Journeys

by Mary

~*~

WE are shaped and fashioned by what we love.

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

~*~

Author’s Notes/Summary/Rating

As the events of Season 6 of the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer unfolded, and I realized the story was going in directions I wouldn’t necessarily have taken it myself, I decided to do what fan fiction writers often do - recreate it, and what I envision would come after it - in my own little Buffyverse.

‘Journeys’ picks up very shortly after the events of ‘The Gift’. Part One, Promise to a Lady, takes place in the summer between seasons five and six. Some plot points from early season 6, even some scenes, and an occasional direct line of dialogue, have been downright stolen by me and incorporated into Part Two of ‘Journeys’, called Awakenings. However, you’ll find I’ve toyed mercilessly with the timeline, and the plot points and scenes themselves have been, on almost every occasion, twisted and changed, sometimes radically. This is deliberate, so there’s no need to notify me that this really happened before that, or that that didn’t happen at all. <g> Beyond Awakenings, the story pretty much goes off in its own direction. Readers should also be aware that I don’t watch Angel, so the parts of this story that involve the Angel characters have very little, if anything, to do with what’s actually happening on that show.

It is Spike’s struggle, his journey, that intrigues me as has that of no other fictional character, ever. I’m deeply grateful to JW, who created this fascinating and complex character, to the writers who added their own twists to Spike, and to JM who, through talent and that unbelievably expressive face, brought him vividly to life in all his wildly colorful shades of gray, and forced me to care about his story. I thank all of them.

‘Journeys’ has angst, sex, some attempts at humor, dozens of extremely sappy scenes (you have been warned!), and some actual plot. Who knew? Most of all, it has, I hope, love. While it is primarily a Spike-centric story, it is also Buffy/Spike. Though her presence can often be felt, Buffy remains inconveniently dead in Part One, thereby preventing gobs of wild Buffy/Spike lovin’. However, readers can expect to see numerous random, and not so random, acts of sex between the two in latter parts of the story. There is also blood play, and the occasional very bad word, so, overall, ‘Journeys’ should be considered NC-17.

This, my version of Spike’s story, was written to satisfy my own desire to play with the ideas of good and evil, and the part the transforming power of love can play in the struggle between them. I’m not at all sure that’s what ending up happening, but it was in the original plan. (Honest! I have outlines, copious notes, actual blueprints!)

Feedback will not make the chapters appear any faster, but would still be lovely to receive. My e-mail address is: MKStatz@aol.com. If you’re interested in posting ‘Journeys’ at your website (woo-hoo!), contact me, and we’ll talk.

At this time, I plan to post new chapters every 5-7 days. Once the story is completely written, I will post remaining chapters more often. ‘Journeys’ is a long story, and I waited to start posting it until I felt relatively sure I could actually finish it. Currently, I’m feeling mostly confident, so here goes...

Disclaimer

Joss Whedon, ME, UPN, WB, blah, blah, blah...

The television programs, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel and all of the characters appearing in them belong to someone other than me. If they belonged to me, I’d - well, read and find out.

Mary

September 29, 2002

Part One - Promise to a Lady

WHY did I love her?

Because it was her; because it was me.

- Montaigne

~*~

Breaking into the city morgue was far too easy. Spike didn’t know why he felt any sense of surprise at all. After the better part of four years, he should be immune to the internal workings of Sunnydale. The Hellmouth had made the city and all its many aspects an alternative to reality.

Why the hell was he here, anyway? She was gone.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

‘Course, she’d never been his. Never would be now. Bugger it; she never would’ve been his even if she’d lived. He knew that. He’d always known.

But it didn’t matter now.

She was dead.

Like him.

He knew why he was here, of course. He just needed to - see her. Touch her. Be alone with her, even if it was only for a few stolen moments. He wanted to say his goodbyes to her in private, away from watchful Scoobie eyes. They would never accept his desire for that type of privacy with her body, and he couldn’t ask. Not now. Maybe he’d never have been able to, but especially not now. Not after he’d failed...

Couldn’t face any of them after that. After the tower.

Spike had no problem finding her. He went unerringly to the drawer that held her body, drawn to it as though she was calling to him, and he barely hesitated before pulling it open.

The growingly familiar nausea slammed into him, and he stumbled back a step before squaring his shoulders and reaching out his hand. With a swift gesture, he pulled away the sheet covering her.

Spike’s eyes touched her, swept over her nude form, drank in what he knew would be his last sight of her.

Oh god, she was so tiny, looked so small lying there. Beautiful, unmarked. How could she be unmarked after that fall? Death had not robbed her skin of its’ golden sheen, and he wanted so badly to believe she would be warm to his touch.

She wasn’t.

He reached out, touched her face, and cradled her cheek in his calloused palm.

Conscious thought dissolved into agony.

Arms clutched, pulled, held, rough hands caressed, stroked over hair and skin. Tears bathed her throat, her stomach, her breast, as his open mouth tasted her, memorizing her flavor. She’d not been here so long as to have lost her unique scent and taste.

She would never forgive him, and it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Not from her, not from Dawn. Not from the Watcher or from her friends.

It was sure as bleedin’ hell he would never forgive himself.

He sat slumped on the floor, cradling Buffy’s body to him, as the long, stark hours of the night passed. He didn’t talk to her. She wouldn’t want to hear about his pain, his sorrow and guilt. She wouldn’t want to hear about his love. So he remained silent, his face buried against her throat. Cradled her and rocked her, and cried against her dead flesh.

Anguished sobs from a dead man for the now dead woman he had loved.

After tonight, he’d never touch her again; never hold her against him in passion or in pain, in anger, in celebration, in love. Everything he’d ever wanted, every possibility he’d ever envisioned, ever dreamt of, had fallen into oblivion when she’d leapt from that tower.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

No. No. No. No.

Would it be easier to bear if he’d possessed her? If she’d been his for even one night? Would having that memory to cling to ease the crushing despair of her loss? He didn’t know.

Even now, he knew he would cling forever to the memory of stolen hours created by a spell gone wrong. The sudden and unexpected rightness of her mouth on his, warm, eager, loving... Kissing her had been a bloody revelation. He could still remember how unbelievable her kisses had been, how completely intoxicating. No one had ever kissed him like she did. No one had ever made him feel the way she made him feel with just her mouth on his.

And, oh god, would he ever forget the mind-blowing pleasure of simply holding her in his arms, foreheads resting together as they enjoyed one another’s touch? Happiness. Simple happiness. Even the snarky bickering over wedding details couldn’t hide the joy flowing into and out of both of them. Had he ever felt it before in his existence?

He didn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive the red-haired witch for showing him that, then tearing it away.

Spike rubbed his face against Buffy’s, nuzzling gently at her neck, as he let himself dwell for a painful moment on the one other memory he would never let go of. One kiss, freely given. Passionless, but heartfelt. He felt a swift stab of unreasonable anger that his mouth had been so numb from that bitch hell god’s beatings that he’d been unable to feel that kiss in all its’ unexpected wonder to the degree he should have been able to feel it.

Sometimes he honestly wondered if the Powers That Be had taken some sort of personal interest in tainting every small pleasure that came his way.

Didn’t matter. Nothing was gonna change now. No more chances. No more what ifs. No more maybes. No more dreams of a love far above him.

Gone. She was gone.

He’d always been beneath her anyway.

He could smell the coming dawn long before the first rays of light lit the sky. He rose, lifting Buffy’s body back onto the cold metal slab. He didn’t notice the blood smeared on the floor where he’d been sitting, didn’t see the numerous small areas where it had pooled. He carefully arranged Buffy’s limbs before smoothing the sheet back over her. Putting her back the way she’d been. Wouldn’t do to have anyone know her body had been touched - defiled, they’d probably think - by a demon like him. Didn’t wanna upset anyone, add to their grief.

It wouldn’t matter to any of the others that all he really wanted was to take her body with him, to look for and find a fine and private place where he could hold her to him for the remainder of time.

Dead. She was dead.

He reached out to straighten the slender gold chain around her throat, and hissed with pain when his fingers came into contact with the delicate filigree cross suspended from it. He snatched his fingers back and stared at them. It was obvious they had come into contact with the cross many times during the long hours of the night as he held her body to his. Dozens of burns, some clearly showing the pattern of the cross, covered his hands. He stared at them. His mind, growing increasingly unable to focus, could only grasp one thought.

Could he damn well feel nothing then?

It was with a mixture of defiant anger and grief that Spike removed the pendant from Buffy’s neck. Spike tore away the fabric of his t-shirt to bare his skin, and flattened the cross against his chest. He hissed as the metal burned into his chest and his hand simultaneously.

Hissed and held on. Deeper. Yeah, there’s pain, bugger it all to hell.

Before he left he carefully refastened the pendant back around Buffy’s neck. The flesh on the thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand was burned away to the bone, but he still managed to fasten the tiny clasp, and lay the cross carefully against the upper curve of her breast. He let his hand glide over her hair one last time, leaned close to catch her scent, and finally pulled the sheet up over her face. He left then, melting out of the building as the earliest workers were arriving.

Beneath the sheet, Buffy’s chest, neck and hair were spattered with more than a little of the vampire’s blood. Because, when a hole is burned straight through the chest, through flesh and bone, and directly into the heart, there’s bound to be blood.

Even if that heart isn’t beating.

~*~

Time went a little wonky after that, following the direction his mind had already taken.

By the time he arrived back at his crypt, his hand hurt like a sonofabitch. He looked at it again. Yup, those were his bones, sod it all. Spike knew there was something wrong with his back as well. Twinges of pain had been bothering him off and on for a while - may be even a couple of days - he wasn’t sure. But, there on his back, just above his waist, he could feel a clammy, sticky wetness that usually meant he was bleeding. He could smell the blood, for that matter. He had a vague recollection of being stabbed, but he couldn’t remember where or by whom.

In fact, his whole body hurt and he had the nagging suspicion he was sporting more than a few broken bones. He knew he needed blood in order to heal, and, no matter what anyone thought, he needed human blood to heal with any speed. There were a couple of bags of human blood among the jars of pig’s blood in his refrigerator. The Slayer herself had brought him several bags of A-Neg, his favorite, in the days after Glory had attempted to get him to betray Dawn.

He pulled one out, and then stared at it in his hand, remembering his surprise when Buffy had brought him the welcome supply.

He’d said something clever, he remembered, something like, “Thank you.”

Spike leaned against the door of the refrigerator and slid to the floor, the unopened blood bag still clenched in his hand. No matter where his thoughts turned - pain, pain, pain. For a few welcome minutes, the pain in his hand had distracted him from the terrible wrenching despair clawing away inside him.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

No, please. Please. No. No. No.

Not her. Please not her. Anyone else. Anyone. God - him. Why not him? It was supposed to be him. Sonofabloodybitch, it was supposed to be him!

Something was building up inside him, growing, surging, taking him over. It was tearing at his throat, his chest, trying to get out. The feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, it terrified him. Spike dropped the blood bag, and clamped his hands to his chest. If he pushed hard enough, maybe whatever was inside him would stop trying to tear its’ way out. His hands clutched at his torn shirt, ripping at it further and pulling it away. It was covered in blood, front and back, and he had no idea how it had gotten there.

It was then he noticed the hole seared into his chest. For a moment he thought it was the place Glory had dug her hand into him, but it was higher, right over his heart. As soon as he saw it, he realized it bleeding hurt, burning like fire. There was blood everywhere and he couldn’t get a good look at the actual wound. Bloody hell, it seemed obvious to his struggling thought patterns that whatever was trying to get out of his throat had gone in there...

Was he going to have to reach into his own chest, find whatever was causing this excruciating pain, and pull it out? Maybe he should just pull out his heart - that would stop the pain, wouldn’t it?

He felt like he desperately needed to draw breath and couldn’t. Panicking, he rose to his knees, trying to get to his feet. Whatever this was, whatever was happening, he knew he could fight it better on his feet. He was a brawler, wasn’t he? He was strong, dangerous. He was evil, damn it, and whatever was happening to him - whatever demon was causing this terrifying, gnawing agony, this indescribable torment - was going to regret messing with him. He was still the Big Bad, he was...

Alone.

Dark, hollow corridors of agony stretched out in every direction. Take one, any one. It didn’t matter. Just move, run, because the fires of hell were licking at his feet, up his legs. He was going to go up in flames. He had to get away now.

He tried to rise again, to move, but he couldn’t get to his feet. He stumbled forward, sprawling across the floor.

The demon (had to be a demon, dinit?) that had attacked his chest was gaining strength, tearing more viciously at his throat. He could feel the blood flowing into his mouth, and something else. Maybe it was the demon itself. Thought turned to certainty. He was going to vomit it out. It would be gone, god, gone. Almost there, almost ... And finally it fought its way out of his body, escaping through his parted lips.

It was a scream, reduced to the barest breath of sound.

Consciousness faded.

When he came to, Spike’s dazed mind tried to suss out where he was, what was happening.

His hands slid over the floor, feeling his surroundings. He couldn’t get up and panic flared again. He clutched at the floor, trying to gain some purchase.

He needed blood, didn’t he? He couldn’t remember why. Only stood to reason, though, dinit? Vampire. There was a blood bag on the floor not far from where he lay. He crawled toward it on his stomach, feeling a moment’s victory when his hand closed around it. He morphed, letting his fangs tear into the bag, feeling the rich, welcome taste of beautiful human blood fill his mouth and flow down his throat.

It was always so intoxicating.

Strangely, he had no trouble at all finding his feet the minute he started retching. He staggered across the room, the little bit of blood he’d swallowed leaving him again in tortuous heaving spasms. What the hell was happening to him?

He collapsed onto a small wooden table, smashing it to pieces and, in the process, sending deadly splinters of wood across the room. Had some of those splinters entered his chest through the gaping hole that the demon had left when it entered him? He could feel it inside him again. He’d thought it had left him. Hadn’t it clawed its way out of his mouth? But now he could feel it again. Tearing him apart inside. It was spreading, growing inside him. It no longer tore just at his chest and throat. It was twisting into his guts, knotting them up, yanking and pulling and tearing at his intestines.

Spike cried out, shifting away from the shattered wood under his body and trying to get to one of the walls. He could defend himself better if his back was to a wall. See what was coming at him from any direction. It - they - must be in here. They were coming at him, invading his body through his chest. He had to fight, had to beat them back. How could he fight it, fight them, if he couldn’t see them? He looked around wildly. This was his crypt wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? If he could get to the lower level, maybe he could make his way into the sewer tunnels. He dragged his body toward the hole in the floor, desperate to escape, desperate to prevent any more of these demons from invading his body.

He found the hole and rolled through it, falling heavily to the basement of the crypt. He’d always tried to disguise the hole. Maybe the invaders wouldn’t see it. Spike dragged himself to a wall, pulled himself to his feet and placed his back against the flat surface, fists coming up in a defensive posture.

He’d always been good at fighting, at killing. Hadn’t Dru told him he was born to smash and bash? Kill and maim? Killing had given him the best night of his life, hadn’t it? He’d finally gained Dru’s favor, had finally gained some individual identity from her sire, Angelus, whose love, acceptance and respect he had craved for over twenty years - all by killing a Slayer...

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Dead.

His Slayer was dead.

Never gonna hold her. Never gonna touch her. Never gonna wrap his hands in her golden hair, bury himself in her body and find, at long last, his home.

His Slayer was dead.

Dead.

No. No. No.

Sounds he had never heard before were erupting from his throat, animalistic howls and wails - the anguished cries of a wounded beast. His hands were tearing at his hair, clawing at the wounds covering his body. Where had all these wounds, all this blood, come from? Wild eyes shot into every corner of the chamber. Where the hell was he?

Time no longer had any connection to reality. How long had he been here battling this - whatever it was? Hours? Days? Something was wrong. What? Something had invaded his body. It was strong, and obviously furious at being trapped inside him, judging by how rampantly it was ripping him apart inside. Even his demon couldn’t expel it, couldn’t seem to fight it, whoever or whatever it was, and the raw, agonizing pain it was causing him as it romped through his body, twisting and tearing at everything inside of him, was unbearable.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fed, didn’t know where the wounds covering much of his body had come from. And he couldn’t seem to keep down any blood at all; even licking blood from his own wounds gagged him.

He didn’t know what was happening or where he was. He didn’t even know who he was. So he stopped thinking about it. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He wasn’t sure when he realized that it was infinitely better not to think at all.

Better not to exist.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

He repeated it over and over as it became a chant, a mantra.

There is nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

And then, at last, at long last...there was nothing.

The demons of loss, of mourning, devouring him from the inside out were vanquished. The gnawing grief, the overwhelming guilt, slid away, defeated. Gone. Like everything else. There was nothing. Endless nothingness.

Blessed relief.

There was no one. No. One.

Not even her. Not even him.

He lay on his back on the floor, still and silent as only vampires can be still and silent. He didn’t exist anymore. Dead, empty shell shrouded in black leather. Dead, empty eyes in a bloodless, chalk white face.

Dead.

On some level, so deep inside he would never remember it, he welcomed the empty nothingness; embracing it with a desperate, loving gratitude.

~*~

He was on time. But then, he was always on time. 9:00. Time to walk Dawn home from the Magic Box, spend a couple hours with her ‘til the witches were back. Spike stood just inside the door of the shop, silent and remote, as he waited for Dawn to finish up some chore Anya had assigned her.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Dawn had asked, her eyes lightly pleading, and of course, he’d nodded in agreement. Wasn’t in any hurry anyway.

She wasn’t ‘quite ready’ to leave most nights now when he arrived, but he didn’t let on that he knew it was deliberate. She would try to persuade him to come in, sit with Xander or Giles until she was ready to go, but he preferred to remain by the door.

Apart.

“Good evening, Spike,” Giles said as he came out of the back room. He kept his voice carefully even these days, almost pleasant. “Right on time, I see.”

Spike inclined in head in acknowledgement, which seemed to be expected of him, but he didn’t speak, and his eyes avoided those of the Watcher.

Giles’ lips tightened almost imperceptively. He took a couple steps in the vampire’s general direction and tried again.

“I appreciate your willingness to help out. We all do.” His head dipped toward Xander and Anya, who nodded in agreement - Xander hesitantly, Anya with enthusiasm.

Giles made another attempt to make eye contact with Spike.

And failed. Again.

Spike didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Giles in any way. Instead his intense blue eyes followed Dawn from their sunken sockets, and the air in the room seemed to tighten around the occupants. Thinning to the point where it seemed difficult to draw breath. If you needed to, that is.

Dawn finished shelving the books in the pile Anya had given her, and stood, surveying the shop. There was really nothing else that needed doing right now. Besides, it wasn’t working. Spike never actually came in to the shop, never really acknowledged anyone but her - except for those sort of nod thingies he did with Giles - and he never spoke. Ever. To any of them. Only her. And even then, he only talked when they were alone. She’d tried so hard to pull him into the group - at least a little. But so far, all her attempts had been complete failures. Her hands fisted in the fabric of her t-shirt for a moment; then she smoothed it out and forced a smile onto her face.

“I’m ready,” she announced and some of the tension left the room.

Spike stepped back, opened the door and held it for the young girl. Dawn threw a somewhat helpless look over her shoulder at the others before preceding him out the door.

“Okay, then,” Xander remarked into the tense silence that fell once the over-the-door bell stopped its jangling. “Really not getting any easier, there.”

“Quite.” Giles agreed. “I had hoped perhaps by now…” he let his voice trail off.

“Well, he’s not as bad as he was.” Anya pointed out. Which was, of course, a vast understatement. “He’s up and moving and doing something useful. Even if it is something we sort of - created - to make him feel useful.” She nodded her head. “I think it’s working.”

“Ahn, honey, you have noticed that he still hasn’t said a word, right?”

“Which I continue to find remarkable considering how much Spike always seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice.” Giles added.

“Actually, I think it’s creepier the way he won’t look at anyone. Kind of makes me shivery.”

“Me too.” Xander shuddered as he agreed with his girlfriend. Giles looked at the younger man with the somewhat pained expression he often had on his face when looking at him, and Xander grew defensive.

“What? It’s damned creepy. He walks around like some pale ghosty thing. Never talks, never looks at you. Eyes all black and cheeks all sunken in like those voice stealing gentlemen guys.” He paused, “And they were majorly creepy.”

“I still say he’s getting better.” Anya was often more optimistic than those around her. “He certainly looks better than he did a few weeks ago, and Dawn says he talks to her regularly.”

“Really?” Giles asked.

“Yes. I believe they have real conversations.” Anya opened the cash register and put the last pile of receipts in. Normally she would tally everything at the end of the day, but Xander wanted to watch a movie tonight, so they were heading home as soon as she was ready. It bothered her to leave the end of day bookwork undone all night, but when one was engaged, even secretly, certain concessions had to be made for one’s fiancé. All the bridal magazines said so.

“Besides, Spike is in mourning,” she continued, as she gathered her purse and sweater, “and it can last a long time. Months, sometimes even years. There’s no telling how long it will last with Spike, because it’s different with everyone. But I do think he’ll start talking to people other than Dawn soon.”

Giles looked at her with interest. “Is it normal for vampires to go into mourning?”

“I really didn’t do a lot of vengeance work with vampires. They prefer to take their own vengeance. So I don’t have a lot of personal experience with them. But, yes, mourning the loss of a loved one is common for most beings - human and demon.”

“And you don’t feel the lack of a soul…?”

“I really don’t see the connection. Vampires are very passionate beings. They love - well, many of them do anyway, they hate. And they mourn. Pretty straight forward if you ask me. Don’t any of these books cover this stuff?” She gestured to the thousands of volumes housed in the shop and there was a certain incredulity in her tone.

Giles became slightly flustered. “Mostly, the council deals with how to kill vampires, not, with, well…”

“Understanding them?” Anya finished for him. “I thought ‘know thine enemy’ was some sort of motto among humans.” She caught herself. “Us. Among us. Humans. Like us. Like all of us here in this room right now.” She smiled, nodding to herself in approval, sure she had covered the slip that she still, sometimes, thought of herself as other than human. They probably hadn’t even noticed, she thought, happily. “You might want to consider stocking some books in your resource library that are not on the official ‘Council of Watchers’ Approved Reading List.’” She shrugged, dismissing the subject as she turned to Xander. “Ready, sweetheart?”

“You bet.” He was on his feet, anxious to be home. Escape into a movie. The Matrix was waiting - well, maybe not. A little too much black leather for his mood right now. Or Cujo - always a good scare in that one, and it would probably lead to Anya huggage. Or, again, maybe not. He could almost hear her now; ‘This isn’t realistic, Xander. First; rabid dogs would never... blah, blah, blah.’ Well, they’d find something. Anya had been wanting to see some chick flick. Anything. It didn’t matter. Just something to provide some escape, however brief.

~*~

Giles poured himself a drink after Xander and Anya left. He acknowledged his habit of reaching for alcohol in times of stress, knew it was a sign of weakness, thought disparaging thoughts of himself for it, and did it anyway.

He feared, too, that he was losing his battle with depression. Buffy’s loss alone was an horrific happening he had hoped never to have to deal with. He had loved her so much, had admired her spirit, her independence, her strength, her vitality. But he had seen how the last months before they lost her had drained her, aged her and saddened her beyond what anyone of her still very young age should ever have to endure. And he felt that he had failed her in so many ways. He still cringed when remembering the way Buffy had looked at him as he stated that Dawn would have to die, the betrayal he had seen in her eyes. And the guilt mounted daily, because he was forced to admit to himself that, even now, every time he looked at Dawn, he felt angered that she - this unreal personage - lived while the daughter of his heart was de - gone - forever gone.

He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to say ‘dead’. Or ‘died’. Or ‘death’.

He knew it was a form of denial. Another weakness.

Dawn had not turned to him for comfort, for which he supposed he should be grateful. In those first dark days, she’d given him the occasional hug, and had seemed comforted by his presence. Even now, she never displayed any animosity toward him, but even while she didn’t avoid him, she held herself somewhat aloof. Instead she turned to Tara, the quiet and gentle woman who seemed to have blossomed into a wonderful anchor for the teen.

And then, of course, Dawn turned to Spike. Though Giles wasn’t at all sure who was doing the comforting there, and who was seeking it. Perhaps it was a mutual need met.

The attempts made to locate Hank Summers after the showdown with Glory had delayed Buffy’s funeral, and the ceremony had not been held until almost two weeks after her loss, a rather lengthy delay. Even then, Hank Summers was not present. Dawn, angered by the continued inability to locate her father, had been insistent that the ceremony be held after sunset so that Spike, at least, could be there with her. She’d been devastated when only one vampire had been in attendance - that being Angel. None of them had seen Spike since the morning after the final battle with Glory, but notes left in his heavily disarrayed crypt had informed him of the time and place of the service. Dawn had been certain he would come. She had insisted that the service itself be delayed for well more than an hour while they waited in vain for the blond. When Angel stated his opinion, backed up with visible disgust by Xander, that Spike had probably either left town or was collapsed in a drunken stupor somewhere, Dawn had stiffened in anger and given a nod to the clergyman to proceed. She hadn’t spoken to Angel after the service, and when he tried to offer his sympathy, she had rebuffed him quite rudely. She hadn’t been particularly pleased with Xander either.

The next day Dawn found Spike.

Had any of them even been aware that there was a lower level to Spike’s crypt? Giles couldn’t remember ever having noticed it or having heard about its’ existence. Seeing the chains hanging from the ceiling during one of his earliest visits to this newly discovered realm, Giles supposed that this was where Spike had chained Buffy and Drusilla in what was undoubtedly his most disastrous attempt to win Buffy’s heart. Buffy had never gone into great detail about that night, and the opening leading to the lower level could easily be overlooked if one wasn’t aware of its existence.

Giles still didn’t know exactly how Dawn had discovered it. Perhaps she had just been more determined than any of them had been during previous visits to the crypt when they had been attempting to locate Spike. Or perhaps she had simply been deeply brassed off. Determined to find the vampire and vent her anger. Either way, it still horrified Giles that Dawn had been the one to find Spike, that she had seen him in that horrendous condition.

God, it still sickened him, and he had seen some pretty terrible things, especially since coming to Sunnydale.

First, there had been the wounds. He knew the deep stab would to Spike’s lower back had come during the battle with Glory. Dawn had told them that Spike had been stabbed atop the tower by the little man they had called ‘Doc.’ At the hospital the following day with Dawn, he had shrugged off Giles’ questions about the wound, and Giles had assumed vampiric healing had kicked in. Apparently it had not. When Dawn brought them to Spike after finding him, more than two weeks after the stabbing had occurred, the wound had still been open. Other injuries were consistent with Spike’s fall from the tower - several broken ribs, and numerous broken bones in his legs and in his right arm. Like the stab wound, they had not healed.

Giles wondered how the vampire had managed to stay patiently by Dawn’s side while the doctors worked on her after Buffy’s dea - leap. The blond had accompanied Dawn to the hospital, had stayed, a silent, soothing presence at her side, while the doctors examined her wounds, cleaned them, and stitched them up. Dawn had clung to his hand fiercely, and Giles could remember the strangeness he had felt at seeing Spike gently stroking Dawn’s hair, calming her throughout the process. He had stayed until the doctors assured him that Dawn would recover fully, that she would have very little, if any, scarring from the wounds, and that the sedatives they had administered would keep her asleep for several hours. Then, without speaking to any of them, he had disappeared into the tunnels running under the city, not to be seen again until Dawn found him the day after the funeral.

There were other wounds - deep burns in his chest and on his hands. Giles really didn’t know how those had occurred. Flesh and bone alike were blackened, and the stench was horrid. Xander had thrown up when he’s seen Spike’s chest, and Giles and Tara had been the ones to cut away the dead flesh and dress the wounds.

But as awful as the wounds and injuries had been, they were nothing compared to the general physical state Spike was in.

It had been almost like finding a survivor of Auschwitz or Dachau. Emaciated to the point of looking almost skeletal, they had, at first glance, thought Spike had passed into some strange and heretofore unknown form of vampiric death. Giles had been shocked to the core, and he was quite sure he hadn’t yet recovered. He’d never seen a vampire in that state before, couldn’t even remember having read about it in any of his hundreds of books. Upon closer examination, it was clear Spike was still - alive - on some level. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but his eyes were still cognizant, or at least alert on some deep level. They moved, sometimes focusing on a face or a motion. Mostly they were empty, deadened pools of blue, burning out of their sunken sockets in a manner that gave Giles nightmares still.

Of course, Giles knew of torpor, the state in which vampires could supposedly exist for long periods of time without feeding. But his knowledge suggested that a vampire in that state would never turn down blood, was, in fact, almost mad for it. That hadn’t been the case with Spike.

There were a few blood packets lying about on the floor upstairs, opened, their contents spilled on the ground next to them. It hadn’t taken them long to figure out that Spike had been unable to keep any blood down. Or that he still couldn’t. Not pig’s blood. Not human blood. Not blood fresh from Giles’ arm. And yes, he had offered. It wasn’t that Spike didn’t try. He did. It was the only time he seemed to move at all. He would take some of the human blood, would instinctively put his mouth to the wound Giles would slice into his own arm. It didn’t matter. Within minutes - seconds sometimes - he was gagging, vomiting up whatever he had taken in, almost choking on it in the process. And in his terribly weakened state, the heaves wracking his body were frighteningly terrible to see. It didn’t seem to matter what opinion each of them held of Spike, they were all shaken and horrified by what Spike was going through. The young women - Willow, Tara and Anya - clung to each other over this, one more shock after so many others. Even Xander, whose dislike of Spike almost equaled his hatred of Angel, seemed deeply affected.

And Dawn. Oh my, Dawn. The poor girl had been reduced to a dreadful state, bouts of hysteria intermingling with an almost catatonic state of blank staring, and flare-ups of temper. They had done their best to shield her from his continuing decline, but what she had seen when she first found him had been permanently burned into her mind’s eye. Further, Giles had been certain that somehow Dawn was getting in to see Spike, even though they all agreed it was best to keep her from him, and the others all denied the possibility of her finding a way on her own.

They had no idea how to help. Or if help was even possible. Willow and Tara, even Anya and Xander had read, and researched, and read, and searched the web, and read yet more, trying to discover what was happening to Spike and how they could restore him to his usual annoying self. But they had been rather spectacularly unsuccessful. After nearly two weeks of watching Spike’s condition worsen, Giles had come to a very difficult decision.

They must consult Angel.

The decision to call Angel had been a painful one. First off, Giles didn’t know if Angel would have the knowledge to help. Even more uncertain would be his willingness. Giles knew the two vampires had an exceedingly rocky history. Knew too, that only the two of them really understood the extent of and reasons for their private war. He did know that their shared past was complicated in ways that humans would probably never fully comprehend. Giles held out some hope that despite - or even perhaps because of - some of those very complicated issues, Angel would have sufficient residual feelings for the younger vampire to want to be of help. After all, the two were still part of the same vampiric family. No matter how dysfunctional that family was.

There were other drawbacks to phoning Angel. Giles had felt sure that Spike himself would react negatively to the idea. Well, to be blunt, Giles had thought Spike would raise himself up from what seemed to be his deathbed and throw him out of his crypt. From the lower level. But Spike hadn’t reacted at all. His eyes had remained lifeless and bleak, void of any emotion at all.

At that point, Giles knew that the only remaining stumbling block to calling Angel was his own undiminished - distaste - for the dark haired vampire.

Giles felt that he had honestly tried, over the years, to forgive Angel the acts of Angelus. But, inside, where he lived, where remnants of Ripper, and more importantly, Jenny, still dwelled, he knew that he never would.

He had accepted that - that inability to forget, to forgive.

Giles removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes in a mixture of habit and exhaustion. The entire experience had been more than horrifying. It had been unutterably strange and, at the same time, strangely fascinating.

To see a person - well, not a person, perhaps, but a sentient being, at any rate, in such a state. To know that said being had reached that point, at least in part, one must assume, by being unable to eat, but to not know why...or even how they had deteriorated so rapidly. It seemed only common sense to Giles that the weight loss visible in Spike should not have occurred in less than a good many weeks, possibly months. Yet only two weeks had passed when they’d first found him, and he’d already looked skeletal. The same could be said for the loss of strength and power. Dawn had told them that Spike had been stabbed by the little man on top of the tower, and Giles felt sure that some sort of poison had entered the vampire’s bloodstream. Although this didn’t comfortably gibe with the fact that Dawn had been cut by the same blade, with no apparent ill effects, Giles still leaned toward it as the best possible explanation.

By that time, though, they were more concerned with cure than cause. Not that they had any information in that area either...

Giles had actually found himself praying for the knowledge to help Spike. A vampire. A soulless creature that had harmed them and threatened them, and - helped them. It had all been so very - well - unsettling hardly described it.

Then, before he actually picked up the phone to consult Angel, it was over.

It had been on Xander’s watch. While Tara stayed at the Summers house with Dawn every night, the rest of them - he, Xander, Anya, and Willow - had been taking rotating shifts staying in the crypt with Spike during the day, and had agreed that each night, one of them would spend the long, dark hours upstairs. They didn’t openly call it a death watch, but they all knew what it was. And because Spike had fought beside them against Glory, because Buffy had seemed to put a lot of trust in him in the last weeks of her life, they had done this. For her. Because they felt she would have wanted them to.

And perhaps, somewhat reluctantly, and to their surprise, for Spike himself.

Xander had been watching television on the main floor of the crypt, dozing perhaps, as the night passed. And in the morning, he had opened his eyes to see Spike standing over him. Giles imagined that had led to one of Xander’s less than manly reactions, though Xander would never admit to such a thing. And Spike... Well, Spike still didn’t speak. Except to Dawn. When they were alone. Or at least Dawn claimed he spoke to her. Even, if what she told Anya was to be believed, that they had actual conversations. Giles had yet to hear him utter a sound.

And they had absolutely no idea what had occurred.

What had happened, changed, that Spike was suddenly able to drink blood again? To keep it down, and - digest it, or whatever it was vampires actually did internally? Spike had been in such a weakened state by then that Giles was really at a loss to understand how he had even laid his hands on a blood source. And Giles had looked - for an empty bag, or a bottle or jar, or a dead rat for that matter. He had found nothing.

He wondered tiredly if any explanation for the whole experience - cause and cure - would ever be forthcoming, either from Spike himself, though Giles was unsure how much, if anything, Spike remembered of the experience, or from some reference source they hadn’t found in their exhaustive research.

Giles replaced his glasses and took a hefty swallow of his scotch. And now he really needed to talk to Spike about an entirely different matter.

Damn the Hellmouth.

Giles could remember his early reactions upon learning that Sunnydale rested on a Hellmouth. He had felt - well, damn and blast - a form of excitement. There had been a certain amount of anticipation then, in those early days, of the challenges they would face. And though he had felt outright fear at the fate of the world resting on the shoulders of one slender and rather, well, strange, teenage girl and her friends, he had still been able to view the glass as ‘half-full’, as he had put it at the time, rather than half-empty.

Perhaps he had just been too young and foolish himself. Five years had changed his perspective.

And his life.

Yes, well, he couldn’t afford to dwell too much on things past right now - Jenny and Joyce, The Master, the mayor, Faith, Angel. His beloved girl, Buffy. Oh dear lord, he had promised himself he would not do this now. Just - focus, Giles, old man.

The opening of the dimensional portal that night on the tower had released some particularly nasty creatures into this dimension. In the first days after that final battle, there hadn’t been much noticeable activity. Giles had hoped that most of them had disappeared back to their own dimensions when Buffy jumped. And undoubtedly many had. Others had most likely been killed by the effects of the dimensional leap, or by an inability to sustain life in this dimension, or by some nasty already residing on the Hellmouth. And some had perhaps gone into seclusion while trying to come to an understanding of what had happened to them, and where they now were.

But in recent days they seemed to be coming out of the woodwork, so to speak. The reported sightings he had received the last two days of a dragon in flight had been particularly unsettling.

In addition, Glory’s unstable and powerful presence had served to reduce what Giles had come to see as a ‘normal’ level of demon activity on the Hellmouth. Now, with rumors of her demise circulating, combined with the first whispers of the possible dea- absence of the Slayer, demonic activity had undergone a decided and very unwelcome surge in the last week or so.

Giles had decisions to make.

And he wanted to discuss some of them with Spike.

It was a pretty depressing indicator of the current sorry state of affairs, when a trained Watcher of his experience was convinced his most likely source of help was one William the Bloody, former Scourge of Europe and Slayer of Slayers.

~*~

“You still have blood left, right?” It was one of the first questions she asked him every night. It usually popped out within a block or two of the Magic Box, and was always followed by a visual inspection gauging the degree of improvement in his condition. Tonight was no exception.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Are you - have you tried drinking regular blood yet?” Dawn asked cautiously.

“Been drinkin’ it every day for a while now,” he assured her, which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth. “I’m gonna be fine, bit.”

It wasn’t as easy to put one over on her as some people - some vampires too - seemed to think. “Have you tried drinking regular blood plain?” she probed.

His averted eyes told her everything she needed to know. She folded her arms protectively across her stomach.

“I’m scared, Spike.”

That was the truth. He could almost taste her fear hanging in the warm summer air. Not too long ago, he would have savored it. Still would, if it was someone else’s fear. Anyone really, who wasn’t Dawn.

“Hey now,” his deep voice soothed her. “I’ll not have you worryin’ yourself sick about me. I’ve been around a long time, luv. Gonna be around a lot longer.”

“You almost died.”

“Pish,” he dismissed. “Just got some bad blood or somethin’.” They both knew that was pretty unlikely, but since they had no idea what had really happened, Spike thought it an effective dodge. He let his eyes catch hers. “’Sides, my girl saved me, didn’t she?”

Dawn brightened as he’d known she would. “Yeah. I guess I kinda did, didn’t I?”

“Sure did. Still can’t believe you snuck through the sewers to get to my place like that. I oughta beat you bloody for doin’ somethin’ so stupid and dangerous.”

They’d been over this before. He tried to sound parental and disapproving, and even though real fear for her safety stabbed through him, admiration for her fearlessness still colored his tone.

Anyone in their right mind would be, if not downright scared witless, then pretty damn nervous about navigating the town through the underground tunnels. Most of the beasties known to man, and more importantly, a good many not known to man, resided there, or used them to traverse the city. That Dawn had broken into the Magic Box in order to get her hands on the maps in Giles’ office, had charted the course to his crypt, and had then forced herself to take that course alone, all in an effort to save his evil hide, was still a source of raw wonder to Spike. Further, the first couple visits, even though he had no memory of them, hadn’t even been for the lofty purpose of saving his life. They had just been to see him, to be at his side while he was going though whatever it was he was going through.

In his entire unlife, no one had come close to taking on that kind of danger for his sake. Dru had taken some risks, yeah, but Dru was a killer. Dawn, though - an innocent child - so unable to defend herself… That this child, this young girl, would do something like that for him…

He didn’t understand it. At least, he wasn’t sure…But he knew how it made him feel. And he knew he’d never felt this way about another being. Her actions…If he hadn’t already pledged his protection, his life, for her, he would have done so after finding out what she had done. Up until the night of Buffy’s death, she may have, for the most part, still been just the Slayer’s kid sis to him, he wasn’t really sure. But now she was herself.

His girl. Dawn.

And he loved her more than anything on this earth, felt a fierce protective loyalty to her. That she seemed to feel the same way about him…Well, he was still having some trouble working his mind around that one.

Dawn had become quite adept at listening in on conversations others didn’t want her to hear. Gotta protect the kid, she thought disparagingly. From eavesdropping, she knew that Spike couldn’t keep any blood down. She knew they’d tried all kinds of blood, even straight-from-the-vein-Watcher blood. And like the others, she had worried and agonized over Spike’s health, the only difference being that her reasons for doing so actually involved genuine affection.

It wasn’t until she’d been getting a pork roast out of the freezer for Tara to prepare for dinner one evening that Dawn had found the cure they needed. There, nestled in among the frozen packages of hamburger and the extra half gallon of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream sat a few dozen packets of frozen Slayer blood.

Dawn had become accustomed, over time, to ignoring the packets of her sister’s blood. They’d been there since shortly after Angel had tried to drain her, kept on hand because of Buffy’s fear of hospitals and her high risk profession. Apparently the incident with Angel had spurred her sister into some sort of decision to keep a supply close at hand. She knew Buffy and Giles kept them ‘updated’, replacing aging packets of the emergency stash with fresh on a fairly regular basis. Dawn knew they were there, knew why they were there, and beyond that, had always chosen to pretty much ignore their existence, because of the general eeeww factor of the presence of human blood in the family freezer.

Tara, like Willow, believed there was a lot of comfort in food, and had been cooking up a storm since Buffy’s death. She had innocently sent Dawn to fetch that roast, bringing the young girl face to face with her sister’s blood, and Dawn had known. Just known. She’d known that here was the cure they were looking for.

Buffy’s blood.

Nothing would be more potent for Spike. She knew that, sadly, there was nothing remaining in this world that he would crave more, desire more. Dawn had been positive that it would cure him.

And it had.

She hadn’t talked to anyone about Buffy’s blood. She just didn’t feel up to the arguments she might face. Objections from Xander were a certainty. The possible reactions of the others were less certain, and she wasn’t going to let anything - or anyone - get in the way of helping Spike. The pain over losing her mother and her sister in such a short space of time had brought to life a firm, strong resolve in her mind. She was not going to lose anyone else. Not if there was anything she could do about it. Anything at all.

She hated herself for being so - angry - with them. With her mother and Buffy. Her father too. How could they leave her all alone? How could they? Her mother’s abandonment had been unwilling. But she’d still left, hadn’t she? And Buffy, even though she had been saving the world, had chosen to leave her. She’d chosen to leave her. Even worse, Buffy had known what their father was like. How - uninvolved. How careless. And she’d still jumped. She’d known Dawn would be left all alone in the world, and she had still jumped. Dawn didn’t know if she could ever forgive her for that. And she knew her anger at dead people only proved again that there was something wrong with her - that she wasn’t a good person. After all, only someone really bad, or probably even evil, could feel this kind of overwhelming anger at her own dead mother and sister, right?

When Spike hadn’t shown up at the funeral, she’d been devastated. Him, too? Probably he had only cared about her because of Buffy, she tried to tell herself. Just like the Scoobies probably did. She’d thought there was something between her and Spike - some sort of tie. Something that had been growing for months. And after the way he had looked at her just before Doc had thrown him off the tower, and the way he had held her hand, touched her, soothed her at the hospital afterward… She’d been so sure he loved her like she loved him. But when he hadn’t contacted her again, hadn’t been at the funeral…

She was furious with him the night of the funeral. She’d sat there, not even listening to the words of the minister. All she’d wanted to do was find Spike. Find him, and fly at him, and claw at him, and scream out her rage and her pain at his betrayal. She’d accepted the words of comfort offered by the others, and hadn’t even heard them. Somehow, the words had lost meaning and structure in the time between leaving their mouths and reaching her ears. All she could think about was finding Spike - and maybe, maybe even killing him…

When she had found him the next day, she’d been terrified by his condition. But she’d also felt, guiltily, a tremendous sense of relief. He hadn’t left her. He was sick, hurt, and he hadn’t been able to get to her. But he hadn’t left her.

And she was gonna do whatever she had to do to make sure that whatever was wrong with him didn’t take him away. From her.

Getting to, and into, the vampire’s crypt, with her sister’s blood had been almost scarier than her first trips. Probably, she thought later, because this trip meant more. She’d already gone into the tunnels on two other occasions in that terrible week since she’d first found Spike, but that didn’t make it any less frightening. Sneaking out of the house, past the trusting Tara, was easy. But the trip through the dark streets of Sunnydale, the entrance into the tunnels as close to the crypt as she could manage and the short trip through them until she actually emerged into the lower level of the crypt was truly terrifying. Her heart hammered wildly in her throat the entire time, and the queasiness and nausea of real fear made her wonder at times if she would make it. Only the grim determination to get to Spike - at first just to be with him, and on that last trip with the hope of curing him - had made it possible for her to keep going.

~*~

In the morning, she got the welcome news that he was up and moving again. Though he was grossly thin and, according to Willow, for the first time really looked like the walking corpse he was, he seemed to be otherwise okay. He hadn’t fed in front of them, refusing the offered human blood. But otherwise, he seemed able to function quite normally. Or well, like Spike, anyway. Stand, walk, scowl, sit, turn on the telly. Everything but talk. And smirk.

~*~

Once they arrived at the Summers house, Spike was able to distract Dawn from her worries about his health by furthering her instruction in the many and varied forms of cheating at cards. The girl was a natural. Her ability to stack the deck was improving daily, and, even with those apparently genetically small Summers hands, she could palm an ace with the best of them.

He was damn proud of his girl.

Tomorrow was Saturday, and Dawn was expected at the Magic Box by 9:00 am. Although she helped out there more often, she was officially ‘on the payroll’ two evenings a week - Tuesdays and Thursdays , which seemed to be the big ‘magical needs’ shopping nights - and Saturdays. The little bit of spending money she was earning seemed to give her a small feeling of independence, and it was a safe job for her, working under watchful Scoobie eyes.

Tired out by the long day she’d had, she was in bed by 10:30. By the time the witches arrived home only half an hour later, Spike was practically climbing the walls. He’d never admit it to his girl, but being in the house on Revello Drive was agony for him. While Dawn was awake and distracting him with her chatter, he could bear it. But once she went off to bed, he felt as though the walls were literally closing in on him. Surrounded by photos of Buffy, memories of Buffy, and worst of all, catching elusive whiffs of his dead Slayer’s scent in the air, was, for him, a silent and extremely effective form of torture. He hated being in the Summers house, and had to brace himself every night when he walked in the door with Dawn.

Willow and Tara came in, greeting him as they always did. And, as had become his habit, he avoided their eyes, ignored their overtures, and left the house without a word to either of them.

Time to scare up something to kill. In the past, a decent spot of violence had always soothed him. No reason to think that wouldn’t be the end result again sometime soon.

~*~

It felt good. He had always loved the brawl, the challenge, everything all fists and fangs. Much more satisfying than all that bleedin’ ‘art of the kill’ garbage Angelus and Darla always used to waste time oohin’ and aahin’ about. Tonight, though, the fight didn’t last long enough. Spike even tried to prolong the battle, but the two vamps were young and inexperienced - who was turning these idiots anyway? he wondered. Even givin’ them every opportunity, they were reduced to dust in a matter of minutes.

Spike growled, his fist meeting the brick wall of the alleyway in frustration, and anger, and pain. Again, then again. Then the right hand. Again. Maybe the physical pain would...

“Oh, stop!”

The voice was full of distress and he spun toward the sound, ready to lash out, to maim, to kill.

It was the woman. The ones the fledglings had been about to make into a meal when he’d happened upon the scene. Mindin’ his own damn business. Immediately he was stuck by the horrifying thought - bloody hell, he hadn’t been protectin’ her, had he?

He assured himself he had not. He’d just been lookin’ for a fight, like any self-respecting evil demon should be of a night.

“Please, stop. Your poor hands - look at them...” she trailed off as her eyes lifted from the bloody mess of his hands to his eyes.

He was in game face. Why wasn’t she runnin’ for her life? Screamin’, damn it? Couldn’t he have that, at least? The ability to instill fear in mortals who didn’t know he was incapable of hurtin’ them? Had that, too, been taken from him?

Enraged, furious with fate, he leapt toward her, fangs bared, yellow eyes flashing.

The woman flattened herself against the brick wall in terror.

“Please, I can’t, I only meant...” The sight and scent of her rampant fear soothed Spike to some degree, which worked to his advantage. If he’d touched her, he’d be screamin’ and clutchin’ his head in agony, wouldn’t he? And how bleedin’ scary was that?

“That’s better,” he snarled, pinning her to the wall with his presence. “You’re wise to show fear, because, woman, I am all your nightmares come to pass.”

He watched as she closed her eyes and turned her face away from him, waiting for him to strike. She didn’t beg or plead or cry. Just clutched her fear close and shut him out.

Bugger it all to hell.

She was wearin’ her hair in the same style Joyce had started favorin’ before she died.

Spike pushed away from her and turned to go, mangled hands already reaching for a cigarette, as his features shifted back to their human form. Satisfaction was becoming a damn bitch to come by.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

He froze. What the hell had she just said?

He didn’t turn back to her. His hands were shaking - bloody shaking - as he went ahead and lit his fag. He took another step away.

“I’ve seen you before.”

He spun back to face her, leather whipping around him. Black menace.

“Who the bleedin’ hell are you?” he demanded furiously.

“Emily Huggins.” Her voice had gained strength. “I own the flower shop,” she went on, nodding her head to the back door of the small flower shop they were standing next to.

“I’ve seen you back here before, usually sometime shortly before midnight. Almost every night the last couple of weeks.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t...

“I’ve seen you taking flowers from those I’ve had to put out.”

Spike swallowed, his face a frozen mask.

Emily relaxed a little when he said nothing. More importantly, when he didn’t jump at her again or try to eat her.

“I always dislike having to put out flowers that are perfectly fine, just a moment past their prime. It seems such a waste. But I know they won’t sell in the morning, so I...” her voice trailed off. “I just, I just wanted you to know that, well, you’re welcome to them.” Her chin came up in defiance when he leveled icy blue eyes on hers. “Please take as many as you want. I want - I’m happy to have them find a home.”

Spike took a drag off his cigarette, and inhaled deeply, his jaw clenched. He couldn’t think of One. Bloody. Thing. To. Say.

He turned and strode away, duster billowing about him.

Sometimes image really was everything.

“I meant what I said,” Emily called after him.

As soon as he was certain he was well out of her sight, Spike broke into a run.

~*~

His crypt was dark. He rarely bothered to light candles anymore. Nothin’ to see anyway. And he belonged in the dark. He was a vampire, right? Creature of the night.

No light for the likes of him.

He went straight to the refrigerator. Time to mix up a little Buffy cocktail. One part Slayer blood, three parts whatever else was on hand.

In all his years as a vampire, he had never craved blood like he craved hers. He carefully doled out his dwindling supply in small portions, like a money less addict planning his next fix from what was available. Just so much per day. All at once? Or a little now, a little more later?

And then he would sip it, savor it, licking the glass clean greedily. He could taste her in every drop. Hot and strong and powerful.

He’d gone from the weakened, almost skeletal state that Dawn had found him in to the strongest he’d ever been in a few short weeks. He was still too thin, his face too full of shadowed angles, but strength surged through his veins, and the power he could unleash while fighting truly terrified his opponents.

He gloried in the strength her blood gave him. Relished it.

The aphrodisiac qualities of Slayer blood were ruthlessly ignored. He couldn’t - couldn’t fantasize. Wouldn’t. The first time her blood had rushed to his groin, he’d almost doubled over in pain at the very thought of seeking out or providing himself with sexual gratification. So he simply - didn’t. He had power, didn’t he? And he had the power to deny and ignore whatever he damn well wanted to ignore. His lips twisted. Master of his own domain, he was.

Spike ran his tongue along the edge of his glass, swiping up the last tiny droplet of blood. At this rate, Buffy’s blood would be completely gone in less than a month. Would he be able to keep down blood that was not spiked with the powerful blood of his Slayer? He didn’t know.

Didn’t care, either.

~*~

During the long hours of the day, he was, for the most part, trapped in his crypt by the sunlight. More and more often now, with his Slayer’s blood singing in his veins, he found himself escaping into the sewers, searching for some beastie dwelling in the vast underground of Sunnydale to pummel and kill. Searching for something - anything - to occupy his mind, his body, his fists. But sometimes he still lay in silence atop his bier, flirting with desperately needed sleep.

And she would come to him.

Sometimes she came in dreams. One dream flowed into another, differing radically in mood and tone. He knew they were dreams. Just dreams. He should be able to open his eyes and the images - both good and bad - would be dispelled. But he couldn’t. His eyes refused to open. The dreams held him tightly in thrall, and he couldn’t break away. The images pressed into him relentlessly, without mercy.

Sometimes she just came to him. He could swear he was awake, open eyed and staring into the dark emptiness of his crypt. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her presence, could catch her scent in the air which grew heavy around him, weighing him down.

And then, her touch. Ghostly fingers whispering over his flesh, tracing delicate lines against his pale skin. Her touch was so soft. It soothed him, calmed him. Then it aroused him, making him ache for more.

Her breath warmed his flesh; words he couldn’t make out were spoken softly against his ear, his throat. He wanted to understand her, wanted to know what it was she was telling him, why she was coming to him, what she wanted, needed. Please, love, stay here with me. Stay here. Stay.

But of course she didn’t. He could feel her presence slipping away, leaving, and he tried desperately to hold onto - her, her essence. He wanted to cloak himself in it, wrap it tightly around him, cling to it. But he never succeeded. She always slipped away.

He didn’t know which was worse - the dreams or the waking visions, the passionate scenarios of sex, and joy, and saving, or the nightmarish ones of failure and death.

When he woke it was always the same. In those first dark moments, dreams and reality were so mixed up and twisted in his mind that he couldn’t differentiate between them. Every single time he woke, he honestly did not know if Buffy was dead or alive. Just. Did. Not. Know. His mind worked frantically to sort through all the dreams, all the pain, all the horror and the guilt and the hope until reality could be ascertained. Until he knew for sure.

No. No.

She was dead.

His Slayer was dead.

It was like losing her all over again every time he woke. And, every time he woke, he laid there, his face pressed against his upper arm, buried in the crook formed by his bent elbow, as the agony of loss started screaming its now familiar path through every cell of his body all over again.

He hadn’t cried since he’d held her body through the night in the morgue.

~*~

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” Giles admitted. “You’ve been pretty reclusive since, er, well, since -“

“Dawn told me you wanted to talk, Watcher,” Spike interrupted. “She asked me to come.” His tone strongly suggested no other incentive could have brought him to this meeting.

“Yes. I shall have to thank her then.” Giles didn’t bother to mention that, to his knowledge, this was the first time Spike had spoken to anyone other than Dawn since he’d left the hospital the morning after Buffy’s death.

Giles was seated behind his desk in his small office just off the training room at the Magic Box, while Spike leaned with seeming negligence against the closed door, his hands buried in the pockets of his duster. The blond’s eyes seemed fixed on some spot on the floor just in front of his feet.

Giles studied him for a moment. “You seem to be regaining your health,” he offered. It had been close to a month since Spike had been back among the living, as Willow had rather oddly phrased it.

Spike shifted uncomfortably, before raising his head, and just for a moment, meeting the other man’s eyes.

“Haven’t thanked any of you lot for lookin’ out for me,” he acknowledged. “Bit told me ‘bout the research and the offers of blood.” He glanced at Giles’ arm as the Watcher’s hand went to his left wrist instinctively. Spike looked away. “’ppreciate it,” he muttered.

“Yes, er, well,” Giles was stammering a bit as he often did when he felt out of his element. “You were very helpful to us when we were on the run from Glory, and I felt - we all felt that Buffy would have wanted us to try to help you.”

Even though his head was bent downward again, Giles could see the strong line of Spike’s jaw tighten.

“I’ve been curious about the condition we found you in. Do you have any explanation? Do you know what caused the problem with your inability to -er, eat? Or, for that matter, what caused things to go back to normal?”

Spike looked over Giles’ shoulder at the shelves of books lining the back wall of the office. “That what you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked after a moment.

“I am interested in that, yes. But there are some other things of greater importance right now.”

“Let’s get straight to the good stuff then, shall we?”

Spike remained in his slouched position, but his shoulders tightened a little as he braced himself for the Watcher’s words. He was expecting it, after all. No way the blasted Scoobies were gonna let the bit keep spending so much time with him. After all, evil, right? He hoped that if he played it cool and kept the temper Angelus had always chided him for under control, he might be able to salvage a couple of nights a week with his girl.

“Right then,” Giles sighed. “I will admit, it pains me to have come to this conclusion. But what it is - what I need - oh bugger it.” He gathered himself. “Actually, I was hoping I could persuade you to help out with some problems that have arisen.”

Spike’s head came up in surprise, and he allowed a small smile to soften the curve of his mouth briefly. “Oooh. That hurt, didn’t it, Rupert?”

It was the nearest Giles had seen to the old Spike since Buffy’s loss nearly two months ago. There was even the faintest trace of a smirk on the vampire’s lips. But it was quickly gone, and when he spoke again, his tone was serious.

“What’s the problem, Watcher?”

Giles briefly explained how demon activity seemed to have fallen off both before and after Glory’s destruction but now appeared to be on the rise again, and about the difficulties they would have in fighting new threats without Buffy.

“You’re lookin’ for muscle, then,” Spike summed up.

“I guess it could be put that way, yes.”

“I’m in.” The words were stark, spoken without hesitation.

”I can only offer to pay you a small amount, I’m afraid,” Giles added, and the blond frowned.

“You can keep your bleedin’ money, Watcher.” Spike’s voice was tight. “I said I’m in.”

The Watcher studied Spike openly, trying to read him. The vampire looked older somehow, he realized. Weary, worn, angry. And hurting. He kept to himself so much now, coldly refusing - ignoring - what few overtures they extended. At one time, not so very many months ago, he had sought out their company, had at times, seemed to almost crave it, to be a part of their group. Now, though, he seemed not only disinterested, but almost hostile to the idea of being with any of them. Buffy’s gone, Giles told himself. Spike no longer needs to seek our company to be near her. That was logical, right? So why, then, didn’t Giles himself buy that explanation?

Only Dawn seemed capable of touching him on any level at all now. And Giles had to admit he was somewhat impressed with the devotion the blond was showing the young girl. Several times in the last week he’d overheard Dawn giggling as she shared with Anya something Spike had said or done. There had been so little laughter in her life for so long…

Giles straightened in his chair, and got down to business.

“Apparently, we have a dragon in the area.”

Spike cocked a brow. “I remember seeing a dragon or two when the portal opened.” He’d been lying uselessly on the ground where Doc had thrown him, helpless to get back up the tower to Buffy and Dawn, helpless to protect them, to save them. Helpless to stop Buffy’s descent as she jumped and he watched her fall. Falling, falling. Helpless, useless, as he watched her body slam into the ground only a dozen feet from his own. Useless as he watched her die.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and swallowed, attempting to force away the visions of his failure.

Failing, as always. They never left him.

“In monitoring police records, Willow has come across half a dozen reports of a dragon in flight over the last few nights.”

Giles spread a map of the area out on his desk, and Spike pulled up a chair, turning it around to straddle it as he leaned over the desk to watch as Giles indicated the places the dragon had been spotted.

“There aren’t any reports yet of it landing in populated areas, or attacking people, but we can surmise that such an occurrence will come about. And I hope we can act before it does.”

“What’s the plan, then?”

Giles allowed himself a faint smile. “We’re still working on the details, of course. But a dragon is quite large, or at least reports indicate this one is. There aren’t that many places it can be concealing itself. And since we stand little chance of bringing it down while it’s in flight, we need to find its lair.”

Spike didn’t hesitate. “The caves, here,” He indicated the area just outside Sunnydale where there was a large network of caves. “Some of the caverns are quite large. Plenty of room for a dragon - or several, for that matter. Any idea if there’s more than one?”

“No. You just said you thought you remembered seeing a dragon or two. How certain are you that you saw more than one?”

Spike tried to remember. Had he seen more than one dragon, or had he only seen the same one circling? He wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to spend any more time visualizing that night. It filled his dreams and nightmares enough as it was.

“Sorry,” he said. “’m not sure.”

“One will be problem enough,” Giles cautioned. “More than one…” he let his voice trail off.

“Or a breeding pair,” Spike added.

Giles’ mind had played with that idea with a sense of dread, and he tried to ignore the fact that there seemed to be a bit of anticipation in Spike’s voice.

“Tara has a lot of knowledge of dragon lore. We’re not sure if any of that will be of use to us, but since we seem to be without the latest edition of ‘Dragon Hunting Made Easy’,” his dryly sarcastic tone made Spike’s lips curve again briefly as the other man continued, “we’ll be taking a hard look at what she knows. Weaknesses. Strengths. Things we need to prepare for.”

“Don’t know how likely it is, but if it can breathe fire like in legends, that’ll be a problem for me,” Spike reminded him. “For you, too, I’m sure, but, still, I’m more flammable than you lot.”

He stood, moving his chair back to its original position.

“I’ll go have a look around the caves tomorrow,” he told Giles. “See if anything looks promising.”

“Can you get there safely during the day?”

“Can always find ways to get about,” Spike assured him. “Hellmouth,” he added as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.

“But I thought - er, I mean. I understood vampires slept during the day. That they had little control over that need.”

Spike eyed him solemnly as he lit a cigarette. “Sleep is highly overrated, mate.” He took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette, ignoring Giles’ disparaging looks at the curling smoke.

“I’d be terribly interested in learning...” Giles broke off abruptly, realizing it wasn’t really the appropriate time to ask Spike to tutor him in vampiric habits and culture, even if he would dearly love to access his first hand knowledge. If Spike continued to work with them, perhaps he could persuade the blond to provide him with information currently unavailable to the Council. Anya’s words about ‘knowing thine enemy’ had rankled. How accurate were the Council’s texts? he wondered. Were there inaccuracies that needed correcting? The next Slayer, whoever she was, may be in need of more complete information, and he felt it was his duty as a Watcher to do everything in his power to gain that knowledge.

“There are other matters that we’ll need to look at once the dragon has been taken care of,” Giles changed the subject. “Glory’s minions, for instance -”

“-are not a problem.” Spike finished for him.

Giles raised a brow in question.

“Not a problem, Watcher.”

Spike didn’t elaborate, but Giles didn’t need him to. Spike had been hunting.

“They’re all taken care of?” he asked.

“Near as I can tell.”

“Very well, then,” Giles said by way of thanks. “And Doc?”

Spike’s entire body went rigid, and Giles hoped he’d never see the expression on his face directed at himself or at anyone he cared about. The smooth, chiseled, lines of Spike’s still too thin face twisted into a mask of fury infinitely more frightening than his vampiric features.

“Not. Yet.” Spike gritted out, voice icy with hatred. And determination.

Giles felt a shudder go through his body. He could almost pity Doc when Spike at last found the little demon. Almost. But not quite. He’d cut Dawn. Opened the portal. Forced the death of his surrogate daughter. Ripper peeked through.

“When you find him, I’d like to be there for the finish,” he told Spike. “If I can’t be there - well, then, my shout at the pub afterward.”

Spike nodded. “I plan to make it painful,” he warned. “Blood. Gore. Screams of agony.”

Giles met his eyes steadily, and repeated Spike’s words from earlier. “I’m in.”

The two stared at each other in complete understanding.

~*~

She was touching him, her hands moving over his back with long, soft strokes. Spike moaned as she leaned down to whisper into his ear, and he felt the warm caress of her breasts against the cool skin of his back.

Even distracted by the brush of her flesh against his, he kept listening closely, trying to understand what she was saying.

He never could.

~*~

The caves just outside Sunnydale were familiar, and easily accessible, territory for Spike. Apparently some former mayor of good old Sunnyhell had been very demon friendly, and had had city engineers connect the city’s elaborate underground tunnel system directly to the caverns in several places. Why did that not surprise him? He’d stayed in them during his search for the Gem of Amarra, and later, Harmony’s little gang had made it their headquarters during her brief and rather endearing attempt at a reign of terror. Adam had housed himself here. He’d even stayed somewhere in their vast depths with Dawn while Buffy ran off to keep Willow from getting killed by that bitch hell god, Glory.

The caves were complicated, huge, and largely unexplored by the human populace. Perhaps the humans were smarter that they generally behaved, he thought. The underground labyrinth was usually infested with examples of half the demon species currently inhabiting the earth. The Hellmouth was a powerful draw to many demons, usually the worst types, and then the worst individuals of each type. The legendary power of the Hellmouth, the hundreds of prophecies that seemed intertwined with it acted like a magnet to those who loved chaos and destruction.

But not today.

The unusual emptiness of the caverns told Spike something big was up. Big enough to be a dragon?

And if it was a dragon doing such a good job making the other demons scarce - just how powerful was it?

He explored with care, taking his time to be thorough. The caves could be very confusing, and he was glad he was familiar with them. Wouldn’t pay to stumble into a mess and not be able to find his way out, would it? Though he had to admit, a bit of a set to would be nice, and he certainly hoped to come across at least one demon today capable of giving him a bit of a challenge before he killed it.

Spike wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the Watcher’s request for his help. He liked killing things. He was good at it. If he couldn’t kill to feed, as he hadn’t been able to since the Initiative had performed its little unauthorized medical experimentation on him, then killing demons was an alternate outlet for him that he enjoyed. It served to soothe the demon within, and his vampiric need for bloodletting. So, for those reasons, he supposed he was glad the Watcher had approached him.

He wasn’t sure he understood why he’d been asked though. Hadn’t the Slayer’s death proved his incompetence? Why would any of the bleedin’ Slayerettes think he was capable of coming through on something important? He hadn’t that night, had he?

None of them had actually come out and blamed him out loud, but he knew they were aware of just whose fault it was his Slayer was dead. He couldn’t even look into their eyes; couldn’t bring himself to face the accusation he knew he would find there. He supposed they were just looking for muscle, maybe even expendable muscle, and he fit the bill more that anyone else who happened to be available right now. Harris was probably laying his hopes on the ‘expendable’ part, hoping for a way to be rid of him without having to wield the stake himself.

He was a Master Vampire from the most elite and powerful line of vampires ever to exist. Aurelius. A weasely little demon like Doc should have proven no problem for him, and for the ten thousandth time, he tried to understand just where and how he had failed so tragically. Had he simply been unprepared for Doc’s tricks? Had he been too cocky, too sure of his own prowess as a warrior? Or had the fact that it had mattered more than ever before been his downfall? His reckless disregard for his own safety and well being had usually served him well in battle. Only when protecting another - usually Drusilla, or in the case in question, Dawn - had he acted with hesitation that had led or contributed to defeat.

Spike felt a sudden stark fear run through him. What if Dawn was endangered again, and he failed again, this time leading to her death?

Dawn. Dead.

Failing her. Again.

Failing his Slayer. Again.

He put a hand against the wall of the cave momentarily, enduring the wave of sickness he felt. Sod it all anyway. Caring about people was damned inconvenient. Not to mention truly terrifying. And fear was not a sensation he was accustomed to feeling or dealing with.

Caring about Dawn, a girl so unable to protect or defend herself, was even worse than caring about Dru or Buffy. At least they’d had the natural weapons of strength and power at their disposal.

Things Dawn was without. The fear of failing her rocked him, and the nausea increased. He swallowed.

He wasn’t going to fall back into the state he’d apparently descended to just after his Slayer’s death. He damn well couldn’t. He had responsibilities, sod it all.

Gathering himself, he went on.

The smell of rotting human flesh assaulted him just around the next curve in the passage he was following. Well, that didn’t help the nausea, he thought in disgust. The lack of sanitary measures by some demons was appalling. Didn’t they have a care for others? Especially for demons such as vampires who had a highly developed sense of smell?

The smell led him into a large cavern, currently empty of anything living. Spike took in the pile of human and animal body parts, some of which had been gnawed on, and most of which appeared to have been torn painfully from their host. Something fairly large, then, he’d wager, if it could tear a person apart limb from limb. Or something extremely powerful. Or both. Vampires could tear the heads off of humans or off of several other varieties of demons, but only when fully vamped and in the midst of blood lust. He’d never known vamps to tear off arms and legs and pile them up. Not to mention the vast amounts of blood covering lots of the bits in the pile. No vampire worthy of the name would let that amount of blood go to waste.

He ran his mind over the demons he could think of whose behavior and feeding habits fit this scenario. Half a dozen came to mind off the top of his head. Two could be safely ruled out, he felt. Emg Demons and the Nepthys had never made their way out of the jungles of South America. They were closely related, both pretty noticeable and always traveled in groups of at least a dozen. He was sure he’d have heard something if any of their kind had been spotted anywhere in the vicinity. And Sangga Demons, though they loved stockpiling their meat in just such a fashion, had little taste for human flesh, so he could probably cross them off the list too.

He raised the torch he was carrying, exploring the rest of the chamber. There were some very large, very deep and very fresh claw marks in the stone floor in several places. Balls. Some of those gouges were nearly five inches deep. In his experience, something that could claw that deeply into solid rock should, if at all possible, be avoided. And if the claw marks had been made by the same creature that was responsible for the pile of half eaten limbs and the occasional torso, he could cross two more possible demons species off his mental list. That left Geks.

Or something he had no previous knowledge of. Which would include dragons.

After another hour of examining the chamber and the adjacent passageways, Spike decided to go back to the Watcher with his information. The Scoobies could organize one of their all night research sessions. They pulled them often enough. They must enjoy them.

While they cracked the books, he thought he might work out for a bit in the training room of the Magic Box. Bloke should never get too complaisant. Maybe it was time to start training in earnest.

A little stronger. A little faster.

A little more likely to be able to protect Dawn against any threat to her that might arise.

~*~

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