I can't claim any credit for this idea; I was inspired by the letter Miles wrote to Ekaterin in Lois McMaster Bujold's masterful novel "A Civil Campaign". If you've never read any of her Adventures of Miles Vorkosigan, get thee to a bookstore or library at once!

I thought the concept applied so well to the situation on Buffy after the events of the episode "Seeing Red" that I couldn't get it out of my head. Here, then, is my version of what Spike might write to Buffy before leaving for Africa.
-----------------------

The Letter
magista

The heavy cream envelope stood out amongst the junk mail, fliers and bills like a rose among common garden weeds.

Buffy Anne Summers it read on the front in an elegant script. This didn't come through the mail, she thought, turning it over and taking in the lack of any other markings. On the back, the envelope was sealed with a dollop of burgundy wax, pressed into an intricate seal. She slipped her thumb under the flap and the wax cracked easily, allowing her to open the envelope. The heavy paper sliced her skin, and a few drops of blood stained its pristine folds. Buffy absently slipped her injured thumb between her lips as she sat down at the kitchen table to examine this unusual missive, drawing out the letter within and flattening the thick paper with her other hand.

My dearest Buffy, the letter began. I am sorry.

Her heart skipped a beat, then picked up again in quicker rhythm. She turned the paper about, looking for anything to confirm the source. There were no clues, but she already knew. Her eyes were drawn back to the simple, graceful handwriting, clearly not made with a drugstore Bic.

Whatever the outcome, forever I will remain
Your devoted William

The letter blurred before her eyes, and a single teardrop smeared his name.

Buffy drew a shaking breath and steadied herself. He didn't even ask me to forgive him. Does he think that I won't be able to, or that he doesn't deserve to be forgiven?

She folded the letter again, slipped it back into the envelope, and then leaned forward on the table, wrapping her arms about herself.

For a while at the beginning of the summer, the only time she had felt whole or at peace was when she was on patrol - hunting, as Dracula had once called it. She would work at the DoubleMeat to closing until her mind was numb, and then spend hours scouring the graveyards, sometimes not returning home until nearly dawn. Then she would spend the majority of the day in less than restful sleep, only to rise and repeat the cycle again, distancing herself from everyone. Time slipped by in an exhausted haze.

After Tara's death, it had seemed for a while as though none of them would ever recover. Bonds that had existed between them for years were ripped apart in an instant when Willow had succumbed again to the seductive draw of black magics. But when Xander had faced down Willow with his love for her, they began a long, slow climb out of the darkness again at last. And yet there were days when nothing seemed right, when it was hard to remember that it had once been so much worse.

One night, while searching in her closet to replace a shirt torn by a vampire that had gotten just a bit too close, she found it. The coat. His coat. Xander had brandished it at her angrily as she sat in shock on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, clutching her robe about herself to hide the bruises. She'd spent the rest of that day like an automaton, barely reacting to events around her. She must have hung it up in just another unconscious response.

The weight of it startled her as it slipped from its hanger, and she clutched at it more tightly, drawing it against herself. Its heavy, slick folds spun about her, surrounding her with the mingled scents of smoke, stale alcohol and unidentifiable cologne. The worn leather creaked as she tightened her fingers in the collar and held it close, inhaling deeply. Memories of his face flooded her mind. She'd seen every possible emotion on his face in the time she'd known him: superior sneers, boyish grins, anguish, panic, helpless love, jealousy, surprise, adoration, lust, rapture . . . and finally shame.

Without stopping to let herself think why she was doing it, she laid the coat on her bed. Slipping under the covers, she pulled it against herself, nestling deeply into the smoky folds. No dreams disturbed her sleep and she awoke feeling more rested than she had in weeks.

The next night she folded it into her backpack, along with a change of clothes for patrolling after work. She felt only a moment's hesitation before she slipped the heavy coat onto her shoulders. The sleeves had to be turned up, twice, and the hem brushed at her ankles, but it felt right - it felt like coming home. When she wrapped her arms around herself, she could imagine his embrace on one of the rare occasions they had found time for tenderness. She smiled involuntarily; hearing in her mind the sound of his voice raised in delighted profanity as their bodies laid claim to one another yet again.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but that night the demons and vampires seemed more fearful, less able to fight back. Every move she made seemed to flow smoothly in step like the proverbial well-oiled machine going through its motions. And for the first time in weeks, she fell into bed delighting in, rather than overcome by her exhaustion.

Her sister and her friends began to comment on her improved mood and how she'd finally managed to put things behind her. Her heart grew lighter, her burdens easier, until an observer, not knowing her dark history, might consider her once again one of the blessed children of southern California, sun-kissed and without cares.

She only took out the coat on those nights she knew she would be alone. The others simply wouldn't understand.

The Man

He hadn't intended to let himself be seen. It was his own curiosity that doomed him - he knew that she would be out patrolling and had found himself a vantage point where he thought to remain undiscovered. He'd been watching her for a week already and was sure he knew the pattern of her movements through the cemeteries.

He didn't know what to make of the fact that she was wearing his coat, the one he'd left behind in his haste to get away that awful day. Though it was clearly too large for her, it didn't seem to impede her movements at all. She was as beautiful and as dangerous as ever, and it both soothed and savaged his heart to see her again.

After she had passed by, he climbed down from the roof of the crypt from where he had been watching and set out again for home. Clem was still staying with him, though he would have preferred solitude, and he had sworn his friend to secrecy on the topic of his return. He knew that Dawn had taken a liking to stopping in to visit, and wasn't ready to see her again yet either, so he hid when she came by.

He was completely taken by surprise when he came upon the Slayer in the space between two mausoleums. She whirled with deadly grace to strike, stopping herself only fractions of an inch from his flesh when she realized his identity. You'd get a most unpleasant surprise if you hadn't, he thought.

"Spike!" she exclaimed, her mouth agape. "You're the one who's been following me around all week? When did you get back?"

"It's been a few weeks now," he admitted, and her face fell. "I said I was sorry." Her presence near him licked at him like fire, and his newly won conscience twinged at the memory of what he had nearly done to her.

"Yes, you did," she said shortly, meaning that the apology really wasn't the issue any more. Silence awkwardly filled the space between them.

Having become accustomed to long silences with only himself for company, he waited her out. Buffy broke the stillness first.

"Did you . . . find what you wanted . . . what you left for?" she ventured at last.

And how do I answer that question? he wondered. Do I tell you that I can't sleep for the pounding of my heart in my ears - a sound that I haven't heard for more than a century? That even just talking to you now has it hammering in my chest? I'm surprised you can't hear it yourself. I love you more than I would have thought possible before, but I can hardly stomach remembering all the things I've done to you. And now, having unwittingly transformed myself into someone you might not find it impossible to love, I don't know if I could even bear the strength of your embrace any longer. I'm stronger than any normal man, but I still don't know exactly what I am.

All this and more burned wildfire through his mind in the space it took him to blink twice and look away. "I . . . I don't want to talk about it," was all he managed.

"Is that all you have to say?" she asked angrily. "After four months? I - Dawn was worried sick about you."

He spread his arms apologetically wide; da Vinci's Infinite Man rendered in flesh and blood. "Ecce homo," he said, knowing full well she wouldn't understand. Behold the man.

He whirled abruptly and left for home and the comfort of solitude, grateful when he heard no pursuit.

The Truth (in two days)

Dawn took her cereal bowl and plopped herself down at the kitchen table next to Buffy. "It's nice having you all to myself," she said.

"Enjoy it while you can. Willow will be back from the magic abuse intervention group in about two weeks," her sister replied. Dawn made a rude noise.

"Hey, have a little sympathy for other people's problems," Buffy said, surprised at Dawn's lack of understanding.

"I would, if I thought they were actually treating the right problem," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Just take a look at Willow's history," Dawn explained. "Oz left, so she tries a spell to make herself get over him right away. You died, her magic brings you back. Tara argues with her, thinking she's using too much magic, she tries to make Tara forget - eventually leading to a whole barrel of fun for the rest of us, Joan. And when Tara died, she was ready to destroy the world to stop the pain she felt. And now you and everyone else are saying 'the magic made her do it'? That's bullshit."

"Dawn!" Buffy cried, horrified at her cynical attitude, and yet riveted by the younger girl's view of recent events.

Dawn didn't let Buffy's outburst stop her. This was something she'd wanted to get off her chest for a long time. "Willow's problem is that she wants instant gratification, instant solutions to all her problems. I know what that's like. I chose shoplifting. Willow chose magic. She's never learned that some things take time to get better - the way you only learned gradually last year that being alive was something you could accept again - and she absolutely refuses to understand that sometimes nothing you do will help."

"Where do you get these ideas?" Buffy asked.

"Geez, Buffy," Dawn rolled her eyes. "Didn't you ever listen in your 'Health and Life Management' classes in high school?"

"Are those the ones where they make you carry an egg around to see what it would be like to be a parent? 'Cause - not good memories there."

"There's a lot more to it than that. I'm guessing you ditched a lot of those classes for Slaying duties?" Buffy nodded. "Figures.

"I've had a lot of help from the therapist from Social Services, too," Dawn added. "You know, figuring out what to do when your family's more dis than functional? We sure qualify. I think I might like to be a psychologist when I grow up. Or maybe a vet. I haven't decided yet."

**********

"Spike's back," Buffy said, out of the blue, to Dawn at breakfast the next day.

"What? When?" she blurted.

"He's been following me around on patrol for about a week, but I only found out it was him last night." Buffy took a bite of her toast and washed it down with some coffee before continuing. "He said he's been back for almost a month, though. I don't know why he didn't tell me - tell us - sooner."

"Maybe because he didn't think you'd be glad to see him," Dawn observed. "You two weren't exactly on the best of terms last spring. And speaking of which - what happened between you two back then? What made him run off that way? I never understood that."

Buffy sat back in her chair and assessed her sister thoughtfully. Since she had stopped trying to protect Dawn from every little thing, she had found that her sister had a remarkable resilience in dealing with events that would have driven Buffy herself around the bend at the same age. Even the succession of - was two a succession? - of vampire lovers. She thought that Dawn would probably deal equally well with knowing the truth about Spike.

"He . . . tried to rape me," she admitted. Dawn's eyes went wide, and she froze in mid-mouthful. Buffy continued quickly, afraid that she might choke. "I know now that he was desperate to get me to love him, and since we'd always . . . played kind of rough . . ." Her voice trailed off. She wasn't doing a very good job of this, she thought, her cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.

"You stopped him," Dawn said, after swallowing her now soggy mouthful. It wasn't really a question.

"Yes. I don't think that he understood what he was doing, but he still hurt me. Not even so much physically, just some bruises - but emotionally I was a wreck about it for some time."

Dawn was quiet for so long that Buffy was afraid she had said too much, that Dawn was still too young to have to face this kind of information.

"That . . . bastard," Dawn said at last, under her breath.

"Spike?"

"No. Xander," she said, to Buffy's utter surprise. "He was all hinting around about how something had happened, and then he accused me of having the same blind spot about Spike that you had." She looked up frankly at her sister. "Don't misunderstand - I think Spike deserves a swift kick or worse for what he did - but Xander was deliberately trying to turn me against him, against someone I consider a friend."

Dawn stood and took her bowl to the sink, rinsing it out and leaving it in the dish rack to dry. "I like Spike. I always have," she said, turning back to face her sister. "I guess I have to admit that the chip isn't really the same thing as a soul, if he could still do that to you, but we've known plenty of evil vampires - and Spike just isn't anymore, for whatever reason. He cares about me. He loves you. You know that."

"I know," she acknowledged quietly. "At least, he did. He wouldn't talk to me last night."

"And all of this is what made him leave?" Dawn asked, still somewhat unsure about the sequence of events.

Buffy rose and went to the writing desk in the corner. Pulling open a drawer, she rummaged briefly and returned with a much worn and folded piece of heavy paper, which she placed in front of Dawn. "Read this. You'll understand."

Dawn unfolded Spike's letter and read it through, several times. She didn't think Buffy wanted to hear that she could tell from the worn creases the letter had been read hundreds of times before. Some things Buffy really had to figure out for herself.

She refolded the paper and smoothed it between her hands and the table. "He must have felt awful," she said in sympathy for the pain he had revealed in the letter, unconsciously brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. "And you still don't believe that Spike has something Angel didn't?"

"Angel has a soul. Spike doesn't. That's the difference between them," Buffy insisted.

Okay, maybe she wasn't going to figure this out by herself either. "Buffy, stop and think for a minute. You're saying that Spike left town because he was so upset over what he had tried to do. That he felt guilty."

"That's right. So?"

"Since when do evil, soulless vampires feel bad about hurting someone?" Buffy closed her eyes. She had no reply to that.

"You know what really has you spooked?" Dawn went on. "If Spike can love you and care about us without a soul, then what was wrong with Angel? How come he couldn't love you enough? You'd have to admit that Angel wasn't as much of a Prince Charming as you remember - and that would just tear you up inside."

"You can't blame Angel for what Angelus did. He didn't have a choice," Buffy said hotly.

"You really don't see it, do you?" Dawn asked, surprised that Buffy didn't understand.

She was genuinely mystified by Dawn's question. "See what?"

"The hole in your argument big enough to drive a stolen RV through, dummy. If you're right about Angel and Angelus being different people, then Spike doesn't have a choice about how he behaves either. But he still made one. He left because he knew what he did was wrong - even if he only figured it out because of the way you reacted - and he's trying to make it better.

"And even worse - you have to admit that just going to Spike and using him to make you feel something again was wrong. You were wrong. Because he's shown that he's more than just some thing there for your convenience."

Against her will, Buffy found herself remembering when Warren had killed Katrina and made her think she had done it. Spike had tried to keep her from turning herself in, and her response had been to beat him bloody and nearly senseless in an alley, while accusing him of being nothing more than an evil, soulless thing because he couldn't understand her guilt. Buffy was silent for a long time. "I did that to him. I did . . . Oh god."

She leaned her face in her hands. He couldn't feel her guilt; he wasn't wired that way - but he had wanted to understand her pain, and she hadn't even granted him even an attempt at an explanation, hadn't thought him capable of understanding. Whole swaths of the past year unfolded again before her eyes in this new light, and what she saw of herself made her cringe. A couple of weeks later, she was ready to sleep with him again because Riley had turned up and made her feel like a failure - and she knew Spike would never turn her down. He had never said a word about how she had hurt him. And more than a year ago, before they had faced Glory together, he had thanked her for treating him like a man. Silent, shamed tears began to spill from her eyes.

Dawn cleared Buffy's dishes from the table, since it didn't seem as though her sister was interested in any more breakfast. She was going to be late for school, but she figured she could afford to blow off at least one of her morning classes now that her attendance and marks had improved. Buffy really needed someone to be with her today.

After about ten minutes, Buffy raised her swollen eyes and saw Dawn sitting quietly across from her, doodling in friendly silence on the telephone pad. "Was that more wisdom from your health classes?" she asked at last, reaching for a tissue to repair some of the damage.

"No, from the AP Psychology course I took by correspondence over the summer, remember? When I was desperate to make up some of the credits I lost skipping last year?" She smiled. "You should remember; you complained enough about the cost at the time."

"I have to go to him. I have to . . . apologize, at least."

"Do you think you two will get back together?"

"It can't be about that. If you're right - and I think you are - then I have to apologize simply because it's the right thing to do. Otherwise I'm no better than what I've always accused him of being. I'm supposed to be the one with the soul. After that . . . I don't know what will happen."

**********

The pounding at the door echoed through the dark, candlelit crypt until Clem pulled it open. "Why Slayer! What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?" His wrinkled, homely face developed even more lines as he pulled it into an earnest welcoming smile.

"You can tell me where Spike is," she said. "I need to talk to him."

"Spike? He left. I haven't seen him since the spring," he began, offering his cover story again as he had to Dawn many times over the summer.

"It's all right, Clem." Spike emerged from the shadows. "She saw me last night. Hello, Slayer," he said, bringing a cigarette to his lips and lighting it nonchalantly.

"Spike-" Buffy just looked at him, then over at Clem standing by the door, then back at him again.

He could take a hint. "Clem, isn't there something you should be doing right about now?" he asked his friend.

"No, I don't remember any - oh, right. That thing." He turned for the door. "So sorry to greet and run, Slayer, but there's this really important . . . thing . . . that I have to go do." In a moment he was through the door and gone.

Buffy waited only until the door closed behind him. "Spike," she said, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "We have to talk."

The Talk

"Spike, we have to talk."

He drank in the sight of her, water in the desert of his solitude. Beat me up, tie me down, use me and abuse me, savage my body and my heart - just as long as you never leave me. He forcibly restrained his heart's wild flight. A veteran of decades of games of chance - kitten poker and others much more deadly - he knew his face betrayed no sign of his turmoil. You may have gone all poofter-sensitive, but you've still got some pride, mate - bags of it, in fact. And she doesn't need someone to cosset her at every turn, much as you'd like to.

Spike leaned back onto the lid of one of the sarcophagi and drew his legs up under him to sit comfortably cross-legged there. "So? Talk." He drew deeply on his cigarette and exhaled a careless stream of smoke while he waited for her to speak.

Buffy was taken aback by his casual demeanor. She'd expected - well to be honest, she'd expected him to begin pleading his case to sleep with him again almost immediately. The dichotomy with actual events left her off balance and she began defensively. "What you tried to do to me was wrong."

Shame burned. Of course it was, love. Utterly and horribly wrong. I knew that even before I left here. "I'm sorry, love." You can't possibly know how sorry. "But I can't undo what I did, only try to make up for it in future. If you'll give me the chance."

Dawn was right. This in itself was a revelation fit to make her head spin. If he feels real remorse, then his love... How much more is there to Spike that I never bothered to notice when I had him neatly classified as evil-soulless-thing? "I believe you... William. And I'm not really here about you, but rather for me."

Deep breath, now. I'm not used to playing the villain of the piece. "I'm sorry too. I was wrong. The way I treated you last year, it was-" She paused, uncertain how to continue.

Much as he still loved her, Spike felt the need to get some of his own back - even if it hurt. "You treated me like dirt, Slayer."

Interesting thing about a soul: it in no way diminished his ability to tell unpleasant truths, it just sometimes made him feel sorry about it afterwards. In that sense, it was a much less effective discipline than the chip, which at least had offered instant correction that stopped the undesirable behavior before it started. It hadn't, in fact, turned him back into nancy-boy William again at all. More than a century of evil - and he would atone, he couldn't help himself on that score - had left its mark. He was far harder and more world-wary than the effeminate ponce he had once been.

Buffy recoiled, stung by the harshness in his tone. I probably deserved that. She cleared her throat. "Um. Mind if I--?" She gestured at the other stone tomb.

"Suit yourself," he replied, and she sat gingerly on the rough stone, fidgeting to find a comfortable position.

"You... were the only one who wasn't demanding something from me when I was brought back. Because of that, you were the only one that I could stand to be around. And then when we..." she stopped again.

"Shagged? Screwed?" Spike offered helpfully, if somewhat maliciously.

"The first time we made love," Buffy continued firmly, "was the first time I really felt alive again. But suddenly nothing was black and white for me anymore. You were supposed to represent everything I should be opposed to - so how could you make me feel so good?" She looked away, suddenly unwilling or unable to meet his eyes. "I didn't need any more ambiguity in my life, so I tried hard to believe that you weren't any good and were just something I did for myself, something-"

"Something convenient. I remember."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "It's an explanation, not an excuse."

"Didn't stop you from coming back to make me your personal sex toy," he retorted hotly. "Any time you felt an itch."

Buffy blushed and cast her eyes down to where her fingers twisted together in her lap. "I know. You cared about me - you loved me - and all I could think about was how mortified I would be if any of my friends found out."

"Obviously I was never on the list of 'friends of Buffy'," he replied hollowly, all anger drained from his voice.

"No," she acknowledged softly. "And you should have been. You've done at least as much for Dawn and me as any of my friends have. I said I wouldn't forget - but I did."

More than a year ago, he had been sitting where she was now, battered and bleeding. He had thought she was the Buffybot returned to him - until she kissed him. The hope that had begun to burn in him at that tenderness had been almost more painful than his wounds. And her death so soon after had nearly destroyed him.

Harris had been right. Getting her back was the single most joyful moment of his existence, made all the more poignant when the rest of the year had gone straight to hell.

Buffy watched the memories and emotions play over his expressive face in the shadows. So much pain. How much of it is my fault? "I do... care about you, William."

"Yeh? You got a funny way of showing it," he replied, angry again as the events of the past year flooded his mind again. "Trying to pound my head through the pavement."

"You were the one who tried to make me believe I came back wrong so that I would be with you," she snapped defensively. "Then Tara told me I hadn't really changed, and I knew it couldn't go on. Don't you see? If I believed there was something wrong with me, it was so much easier than the alternative - that you, with no soul, could love me-" Her eyes were haunted.

"Ah, here it comes." He flung down his cigarette furiously in a shower of sparks and lunged to his feet to pace about the crypt. "Always has to come back to him, doesn't it? Let me be perfectly clear - Angelus never gave a damn about anything but Angelus. Not me, not Dru, and not even you. That you can sit there and still try to tell me that Angel and Angelus are two different people - that he wasn't responsible for the things he did when he lost his soul - and then in the same breath you blame me for not living up to your standards-" He returned to the tomb opposite her and leaned over it, planting both hands deliberately on the cold stone. "I'll take a lot from you, Slayer. You know that. But even I have my limits."

He abruptly pounded both fists together on the lid of the sarcophagus until the stone cracked and his hands were raw and bloody, and she drew back, startled. "I love you, and I would never leave you - but if he so much as raised a soulful brow in your direction, you'd be off without a backward glance, wouldn't you?"

"I'm sorry," she said yet again. "About everything I've done. I care about you... and I do have feelings for you. But I can't - I don't love you."

"Why were you wearing my coat?" he asked, apropos of nothing, then shook his head wearily, not waiting for an answer. "Go home." He turned away.

She was taken by surprise. "What?"

"You heard me. Go. Home."

"But I-"

"I accept your apology, Slayer. Isn't that what you wanted? There isn't anything else you need from me, is there." It wasn't a question.

Spike kept his back turned until he heard the crypt door open and close behind her. He collapsed slowly to the floor, sliding down the coarse stone of the tomb until he could sit back against it, cradling his injured hands in his lap and surrendering to the hot tears that spilled from his eyes.

"I love you," he said again to the empty air of the crypt. God help me. I still love you.

Clem returned a few hours later, bearing a grease-spotted bucket of anonymous fried chicken parts and a six-pack of beer. He found Spike slumped in the ratty upholstered chair, staring vacantly at the blank television.

"Well," he said, setting the evening's bounty down on the nearest ledge, "you and the Slayer patch things up? How did she handle the news of your transmogrification?"

"Didn't tell her," Spike mumbled. "We kind of got into an argument."

Clem sighed. Really, it was a dramatic, lingering sigh worthy of a high school production of Romeo and Juliet. "I thought that was the whole point of your trip. All the trials..."

"So Buffy could have what she deserves, yeh," Spike finished for him. "I'm just not sure that what she deserves is me anymore."

Clem pulled up one of the rickety folding chairs they had scrounged up for extra seating when Spike had returned from Africa. He turned it around to straddle it and leaned his arms over the back. "Hey now, don't sell yourself short. I think she really likes you."

Spike rolled his eyes at the complete and utter incomprehension of the situation that Clem demonstrated, but didn't bother trying to explain, opting instead to let his friend continue.

"It's just that she's always had issues with the whole 'soulless, evil undead' thing - but once she knows that's not a problem anymore-"

"She'll love me for my charming self, that it? Don't think it'll be that easy, mate."

If possible, Clem looked even more like a wounded Shar-pei. "Spike, you've lost a lot of weight since you've come back. You look half dead, honestly - and since you aren't anymore, that's likely not a good thing. You need regular sleep and proper human food, and you're not getting it here. This," he waved one hand at the forlorn chicken bucket, "doesn't count. And..." He paused thoughtfully, his nose wrinkling even more than usual - an amazing feat, considering. "And the latrine you dug for yourself back in the tunnels really won't do for too much longer."

Spike let his head fall back and closed his eyes. "Ta ever so."

"You really should tell the Slayer; she could help you - though you might want to grab a shower at the Y first."

"Spike?" Clem ventured, when he had been silent for some time.

"Shut up and pass me the beer."

**********

"Well?" Dawn's curious presence at the top of the stairs greeted Buffy as she came through the door. "How did it go?"

Buffy took a moment while hanging up her scarf and coat to gather her thoughts together before turning back to look up at her sister. "It was... okay, I guess. Not exactly a 'kiss and make up' scenario, if that's what you were wondering." She set her hands on her hips in what she hoped was a posture of some surrogate-parental authority. "And shouldn't you already be in bed? It's a school night."

Dawn just laughed. "As if. And miss this? And what do you mean by 'okay, I guess'? You apologized, right? Did he-"

"He said he accepted my apology-"

"Okay, good sign-"

"Right before he told me to leave."

"Oh. Okay, that's not so good."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to be seeing him again. I don't need the... complications in my life. I did the right thing, what I had to do, and if Spike's having trouble dealing with that, it's his problem now."

Geez Buffy. Defensive much? Dawn diverted the conversation to less controversial grounds. "How did he look? Did he seem to be any different? I mean... he said he left looking for a way to change..."

Buffy shrugged. "He looked pretty skinny - but then he always did - and his hair was a mess. I suppose that's some kind of unusual sign, for Spike. Other than that, he didn't really seem that different. He was certainly just as snarky as usual." She started up the stairs, her expression clearly saying she wanted to put the whole situation behind her. "Bed. Now. I've got an afternoon shift tomorrow, so I'll see you for breakfast, but you'll have to manage dinner on your own, okay? There's some chicken thawing in the fridge, and I know we still have some frozen veggies."

"Broccoli, yuck," Dawn said under her breath, sensing it was simplest to not argue any further tonight. "Yeah, I'm okay with that. I'll leave you a plate in the fridge unless you want more DoubleMeat pleasure."

Buffy's face showed what she thought of that idea. She kissed the top of Dawn's head as she came to the top of the stairs. "Thanks Dawnie. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Buffy." I guess if I want to find out anything in detail, I'll have to do it myself.

**********

Spike woke late the next afternoon with a dry mouth, a raging headache, an empty stomach and a full bladder. He groaned, pushed his tattered blanket aside and sat up gingerly; keeping both hands at his head until he was sure it wasn't about to fly apart. Goodbye to any supernatural resistance to alcohol, too he observed, barely winning the battle against his outraged stomach. On the good side, it makes me a cheap date now - something that Buffy should surely appreciate.

Clem was nowhere in sight - probably off already making arrangements for a game somewhere. Scattered cans on the floor testified mutely to the previous night's activities. Spike got slowly to his feet and struggled to slip his boots on without having to bend over. He gave silent thanks that he'd been too drunk the night before to manage to remove any more of his clothing; the stone of the crypt held a chill that bit him to the bone, even in the California afternoon sunshine. Have to rummage up something more effective than this blanket - soon.

He paused a moment to light a fat gold candle before heading to the opening in the floor and the ladder. The lower level was perpetually gloom-shrouded, and his night vision was just another of the prices he had paid. He moved precariously from rung to rung, shifting his balance slowly between two feet and one hand while the other managed the candle. This feat was rendered even more difficult than usual by the stiffness in his hands.

The candle spilled only a limited puddle of light, washing over the debris scattered about below. Ultimately, Spike had decided that this was a small mercy; he didn't want to be reminded of how things had once been. Buffy had dropped in one of Riley's grenades to destroy the hatching Suvolte demons, and then less than a day later had dropped a metaphorical one into his life. He'd been scrambling to pick up the pieces ever since, and had never had the heart to begin again the job of reclaiming and redecorating the lower level.

Even with his reduced senses, the reek of cordite was still strong in the subterranean chamber. He picked his way slowly through the rubble until he reached the mouth of the tunnel that eventually joined up with Sunnydale's extensive sewer system. Here the burned smell was overlain with a miasma of other scents; damp earth, mould, decay... and human waste. Spike made a face. If his now limited, human sense of smell was disturbed, this spot must surely be a reeking beacon for all manner of more olfactorily advanced nasties. Sighing, he set the candle into a niche in the near wall.

After he had relieved himself, Spike picked up the small spade he had appropriated from the groundskeeper's shed and threw a few desultory shovelfuls of earth into the latrine hole, not really expecting it to do much good. Best come up with an alternative soon - then maybe I can return the spade as well. Picking up the candle again, he retraced his path through the tunnel and his former bedroom. At the base of the ladder, he blew out the candle and tossed it up through the opening. After his trip in the shadows, the ambient afternoon light that came in through the crypt's frosted windows was enough for his dark-adapted eyes, and this way he could use both hands on the ladder.

With one need attended to, Spike turned his attention to another. Rummaging in his small refrigerator turned up the remnants of last night's chicken, a few wizened apples and some bottles of water. Since even the thought of cold, greasy chicken was enough to make him want to sick up, he opted for one of the apples and some of the water. His damaged hands made it difficult to get the bottles open, but once he had he drank greedily, finishing one bottle before even sitting down.

He was thankful when it seemed as though the apple was going to stay down. Little by little, he began to feel human again - a thought which provoked him to dark laughter. Best put some headache powder and stomach remedies on the next shopping list if this is going to be a regular occurrence. He inspected his hands and decided that although they weren't healing as quickly as they once would have, they were well on the way to full recovery. He rinsed off the traces of blood with the last of the water in his second bottle and wiped his hands dry on his jeans.

Spike was standing and debating whether to go after a second apple when the door of the crypt was abruptly flung wide. In sheer reflex, he flinched from the light that spilled into the room, so he was unprepared for the human missile that launched herself across the crypt and into his arms before he could stop her. "Spike!" Dawn cried, and his arms closed about her reflexively as her head thumped hard against his chest.

He knew the exact moment she detected the change in him; she froze in his embrace and looked up uncertainly. "Spike?" she whispered doubtfully. Her hands were spread across his chest, where they couldn't fail to feel the regular beat of his heart. Her green eyes widened and her mouth worked soundlessly.

"It's still me, Niblet," he said gently. "I've just been through... some changes the past few months."

"Uh-huh... I, uh... kinda noticed." After her initial shock, her curiosity overcame her and she peppered him with rapid-fire questions. "How? When? What happened? Does Buffy know?"

Spike took her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length. "In order: I don't understand the details, a few months ago, I'll tell you what I do know, and no, Buffy doesn't know - and you're not to tell her, understand?" Once Dawn had nodded her agreement, he released her and waved her to a chair. "Sit down - this might take a while."

On her way to the chair, she paused and turned back to him. "Spike?"

"Yeh Bit?" he asked distractedly, gathering thoughts for his account of his summer. He was completely unprepared for the back of her closed fist that rocked his head to one side.

"That's for what you tried to do to her."

"I see someone's been taking lessons." He rubbed his tender jaw with one hand and took in her solemn face. "It's a fair cop, Dawn," he sighed. "I deserved that."

She sank into the chair, still holding his gaze. "Then I won't say anything more about it. Now tell me what happened to you."

**********

"I can't believe you just said 'make me what I was' to a demon that powerful. What did you think he would do with an open-ended request like that? How could you have been so stupid?"

"Hey!" Spike bristled at this assessment. "Seems to me I remember Harm telling me how you ended up inviting her in one time. The pot's calling the kettle black, if you ask me."

Dawn laughed. "Okay, point taken. I won't remind you if you won't remind me. Deal?"

"Deal." They shook hands, mock-formally. Spike winced involuntarily as her hand tightened on his, and she noticed his injuries for the first time.

"Now I know you've been talking to Buffy," she said. Seeing his wounded look, she quickly clarified, "In the sense that she makes you want to pound some part of your body repeatedly into inanimate objects, I mean. Happens to me all the time - only I don't usually go through with it."

Mollified, he let himself smile. "She does have that effect sometimes, yeh. Nice to know I'm not the only one."

"And apparently she's not all that observant, either," Dawn went on, only too happy to detail her sister's shortcomings. "I can't believe she didn't notice how you've changed."

Another tilt of the emotional seesaw; his face closed up gravely again. "She didn't get that close."

Dawn continued, unheeding. "I mean for one thing, anyone could see that you've got at least a month's worth of dark roots." She laughed. "You look like a hedgehog."

He ran his hand self-consciously through his hair, tucking unruly strands behind his ear. He couldn't bear to go unshaven and had managed with the aid of a purloined disposable razor, but cutting his own hair was beyond him. It had begun curling down his neck.

"And since dead guys shouldn't be able to grow hair, or..." Dawn looked up timidly. "Spike, do you want to come over for dinner and... umm... do your laundry?" She blushed. "I mean... you probably aren't getting enough vegetables... or something."

"Like hygiene?" he snorted, understanding perfectly well what she'd left out, thanks to Clem. "Vampire crypts are a little short on amenities like showers, Bit. I've snuck into the Y a few times, but they're starting to get more observant than I like." He caught her eyes and voiced his true objection. "Thanks anyway, Dawn, but I don't think big sis would go for that."

Dawn waved his concern aside. "Buffy's on a three-to-eleven shift today, and will probably head out patrolling right after. She'll never know. Your only danger lies in eating my cooking."

Soap. Cascading hot water in near-limitless quantities. Clean towels. A hot meal. William old boy, it seems you know more of seduction than I ever gave you credit for. Spike sighed and gave in. "Is it that obvious how pathetic I am?"

"Nah," she replied cheerfully. "I could always wait to ask you until you started hanging out brooding in the shadows and delivering enigmatic warnings about mystic events then slipping away."

"Ouch. Now I know I've been insulted. Give us a minute, then." He set about collecting his small wardrobe from the various places it had been flung about the room and bundled it together in a plastic shopping bag. It made a pitifully small parcel. "Lead on, Bit."

Dawn opened the door, and then turned back to watch, fascinated, as Spike stepped into the daylight. There's a sight I never thought I'd see. "Why don't you want Buffy to know what's happened to you?"

He paused, blinking in the light. "I suppose I hope she'll judge me by my actions, and not by some checklist of conditions," he replied after some thought.

"You mean like how I'm really a two-year-old ball of green glowy stuff, but because I act like her sister she forgets and that's how she treats me?"

"Something like that, yeh," he admitted. "Though you have a distinct advantage in having a whole set of false memories implanted in everyone to go along with your existence."

"Good luck with that," she said solemnly. You'll need it.

"I'll take all the luck I can get, Bit," he replied as he carefully shut and secured the door behind them.

Chapter 7:

The Dinner

Spike followed Dawn up the steps to 1630 Revello Drive with some trepidation. He'd been an entirely different man the last time he'd been here so many months ago - the events here had precipitated his transformation, but it had been coming for some time. Still, he hoped that this return to familiar places wouldn't also mean a return to familiar behaviours. A soul was only a useful guide if you took the time to listen to it. Fall into old habits and soon it would be just an irritating background noise, easily ignored. He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

He was surprised at how dark and uninhabited the house seemed as they entered. All the curtains had been drawn and there were no lights on. Dawn moved into the kitchen, flipping switches as she went.

"Witches not home today, Niblet?" he asked, curious. The last thing he expected was Dawn's stricken face as she turned back to him. He knew then that he hadn't been the only one to experience catastrophic changes.

"Oh Spike... Tara's dead." Her face crumpled into tears as she relived the traumatic events of the spring. Spike enfolded her in his arms and steered them both to the couch. He held her tightly, stroking her hair until she calmed and her shaking shoulders stilled many minutes later.

"I'm sorry I'm such a baby, Spike," Dawn managed at last, wiping her streaming eyes on her sleeve and reaching to the table for the box of tissues there. "I forgot that you weren't here when everything happened."

"I don't think you're a baby, Dawn," he said gently, taking a tissue and blotting the tears that she had missed. "But I think you had better tell me what's been going on while I was away."

**********

An hour later he was still trying to digest the implications of everything he had learned: Tara dead, shot by Warren who had in turn been killed - flayed - by Willow turned to dark magic. Then the world had been in danger of ending as she tried to drown her pain. The only thing that had been able to stop her when even Giles had been overcome was Xander. Wouldn't have thought Harris had it in him, he thought with grudging admiration. Might be more to the whelp than I realized.

"I wish I had been here," he offered solemnly when she had finished. "I could have helped, somehow."

"There was nothing you could have done - we all tried. I'm just glad you're back now. Buffy is too," she insisted. "She just doesn't know how to say it yet."

Even in the face of her grim story, she could force a gloomy smile from him. Can't be anyone more hopelessly optimistic about romance than a teenage girl. Something that came with the hormones, I suppose. Dawn jumped up suddenly, startling him and making him quickly review the past few moments, fearing he might have actually said some of that aloud.

"Omigosh, the bathroom!" she cried. "I completely forgot. Wait here and I'll just get some of my stuff out of the way. I'll get you a robe so I can get started on your laundry." With that, she darted up the stairs, leaving him to contemplate that there was probably also nothing more mercurial in mood than a teenage girl.

To the accompaniment of mysterious bangs and thuds from upstairs, Spike stood and began to wander about the main floor, recalling some of his previous visits to Buffy's home. There hadn't been so many in all that he couldn't remember individual details.

The kitchen reminded him strongly of Joyce. Every corner brought back memories of talks and laughter they had shared in the most unlikely circumstances. He wondered what Joyce would make of him now, and whether she would have granted him her blessing in his rocky and intermittent courtship of her eldest daughter. He liked to think that she had seen something in him beyond the demon, and sent a few stray thoughts heavenward, praying for grace.

One by one he moved through the rooms, cataloguing memories, until he ended up at the base of the stairs. His hand caressed the worn newel as he remembered. The first time he'd come in, as they plotted to defeat Angelus; seeing Buffy alive again, descending the stairs - were it to happen now, his heart would surely stop; his ignominious flight down these same stairs... Given the strength of the emotions engendered by even such everyday environs, Spike began to have doubts about the wisdom of entering the bathroom itself.

He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of Dawn thundering down the stairs. "Okay, the bathroom's relatively decent now. Here's a robe you can wear. Sorry it's kind of girly." She tossed it to him from the landing. Spike looked up to catch it, and froze.

The blue silky fabric caught the air and fluttered open, spreading like an avenging angel come to strike him down for his sins. Thin cloth warmed by her skin moulded to her breast, belly and thigh beneath him. He needed her so much, and her struggle only inflamed his desire. Slick, slippery material in his grasping, clutching hands, tearing with a stuttering fabric scream as he pulled it from her shoulder...

Spike clutched at the thin material of the robe, his breath cawing harshly in his throat and his heart pounding fit to break his ribs. "Can't... I can't..." He trembled, and buried his face in the robe.

Dawn slowed uncertainly as she came down the stairs. "Spike, what's wrong?" she asked, entertaining heroic visions of having to apply CPR or artificial respiration in the middle of the living room floor.

He raised a pain-hollowed face to hers. "She was wearing this..." He couldn't finish.

"Oh," she replied, confused, then when understanding dawned: "Oh! Oh Spike, I'm so sorry... I'll find something else right away."

Despite his reaction, he was strangely reluctant to release the robe, forcing Dawn to pull the silky fabric through his clenched fingers. She took it and wadded it up in her hands.

"Maybe I should go," he suggested. "My being here... wasn't really a good idea."

"No, don't. Please. It was my fault for not thinking. I'll find you something else." She ran back up the stairs in search of a garment not so laden with painful associations.

Spike spent the time while Dawn was upstairs again consciously trying to control his breathing and force his heart rate back to something approaching normal. He was back in control of himself when she returned bearing a large floral print terry robe that must have once belonged to either Willow or Tara. Buffy would have swum in it. Best of all, the overwhelming flowery scent that clung to it wasn't anything like hers.

**********

He wasn't sure he'd be able to face entering the bathroom, but apparently his body had exhausted its adrenaline reserves for the time being. The only sensation he could manage was a numb heartache, as though his heart were a limb to which circulation had been cut off for some time. Sighing, he removed his clothes and left them in a heap outside the door for Dawn to collect.

For the longest time he just stood under the scalding spray with his head down and his hands braced against the wall in front of him, trying to overcome the shuddering in his limbs. The shakes gradually subsided, and he turned the temperature down to a less skin-searing level, found the shampoo, and in the mundane process of washing up began to recover.

Spike emerged at last from the steam-filled bathroom, his hair slicked back and feeling slightly ridiculous swaddled in the voluminous floral dressing gown. He padded barefoot quietly down the stairs to where he could hear Dawn singing along with some unidentifiable boy-band on the radio, accompanied by clattering dishes. The sheer domesticity of the scene made him laugh, and he rounded the corner feeling lighter of heart than he had in some time.

"Smells good, Niblet," he said, startling Dawn out of her song. She grinned at the uncharacteristic sight of Spike in a bathrobe, and he felt a twinge of trepidation. "I hope you can keep a secret - this would be devastating to my hard won reputation if word ever got out."

"Oh didn't I tell you? Xander's coming over this evening to check up on me," she said, deadpan. Her eyes twinkled at the sudden look of panic on his face.

"You had better be joshing with me, Bit," he replied in a tone approaching his former growl.

Dawn couldn't contain herself; she burst into giggles. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding," she insisted, between fits of laughter. "But you should have seen your face! It was priceless!"

"Very droll, I'm sure," he said dryly, seating himself at the table and carefully managing the folds of the robe around him. "How much longer do I have to endure this humiliation?"

"I just put everything in the dryer, so about another hour. Supper should only be another ten minutes or so. It's another Dawn one-pan special," she said critically. She turned back to the stove and poured some mushroom soup over the cut-up chicken and broccoli already in the pan, then reached for the curry paste.

"You're one up on me already," Spike admitted. "I haven't a clue in the kitchen. Back when I had to eat... food, we had a cook who took care of it. Cooking was one of the things one left to the servants, you know," he teased, then threw his hands up in defence when Dawn brandished the spatula at him, laughing.

"Maybe we should arrange a trade," she suggested. "Cooking lessons and dinner once a week, in exchange for some Slayer-type training?"

"Have to test the quality of the cooking first, don't you think?" He ducked nimbly to avoid the balled-up dishrag she threw across the kitchen.

**********

Whatever qualms he might have had over Dawn's cooking vanished when she set the plate before him. Poured out over rice it made a hearty plateful and he set to with a will. All conversation came to a halt as he wolfed down two servings almost before he remembered to breathe.

"Wow, you really were hungry," Dawn marvelled, and he looked up somewhat shamefaced. She only smiled. "It's always more fun to cook for someone who appreciates it. Buffy always looks at me like I might be trying to poison her. Maybe you'll let me try out some more interesting recipes on you."

"Well, noble self-sacrifice in a good cause ought to net me something for the positive side of the cosmic balance," he said with a grin as he collected his plate and utensils together. "Can't pass up any opportunities, you know."

Dawn got up from the table and took another plate from the cupboard to fill with what remained in the pan. "But you've got a soul now, right? Doesn't that automatically make you one of the good guys?"

"A soul isn't a 'get out of karma free' card, Bit. I'll have to live a long time to make up for the things I've done. And 'soonest begun, soonest mended', as my mum used to say." He sighed. "But thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I always thought you were already more on our side than you wanted to admit. Not to mention it's hard to be Mr. Evil now in a flowery bathrobe," she laughed.

Dawn covered the plate with cling film to leave in the fridge for Buffy while Spike cleared the table. They were just finishing up the dishes together when the kitchen timer rang, indicating that the dryer was done at last. Spike set the last of the dishes back into the cupboard. "I'll go retrieve my laundry." And maybe some dignity along with my pants, he thought as he descended the basement stairs.

He pulled the laundry from the dryer, enjoying the warmth. Before bothering to fold anything back into the shopping bag, he drew a pair of jeans from the pile and tugged them on impatiently, hissing as the hot metal of the studs met newly sensitive flesh. The tee shirt by contrast was pure pleasure; the heat soaked into his skin and further relaxed his muscles. A bloke could definitely get used to this.

He stood barefoot in front of the dryer as he packed up his other jeans and few shirts. As he turned to make his way up the stairs, his eye was caught by assorted camping equipment stacked on the shelves by the stairs. He moved closer and was fingering the thick fabric of a sleeping bag thoughtfully when Dawn called out for his attention down the stairs.

"Are you decent?"

Now there's an interesting question. "Well I'm dressed at least, Bit," he replied. "Can't claim more than that."

She came down the stairs bearing a large paper bag. "I put together kind of a care package for you. You know... some quasi-food-like items that don't have to be cooked. Oh, and I had an extra toothbrush from the last time I was at the dentist, so I threw that in along with some toothpaste, soap and a towel. Since you said you were a little short on the amenities back at your crypt."

He couldn't speak; his voice caught in his throat and he leaned heavily against the shelf, knocking the sleeping bags to the floor. She doesn't know the goodness in her; it's simply in her nature to be kind. This is what I could have been... this is what I have to strive for now. I don't know if I can.

"Spike?" She looked at him in some confusion. "Did you want to borrow some camping gear?"

And I am not going to cry in front of her like some damn pansy. He used one arm to pull her close and kissed the top of her head - a more difficult task than it would have been even a few months ago, she was still growing so quickly. "Thank you," was at first all he could manage without betraying quavers in his voice.

"Are you okay?" Dawn asked as he released her.

He bent and picked up the sleeping bag from where it had fallen, using the move to disguise his swipe at his suspiciously damp eyes. "I think I'm going to be, yeah."