but we ignored them. So Fate stepped in and upset the apple cart, and now there's no way we can ever be together again. I'm in hell, and I don't know how I'm supposed to live with it."

Doyle shook his head. "You were never so melodramatic as a vampire."

Will's lips tightened into something that could be said to resemble a grin. "When I was a vampire, I never was loved by Buffy. Not that I'll ever enjoy that feeling again. Things are too far gone between us."

"You think?" Doyle said, glancing over towards him. "I'd say that phone call today was a good first step."

Will shook his head. "No, that was just Buffy's sense of responsibility coming out. Wanted to make sure the two of us could move on, could be civil, so she did the phone call to make sure there'd be no hard feelings between us."

"Could it be more that you can't bear the thought of hurting her again, so you'd rather not risk trying to reconcile?"

Will didn't say anything, knowing his silence would be his answer. But he couldn't admit that once again, he had hurt Buffy. All he seemed to do was hurt her.

"She's willing to forgive you," Doyle commented. "After all, she said she still loved you."

"But how likely is it that she'd still feel that way, if she knew what I was? Not bloody likely."

"No, pretty likely, actually."

Will turned, looking at Doyle. "Huh?"

Doyle straightened, gazing solemnly at Will. "She knows. Fate upsetting the apple cart? There's actually three of them, and they appeared to Buffy and restored her memories. The night before yours came back, in fact."

Will's mouth opened and closed. "What? Why?"

Doyle shrugged. "The Fates recognized the paradox they had allowed to develop. You weren't supposed to write a book that was so in touch with Buffy's life as a Slayer. But it happened, and it was a threat to existence. So, rather than let this world stop spinning, the Fates chose to reveal the situation to the two of you."

Will stared at the man. He couldn't believe this. Couldn't understand why. Buffy knew? Everything? What the hell?

"Some advice, Will?" Seeing that Will was still caught up in his own thoughts, Doyle reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Will blinked, and focused on the other man.

Doyle let his hand rest on Will's shoulder. "I've been sent by the Powers to inform you of the truth of the situation. Buffy's memories of Spike have been restored. She's aware of all the good and the bad that you did as that individual. Yet, she's realizing that whether your name is Spike, Slayer of Slayers, or Will Smythe, writer, she loves you. Your soul, your essence. She didn't call you about the book. She called you because she needed to find out if there was any hope left. Because all she has right now is hope."

Will twitched, and Doyle dropped his hand and stepped away. Quickly, Will said, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Doyle cocked his head in confusion. "Well, you make a choice," he said, matter-of-factly, before he vanished.

Will turned from the spot where Doyle had stood, and gazed back out at the ocean. He had thought he was finally getting his equilibrium back. Talking to Buffy and dealing with the book had made him think that they were finished. He hadn't wanted that to be the end for them, but if they had to be over, he knew that they had at least gotten beyond some of the bitterness of his rejection of her.

But now . . . Even though his heart screamed for him to immediately find Buffy, confess everything, and kiss her breathless, he couldn't. Something was stopping him.

He looked at the waves, and as they pounded into the shore, he realized that he had no idea of what to do. Because all he could feel was anger. Anger at the Fates, anger that once again, his life was getting jerked around, beyond his control. He had thought he had been angry at Buffy, but it was nothing compared with how furious he was now.

He pushed away from the railing, and looked up at the sky. "You hear me, you bloody Fates? You can take destiny and bugger it!" he shouted. He paused, and said, "I'm my own man. I won't let you dictate my choices anymore. I'm Will Smythe! I'm Spike! And there's no one else in existence who's stubborn enough to go against you. Because if there's anything I've learned, it's that you have to be your own man."

Will looked at the ocean, and then looked back at the stars. "Damn you all. I am not your pawn. This is my life-my reward. If you want to reward me, just leave me the hell alone."

Will waited a moment, almost expecting some vengeful god to smite him down. The anger had fizzled as quickly as it had arisen, and he found now that he was calmer than he'd been in ages. When he realized that no lightning bolt was going to strike him for his impertinence, a smile broke across his face and he went into his house, going immediately to his study. He turned on his computer, and began pounding on the keyboard. He was starting a new book. It was going to be a love story. Inspired by his history with Buffy, and the new beginning they had made.

He was finally realizing what he wanted. He wanted Buffy. And if one book had pushed her away, maybe another book could bring her back. He knew that this was logic that an eight-year-old could have seen the flaws in, but he didn't care. He just followed his heart, and let it lead him to his computer.

Because then he could ignore the fact that he didn't know how their love story was going to end.

End, Chapter Eight
 

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