Rating: nc-17

Pairing: spuffy (obviously)

Summary: Following on from the end of As You Were. Spike, devastated by Buffy's rejection, finds solace in a bottle shared with Anya and finds his unlife turned completely on its head. He finds that vengeance might not be for losers after all as he is thrust into the opportunity of a lifetime. But can he convince Buffy to take the risk? 

 

ChapterTen
 

"Stop it! You're scaring me. No small feat for an ex...exciting type like myself." Spike couldn't help but flinch back in the face of two of the most deliriously excited and proud smiles he'd ever seen spread across the face of a human while in his presence.

"Would you bleeding well stop it?" His voice held a tinge of whine and he cringed when even more of their teeth became visible. "Bloody hell, just talk would you?" He was honestly scared; they looked like they'd been taken over by some kind of happy parasite, their faces frozen in a grin reminiscent of the absent but pure pleasure of The Gentleman.

Instead of a dimming of the dual beaming, Spike found himself with an armful of exuberant elder Summers and he shot looks of pleading to the other member of the Happy Club.

"Rupert, get this woman off me right bloody well now."

Without intervention, Joyce stepped back and Spike took his chances. He leapt away from the two and took refuge behind the huge block of sofa. Waggling his finger at the still frighteningly chipper pair, he warned them to keep back with an unaccustomed shaky voice.

"I remember this!" he almost shouted in desperation, feeling a lot like Harris on one of his usual lightbulb moments about three hours after the fact.

"Band Candy, you two had a tipple. Bloody magical chocolate!"

Too late Spike remembered his slip about things yet to happen. The mention of magic might not have been the smartest thing he'd ever done, either.

At last the wattage dimmed and the smiles slowly slipped in confusion.

"Er, we were just excited about the success of the auction," offered Giles, and just like that the scary good humour snapped back on their lips.

But this was alright, he could cope with this, understand even. The auction. He'd forgotten it was to be last night, which was unusually negligent of him.

"Right then. Went off okay, did it?"

Joyce started jumping on the spot, her sophisticated smile and laughing eyes infectious enough for him to venture two steps back around the sofa.

"We're rich," she screeched loud enough to make his eardrums vibrate extra violently.

"Made a few thousand then, did we?" he asked in relief, glad that he'd made the money more legitimately this time rather than trying to deal with those stupid and bleeding dangerous eggs again.

Giles gasped. "A few thousand? My God man, I asked collectors of these kinds of artifacts, and I'm still reeling over the wonderful pieces you allowed me to pick out first. Absolute treasures. It has set you up for life."

Spike watched the realisation leach into the good humour, and blinked.

"Er, well, perhaps a reasonably, er, lengthy life?" Giles amended hastily with a wink, thrusting a handkerchief against his clean lenses as he attempted to wipe his small gaff away and distract Joyce from the strange interaction.

It made Spike attempt to share their mood, and he allowed a trademark smirk to tilt his lips.

"So, would there be enough for me to get my own place? Just a small flat somewhere?"

Spike became alarmed at the look of incredulity on faces of the older generation, though he did think the bugging of Giles's eyes was moderately funny.

Joyce's charming giggle brought the focus back and she whispered a total that made Spike's own eyes bug.

"What was that, Joyce?"

"You've made me a comfortable woman, Spike. I am extremely grateful to you for choosing my gallery to host your auction."

"Will it make you comfortable enough to pay off your house? Get good life insurance? You know, to cover Buffy if anything ever happens. She doesn't get paid for sl...slummin' around, you know." He aimed an evil, angry glance at the Council representative in the room before beginning to get concerned that he'd set Joyce onto a line of worry that wasn't necessary. "Not that that matters," he rushed to reassure. "'M here now. I'll make sure she's taken care of."

Joyce blessed him with confusion. "You know Buffy?" A quick look to her right brought Rupert into her line of vision and she shrugged her shoulders in understanding. "Of course you do. I never made the connection."

It hadn't occurred to him before, but Spike could feel himself haunted by the fact of what he was, and Joyce's lack of knowledge about his and Buffy's world.

"Buffy and I have sort of been seeing each other." The thought of Joyce hating him, of wanting to keep him away from Buffy, was a hot lance that seared his heart. "I'll take good care of her, Joyce. I'll never 'urt her. I know she's young, but I...I care a great deal for 'er. I hope you don't mind."

He was unable to continue looking at her, knowing that finally his luck was at an end, and no matter what tremendously fantastical total the auction of demon artifacts had made him, the mother of the woman he'd give his unlife for was about to sweep her away from him. Not because he was dangerous; not because of what he was. She was going to forbid him Buffy because of who he was. Irony was a bitch. A great big, nasty Hellmouthy bitch. He felt like falling to his knees and crying his heart out. Foiled at every turn.

He'd forgotten about Joyce. All the new situations meshing with the old, he sometimes forgot that Buffy hadn't yet died for good-- or at least until out-of-control power-mongering witches let loose with her magic box and hauled her best friends out of the sodden ground. Forgotten that he needed to pave the way, allow Joyce to get to know him and see that he was a wise choice for her daughter. It didn't help that he was hard pressed believing he could have her, that she was even interested in exploring a relationship with him. The turn around of attitude of his two Buffys was so acute it near twisted off his head.

The hushed quiet was getting to him and he finally risked an upward glance, only to be confronted by a simple warm and accepting smile from the girl's mother. He sighed in emotional relief and sat heavily on a nearby table chair.

"How old are you, Spike?"

And just like that he was back, wavering on that line that meant he could easily tip over onto the side of bereft, of being the loser. Again.

"I don't wan' to lie, Joyce. Please don't ask me." He could feel the futility of it all prickling at his eyelids and he buried his head in his hands, all excitement about the possibility of being as rich as blazes surrendering to his terror of losing Buffy to her youth.

"Are you twenty-five?" She levelled him with a hard eye and his hope shrunk in on itself.

"Nope," he countered mournfully. "Long way from twenty-five."

At first he didn't understand her relieved sigh, nor could he grasp the meaning behind her brief hug while he sat.

"You are a houseguest of Mr. Giles. How can I do anything but trust you? Buffy holds him in such high esteem. And she has mentioned you, though I hadn't put it all together before." She dished him a saucy wink and he felt his throat scratch in its dryness.

"I bet you got those artifacts and jewels as an inheritance. How could a mother be so negligent as to prevent her daughter dating a millionaire?" The easiness of her permission stunned the seated vampire to such an extent that he couldn't expel words.

Giles saw his inability and took over.

"Yes, Spike has hung onto those family heirlooms for quite a while, but other than a few choice stones, there was really no reason for him to hang on to so much of it."

Joyce nodded her agreement just as Spike was coming back to himself.

"A lot of it was right ugly, hey Rupert? Though I do have the perfect birthday present for Buffy." Spike's eyes rolled back as he leaned into the chair and thought back to the sword he'd swiped from the hidden tomb. The warrior in Buffy would adore it, and he wouldn't mind borrowing it on the odd occasion, either.

"Well, in answer to earlier, I will definitely have enough to pay off the house. Hadn't thought of life insurance, but I guess that is something I should look into. We never think we won't be around forever." Her laugh was a tinkle that brought tears to his eyes. The knowledge of what her loss would do to this group—all of them, not just Buffy. Her death deprived the lot of them of one of the too few adult influences in their midst.


He made it to his feet in a cautious move and wrapped her awkwardly in his leather-clad arms. He kissed her spontaneously on the top of her head, grief mingling with his second chance.

"Thanks for all you've done, pet. I 'preciate all your help."

Joyce rewarded his generosity of affection with a warm palm to the side of his face.

"I don't mind you dating my daughter, Spike. But please keep in mind her age?" The last was a veiled warning disguised as a suggestion, and Spike could feel his agitated body project to a foot shuffle as he recalled the birthday plans Buffy had blatantly outlined to him.

"I'll do that, Joyce. Thanks again."

Her exit brought with it two sighs of relief that the pretence was at an end.

"Forgot she doesn't know about the supernatural world," he offered lamely as Giles returned from securing the door.

"Yes, sometimes it makes things rather awkward. I'm rather afraid I'm still confused how she can be so blind to the goings on of this town. And Buffy's bruises, cuts, ruined clothing. There is an abundant amount of...demon blood and gore....that I am unsure how Joyce manages to miss."

"Maybe Buffy's just good at covering her tracks."

"Well, she certainly has been in regards to this dating you were referring to."

Spike was suddenly the focus of a full Watcher glare, knowing that the friendly camaraderie was at a disadvantage. Spike groaned in resignation. He felt like he had to fight for every single one of his breaks and it was bloody exhausting.

"Look, Rupes. Didn't think it was a bloody secret. You and Red knew as soon as I swallowed the Gem I was off to see Buffy. She's much better off with me than the Wanker. I'm never goin' to bugger off and leave her to whatever fate dishes out."

Giles pinned him with a considering look, his brow arched in thought.

"With all the knowledge and years of training through the Council, I never thought I could see that it was possible for a soulless demon to actually do good deeds. But you, Spike, are the antithesis of everything I've ever believed. I can't help but still feel a little nervous that we are possibly being fooled by you, that you have some grand plan to kill us all. We are all taking a tremendous risk by inviting you into our lives. I would hope that you mean what you say in regards to Buffy. If this face you have been showing us is genuine, then I wholeheartedly give you my blessing with Buffy. And I agree with you about the Wanker, as you call him!"

Spike was two seconds from banging his head violently against the wall. He struggled in an effort to control his impulse to thrash everything in the place in explosive frustration. It was his driven impulse to give in to the fury, to allow them all to see his talent for destruction and murder. But just as his demon started to flicker in the back of his consciousness he came back to his senses, a sparkling blond image circling his haze of red to calm and protect all he had been striving for.

And just like that the fight went out of him. His muscles loosened, his demon took again to the backseat and relaxed as Spike wondered how he was ever going to have them trust him. And then he accepted that they probably never would. He was a threat. He had the power, the ability to dominate this group, snap them like brittle twigs. Completely annihilate their sweet little world and allow the Big Bad to rein once again. But he chose to use his superior strength for good, to protect them all, even if they were so bleeding well small minded they couldn't tell the difference.

He hated to admit it, but killing them off now would actually hurt him. He'd become attached to the lot of them over the years, their abuse notwithstanding. Even Harris, though he was like a scab you couldn't help but peel so it would continually reappear unhealed. Giles was someone he could respect; someone he could relate to on an intellectual level in a way he'd never attempted to before. So, the fact that that barrier had been diverted was enough to show that at least a modicum of trust supported his presence.

"I'm not much of one for plannin', Watcher. If all I was about was to kill you all, I'd 've done you in your sleep ages ago. I'm not gonna hurt the girl. Buffy is special. I want her to survive. If I have my way, she will."

Not once had he lifted his head to study the expression of his fellow converser, not eager to see anything but acceptance. His body shuddered on a sigh, and his biceps flexed against the fabric of his black tee. He ran both hands through his gelled hair in an agitated front to back sweep, releasing the curls to riot over his head and reflect the tear of his mind.

"'M doin' everything for her. Can't you see that? Being able to walk in the sunlight, selling off the other jewels and artifacts so that I can support her, make sure she never wants for anythin'. I want her to not have to worry 'bout the little things, yeah? She's enough on her plate without worryin' about unnecessaries. I'll do anything she wants."

The silence buzzed in his ears, overlaid by the thought, the knowledge that Rupert was dying to say something, challenge something, and once he did, Spike wished he'd gone on that rampage to open it all up, paint the town red. He'd never win.

"Would you get a soul for her?" The tone was inquisitive, yet it held every condemnation the Scoobies had loaded at him for the years he'd been amongst them since the chip. Before that, having a soul was not something they expected of him. They knew him as an evil bloodsucker. But since the day he had stumbled into their protection under the exposure of sunlight, they had damned him for not being Angel. For not being a trendsetter in the soul department. But none of them had ever asked. Actually put the option out there and let him consider it.

Even weeks ago he would have said 'hell no'. But would he? Could he do that if it would put their doubts behind them once and for all? This Buffy seemed happy enough with what he could give her. He'd been trying so hard, keeping his lips closed against some of the stupider things that wanted to roar past his lips. And so far he'd succeeded, and she'd asked him to bite her, mark her, make her his. But how long could it last? He wasn't known for his cool restraint, wasn't sure how long he could control the demon inside under his own steam before it would demand carnage. And here he had no chip to stop him should he go too far.

If he killed, Buffy would never forgive him.

If he lost control around her, he'd never forgive himself.

But the one thing he couldn't bear, getting souled up would achieve. He'd be just like his pansyarse of a sire. Angel. Cursed Angel. He knew the teacher was probably close to finding the spell, but what if the nature of that soul was what caused Angelus to emerge so enraged? The Angelus of Sunnydale was different to the Angelus of old. Sure, Angelus was mighty, was evil in the extreme, was vicious in his swathe cutting. But to his family, he'd been tender. There were shades of that in Angel's attentions to Buffy. The Scoobies were all in the dark about the truth of Angelus. Losing his soul made him badder, meaner, and bent on revenge. And for some reason he'd blamed his family, even though it was he that had deserted Spike and Drusilla, not a word of warning or explanation, just up and gone in the slink of darkness.

And yet, Spike he'd punished. To this day, he had no clue why. Maybe there was no thought to it at all. Maybe it was just him reasserting his place in the family. And Spike, wheelchair restrained, was unable to challenge for his long held place as head of the small family.

So, the losing of the soul changed Angelus. He was no longer the vampire he'd once been. He came back with something to prove, and a Slayer to torture and play with. He'd done one hell of a job, shutting her off for the rest of her life. Living through Angelus had closed off her heart, damaged her faith in her decision-making skills.

So, would Spike willingly don the cap that would likely make him like his elder, brooding and sullen, while he watched the love of his unlife from afar? Knowing that a decent shag was way down on his list of happies. Just being in her presence, holding her hand after all the 'I'm using you', 'you make me feel' bollocks from the future was diverted for a much nicer set of phrases. And he knew it wouldn't take much to push the boundaries of the curse. What was the point of a dispensable curse?

It was selfish of him, but being cursed with a soul wasn't going to make things better. And if he lost it on a whim and came back as mean and ugly as Angelus, well, he wouldn't fail to kill the girl. He knew that from experience.

Giles, who'd sat unmoving yet watching intently the play of emotion crossing Spike's flickering features, had left his contemplative quiet alone. Short bursts had revealed the demon to the Watcher, and he was fascinated with the play and thought Spike gave the concept of a soul. He'd expected a soulless demon to do nothing less spectacular than reject the notion quite out of hand. To jump to his feet, fangs bared and dripping as he struggled with the option of running like hell, or leaving the unarmed man pale and bloody on the carpet.

To Giles's tremendous relief, Spike did neither. After a substantial degree of time had passed, and darkness teasing at the open curtains, Spike spoke. His consideration had been deep, and his resolution unfathomable.

"Yeah. If that's what she needs. I'll get my soul. But not like Angel." He looked up, his cool but bright blue irises glittering with a furious fire that Giles had not thought possible. "I won't be cursed. I've heard of a demon. In Africa. Will reward you with a wish if you complete his trials. Not a bloody cake walk, either, Watcher. Could well end up dust. But I'd do it. Have him give me what she deserves."

Spike looked across the flat at a darkening window, remembering his Buffy. The Buffy who'd come back from Heaven angry, and alone. He'd tried to give her everything he was, but instead of dragging her back to herself—returning her to the light she seemed depleted of—he'd come up with the sterling argument that she belonged in the dark. Doing it over, he now knew how wrong he was. She never belonged in the dark. His Buffy had lost her way, but not her light. Only Spike had tried to pull her further away from it.

How would things have been different if he'd left to reclaim his soul? If instead of walking into the Magic Box, getting drunk and commiserating with Anya and being wished right back to where it all started, if he'd hopped on his bike and made it to some transport off the continent and off to Africa? Could he have changed things? Might she have appreciated his efforts to become the opposite of everything she had accused him of being? Was it possible that she might have finally come to him, her heart open and willing if he'd made that kind of sacrifice for her?

He couldn't help but think it was possible. He hadn't given her any reason to call him different to being a soulless monster. The first opportunity he had to use his fists without cranial payback and he'd planted them on the woman he claimed to love. He'd been pushed into fighting for his love in a physical way, but when she finally surrendered to him it was in anger and disgust.

The pain welled way down, because he knew. Even then he knew. She felt something for him, and it wasn't as negative as she liked to think. He could feel it in her more tender moments, in the way she kissed him. Just the fact that she came to him and let him touch her at all. Contrary to what Buffy thought, she wasn't the type to use. So, her claim was to pacify more herself than him. She was past caring about how he felt about her actions.

No, the somber let down—her dumping him—had meant more to try and free herself of guilt, than to let him down softly. Deep down she kept her feelings buried beneath her subconscious, unable to acknowledge them to herself. If she had, her denials and her hate would have been unfounded. And after punching her way through dirt and wood to crawl from her grave, it was the hate she needed to cling to. Either that or the Scoobies might have ended up as finely-ground mince meat.

So, yeah. To make up ground from that little mess, he would have had to make some grand gesture, do something drastic to prove to her that he could change, wanted to change so she could feel secure in her feelings for him. Show her there was no need for guilt, for hiding.

He couldn't do it for that Buffy now, what with Anya wishing him way into her past. But he could do it for her now. Could set their future up to be secure. And it wouldn't be a burden. Wouldn't be a hundred years of disgrace and hiding from his past. Not with her by his side. Not with her friends by their side.

Still, it filled him with a gutful of fear. Truly, he'd rather crawl belly flat over flaming hot coals and risk ignition than go and fight for his soul. But his demon wasn't cringing away as much as he would have expected. It was William, hiding in his corner and too afraid to climb out and claim centre stage. William who'd been made fun of, who couldn't do a thing right in his life. Even his one true passion—the one thing that gave his life meaning—was a whole load of bollocks. His awful poetry was better at feeding a fire in winter than being spoken out loud. Buggering everything up with his pathetic ramblings of love and his non-knowledge of women. Yeah, William was terrified of showing his face in public again. Afraid of being exposed in front of another woman he loved, and found wanting.

It was a question that was better addressed now than in some state of future where it was brought up again because he'd shown an inability to control his impulses. What if he somehow managed to do the opposite of what he professed he wanted? What if by some sad turn of fate he did hurt the girl? Then it might be too late. When love wasn't enough to get him through the barrage of betrayal, or hurt and perhaps hate.

He could make it his own. His demon was in control, and clamouring for a say on the condition. To Spike's complete surprise, his demon was joyous in his permission, seeing the strategy for what it was. A conscience. A leg-rope to tie down his evil. For sure he had the most fucked up demon a vampire had ever been saddled with. Was it any wonder his sire, his grandsire, his great grandsire had always been ashamed of him?

The demon could fashion the soul, however, could expend enough influence to keep William in check. And that was all Spike could wish for.

Giles sat with his bum firmly glued to the seat and an incredulous turn to his mouth. It hung open, his glasses dangling from his lax fingertips as he struggled to make sense of this revelation. A demon willingly submitting to the idea of a soul.

"This is between you and me, Rupert. You don't tell Peaches. You don't tell Red or the Whelp. Not your teacher lady-friend. And especially you don't tell Buffy. I'll investigate the demon some more and when I have the details, we can discuss it then."

The event hung on the night air once again, swift in the discovery of its possibility while the struggle for gravity with its weight battled on. A change of subject was desperately called upon, and Spike thought back to earlier when Joyce was here, crowing about how wealthy he now was.

"So," rushed past his lips as he fair bounced out of his chair, beginning an agitated pace around the living area. "I'm a bloody millionaire vamp." He stopped his pacing, a look of wonder crossing his lips and changing the shape of his lids. "Think I'm feelin' a bit faint, mate." And he collapsed on the sofa, changing the night's venue for chat once again.

Giles was not long in steadying himself in a chair beside the thunderstruck vampire and offered him a half-filled glass of his finest bottle of scotch.

"A toast. To new beginnings. And lots and lots of money." The glass pinged the air with a celebratory tinkle, and Spike began to see the benefit of an ever-widening grin. It felt all right to be happy.

The two settled down to steady drinking, expounding the virtues of expensive liquor over the cheap stuff while their heads filled with the heady influence of said liquid.

"Another toast," Spike belched later in the night. "To pretty girls and flashy red penis-mobiles."

Giles replied with a spray of scotch and a mirthful liquored giggle.

"I can just see you," he tittered. "A bleach blond vampire with the top down, hair blinding in the sun in his little red sports car."

The image made Spike nod in approval as he contemplated a choice of red or black.

"Not me, mate. You. Got to get rid of that hunk of junk you got out there sometime. When you do I'll bet you go for bright and flashy." His insider smirk was just the ticket to get Giles wondering.

Giles furrowed his brow in deep thought, and then he brought up the next expenditure.

"So, shopping for a place to live?" His tone did not convey an urgent desire to see the back of Spike, but rather an interest in his choice of lodgings now he had the money to consider.

Spike thought about it, his fingers drilling absently over his denim clad thigh. Just what would be the perfect set up? he wondered. A house was too much work, inside and out. Something like where Harris lived in the future would be perfect. And a gigantic step up from the Harris basement where he had spent some less than pleasant moments in his life. Spike had set foot in the apartment once, and that was only because Anya had bullied him into transporting some great chunk of furniture up the stairs for her. Once was enough to see that the place was pretty fancy. A decent place where he could make himself a home.

His memory recalled only one bedroom though, and something whispered in his ear that it might be better to locate a two-bedroom place. Memories of the screaming matches—heavy emphasis on the shattering glass—from when he'd made Xander's basement his home brought about a little touch of commiserative feeling. Yeah, wouldn't hurt to have a spare bedroom should anyone need a place to sleep.

His mind made up to look for a semi-posh flat like Harris's future place, his ears stumbled upon a suggestion from a more than half inebriated watcher slash librarian.

"Wha's that?" he asked in his own altered lazy tongue, wondering when the fuzzy had settled over his head and dragged his lids to half-mast.

"There's a lettle bung'low for sale, right here in th's block."

Spike smiled drunkenly and filled his cup by half again. He slurped at the amber liquid as he calculated.

"How close 'gain?"

Giles watched the vampire on his sofa and rolled to the side of his own chair. Its arm prevented him from sliding completely to the floor.

"What's close?" he asked, taking the time to pronounce the two words as precisely as he remembered how.

Spike's eyes widened as he tried to recall the original strand of the conversation, only two sentences deep into it. A flash of the Harris basement brought it back in desperate clarity, and he almost leapt forward in an effort to beseech the watcher to stay on task.

"The Bunglow, how's close you say its isses?"

Giles watched him blankly, then began to giggle. "Isses? Oh my!"

The giggling continued until Spike flashed his fangs in annoyance and Giles jumped, spilling the rest of his glass against his shirt.

"Oh, close? Um, upstairs and to the left."

Spike rested back into the sofa, thinking over the wisdom of living so close to Buffy's watcher. They would be on call in case of apocalypses, or even other demon emergencies. Wasn't too close for them to draw attention to themselves. If he had the place soundproofed, it would be a bit of all right.

Making up his mind to check it out as soon as possible—and still holding out a mini prayer for the second bedroom for those who might occasionally need it—by mutual consent the two men slumped back in their chairs, empty glasses of grog slipping slowly from slack fingers, and they gently fell asleep.

Chapter Eleven
 

Xander stepped alongside Spike, almost tripping on his uncoordinated feet in an effort to keep up with the graceful and determined vamp. He was still encased in that hazy world that was busy denying he was actually only an arm away from the incarnation of evil, and semi-enjoying himself. It was a great world. One with rollercoasters and rides on the ever popular raft going down the infamous river De-nile! Oh, it was pretty...no demons, no weirdo types sitting in his science class, no savage dog attacks...no Spike.

His happy came to an abrupt conclusion. No evil, then no Buffy to fight it. And that would be so much bad he didn't want to even think about it. Thinking was power, and he didn't want it.

So instead, he had this quandary beside him, dragging him from one property for sale to the next. They only spoke to each other when necessary, throwing the odd derogatory comments back and forth almost as if it was just a tired requirement. But even so, Xander was kinda enjoying himself. Felt nice to do something with another male for a change. Last time he had this was with Jesse...which brought him back to the vampire part of the equation and his confusion jumped a notch.

But it was still way up high on the scale of wig. Not to mention a lot scary. Here he was, trotting alongside a supposedly ex-evil vampire that glowed with his new undustable status, like he did this thing every day. He was taking a lot here on trust and he just hoped that Buffy—not to mention himself and the other Scoobies—didn't live to regret it. Or not live to...whatever. He hoped that Spike didn't prove to be a killer. Or at least, not prove it by killing them. Specifically Xander.

"So, Whelp."

Xander jumped in surprise. They hadn't really talked while they made their way to each place, the intermittent journeying shrouded in almost comfortable silence. In light of that, Xander eyed the white-haired vamp with suspicion.

"Yeah?"

Spike looked at the boy hard, seemingly struggling with the desire to say something but failing to get his tongue around it. Opting for something else instead.

"So, what'd you think 'bout the last place? Comfy? Was it airy enough? You think Buffy might like it?"

Xander's eyes were huge in his confusion. "You're asking me?" He shook his head as he thought. "Sure, it was real nice, Spike. I'm sure Buffy would love it. But it had two bedrooms. Whatcha need two for?"

Spike watched the conflict as it battled across Xander's face, and felt a funny twinge of affection for the teenager.

"You know, in case someone might need a place to stay?"

Their eyes clashed and Spike seemed to hold on for dear life, for the first time eager to convey some kind of honesty with the Scooby bane of his existence. He caught the subtle shudder of Xander's body and then his determined pull away from the stare.

"Yeah, that might be really good to know." Xander kept his eyes lowered, almost afraid of how he was going to react if he found even the slightest glimpse of insincerity.

But he couldn't stay downtrodden for long and at last he looked up, and was floored by the concern the vampire seemed to hold deep within those blue eyes Buffy tended to rhapsodize constantly about these days. Xander felt uncomfortable and raw, feeling like someone knew his secrets when they couldn't possibly have a clue about them, but reassured all the same. Spike couldn't know about how it was in his house, the truth about his family. Not even Buffy or Willow knew much about how he lived. He couldn't see how it would come up between Buffy and the vamp. If he was a betting man, Xander would lay heavy odds that the only thing coming up in that relationship was...well...this raft was such a smooth lovely ride...

Xander shrugged it off, having zero tolerance for pornographic images of Buffy with anyone but him, even if Spike was strong and mysterious and sort of compact, but well muscled.

His eyelids seemed to explode into the retreat to the eye sockets, back on the raft and paddling back out to the middle of the river. He DID NOT just think that about Spike. But he gave him a sideways look just the same.

"So, you leaning towards a house or an apartment?" Xander rushed back to the first topic, thinking over all the places he had checked out with Spike today. It was getting dark now, and he felt all manly for walking out in the night, implicitly under the protection of a badass vamp. But safe, no matter what was by his side.

"A house might be a bit of maintenance. Won't have much time for that sort of thing, in between the sleepin', the patrollin' and Passions."

Xander shot the vamp an incredulous look and Spike returned it with a worried arch of his brow.

"What? You think Buffy might like a garden or something?"

Xander just laughed and clapped Spike on the back with a good old fashioned slap. "Nope, don't think the Buffster is the gardening type. She likes her nails too much. And no stylish yet affordable boots would stand up to the perils of dirt. Nah, go with the apartment. 'Sides, elevators are fun! All those little buttons with numbers on them...stopping on all the floors."

It was Spike's turn to spear the boy with incredulity. The strength of his tolerance—or what could easily turn to a lack of it—effectively stopped Xander's joking and they set back to walking.

"So, you got a preference, Whelp?"

Xander felt his heart thud loudly in his chest. Nobody really asked for his opinion on things, or made out like it mattered to anything. Well, no one other than his friends —and even then not so much.

"Er, that place in that big white building was kinda nice. Big, open. You want to buy, right? Cause they had one down the hall for rent."

Spike turned away so Xander couldn't see the twinkle of knowledge in his eye; the smile on his lips. He found it very interesting that out of the ten places they had checked out during the day, the place at the top of Harris's list was the one the boy would choose to live in with Anya in the future. In a strange reassuring way, it made Spike happy.

"The one for rent's no good. Only one room and a tiny thing like a cupboard. Not really big enough to be a second room." The implicit invitation for Xander—should he ever be in the position to need it—was almost given without thought, the generous offer of support a part of Spike that he no longer consciously fixed upon.

Thought began to tick away in Spike's head, images of the future blending naturally with the reality of his now. He could see Anya and Harris actually making it down the aisle, one day maybe having kids, and could see how the gift of a two bedder in a place he knew the teenager would one day come to love could be seen as a really generous and thoughtful thing for Spike to do.

With Spike's new circumstances—his success in beginning a relationship with Buffy—happiness was a thing almost bursting from his chest. He wanted to spread it around, and right now, he felt so indebted to Anya for giving him the chance, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she and the fool she fell in love with didn't muck up their bloody wedding.

"Right then. That'll be the one. Let's go get a bite to eat, perhaps a pint and I'll call the agent."

Xander grinned, feeling a lightness in his step as he willingly, almost excitedly made his way alongside a notorious vampire.

Man life was weird!

 

Giles was hanging up the phone, his face looking stern and impatient, when Buffy burst through his front door.

"Hey, Giles. Is Spike around? I thought we could do an early patrol tonight." The responsibility suggested in her plan was lost amidst her hot, flushed face and Giles raised his left eyebrow in question. Rather than challenge her eagerness for slaying, he let it go and shook his head in the negative.

"He and Xander went out together much earlier today. Spike is looking for other accommodations."

Buffy was too stunned to move.

"Xander?"

Giles nodded slowly, not sure which of the five questions he could think to accompany the inquiry would be the one she was actually asking.

"Spike?" Again he consented in mystification.

"Whoa. Never saw that coming." And she flopped down on the sofa, waiting for Giles to offer some kind of conversation or suggestion of how she could fill in her time.

Before speech, he nodded at the phone, his hands busy with polishing his glasses.

"That was Angel on the telephone before you came in. He was just asking if I would mind keeping an eye on Drusilla for him. He says he needs a break."

They watched each other, silent smiles cracking open toward laughter as they shared amusement of Angel's whining need of a break from his charge, almost like he was an overly frazzled mother that needed time-out.

Once recovering, but with a giggle still floating through her voice, Buffy asked him, "So whatdya say? Did you agree?"

"Well, he was rather insistent."

The humour vanished from Buffy's face and concern twisted her lips.

"She's pretty dangerous, though. Do you think it would be safe? And then she'd have access to your home."

Giles jammed the glasses back above his nose as he took a step away, turning his face to suddenly become engrossed in a closed text.

"If worse comes to worst I can do a disinvite spell. I do know some magic from my pre-watcher days."

Buffy looked at him with interest, obviously impressed.

"Cool. Way to go Giles! Remind me to get you to spill that little story one day soon." Her wink was simultaneous with the loud, almost desperate rap at the door.

Sharing a returned smirk, Buffy went to answer it.

Standing outside was Angel—his face already perfectly molded with miserable apology—and the dark-haired vampiress. Her eyes were darkened with evil intent, and Buffy felt her body quiver. She didn't feel fear exactly, but a sense of foreboding made her senses dull and her body freeze.

The burning hatred was completely transparent; the monster Angel wanted Giles to babysit made no effort to conceal it. Buffy couldn't even pretend to understand what sparked it, having had nothing to do with the vamp except on the occasional meeting under the moon. The first of those two times had been rather tainted by Drusilla's energetic effort to kill her.

"I really don't think this is such a good idea, Angel." Buffy couldn't tear her eyes away from the brunette beauty. She exuded an aura of innocence completely in contradiction to her existence, yet Buffy couldn't shake it. And couldn't tear her eyes away from the swirling brown of the vampiress, not until Angel took her arm and she looked down at the pale fingers holding her tight.

"I need this, Buffy. You have no idea what it's been like. Just tonight. We can chain her up or something. Giles will be perfectly safe." His eyes were so sad; big brown puppy dog eyes imploring her to let him have this rest happen.

"Why?" Buffy countered. "Whatcha gonna do?"

She watched him closely, wondering at his expression and feeling distaste for his broody personality for the first time. The dark, mysterious persona was so over for her, she thought a little testily. Everything about Angel seemed cloaked in a silent despair that Buffy recognised now to be more than a little frightening when she saw him together with his Queen of Midnight Insanity all up close and personal.

Not for the first time did she feel herself start the comparisons between this ensouled vampire and the one who was almost constantly attached to her lips. Spike was upbeat, hopeful and sexy—often surprising her with small acts of thoughtfulness and little kisses that broke into her mind and blew it away. His passion made her forget everything, except for him. Made her forget her own name and who she was. Made her forget that she was becoming more and more intimate with a creature who shouldn't be able to feel emotion for her, who was supposed to be evil, not out looking for accommodations with her best friend.

The best friend who hated Angel from the start, and who hated vampires with a furious animosity. Buffy knew she should be concerned about Xander, walking the streets with an invulnerable vampire. Should be terrified that Spike had been all along just trying to get her to lower her defences so he could kill them all.

But Buffy didn't feel afraid. She felt the security warm her, knowing that Xander was out in the dark with the only other person other than her who could adequately protect him.

She couldn't even imagine Xander going out and spending down time with Angel. Angel was impenetrable. He may have been slowly uncovering himself to Buffy, but for the most part he held himself back, kept the secrets of himself locked securely away and frowned at any attempt to get too close.

Angel was a permanently closed book whose motives and actions would never make sense to Buffy. In contrast, Spike wore his heart on his sleeve and his love in his eyes. The sense of right in that was overwhelming to Buffy. It meant she could give him her trust, and in the past few weeks he had more than earned it.

Seeing Angel silent, watching her while Drusilla stood beside him, an evil smug smile stretching her lips taut, Buffy just shrugged a little apprehensively and stepped aside.

"Er, we need Giles to invite us in."

Buffy stepped back in minor embarrassment and allowed Giles free reign of his door while she looked around at Angel's hands. They held nothing.

"Did you expect us to already have chains here? 'Cause, babysitting evil vamps? Not something Giles does every day. We are usually in the business of staking them. Kinda impossible to chain up dust." Buffy returned the evil smirk with a smile of pure malice and felt a little satisfaction as Dru shrunk back away from the doorframe.

"Er, yes Angel. Though I am not in the practice of ...er...minding." His eyes strayed to the evil beauty before him. "I do believe I posses a set of chains that might be useful."

Buffy raised a scandalised eyebrow and made a big show of zipping her lips.

"Don't wanna know," she said instead and moved further back into the apartment, leaving Giles flushed and shuffling at the door.

"Giles," Angel nudged. "We need to be invited."

"Yes, yes of course. Come in, Angel. Drusilla."

Buffy was back the second Drusilla launched herself at Giles, fangs barley missing the snack of his neck. She sailed back into the arms of her sire after the violent connection of Buffy's fist to her jaw.

"Can't you control your children, Angel?" Buffy fumed, her hands curled tightly into fists, prepared should Drusilla make another break for it and Buffy would need to belt her into restraint.

"Obviously not," he shot back, whipped into his own fury. "If I could I would have been able to keep Spike the hell away from you." His voice was tainted with irritation, seemingly oblivious to the real state of the interaction between his slayer and his grandchilde.

"She's out of control. You can't leave her here with Giles."

"If we chain her up, it'll be fine." Angel shunned Buffy's angry rejoinder and turned instead to the legal inhabitant of the abode. "Where do you think might be the best place to restrain her?"

"The...the bathroom perhaps might be the, er, safest option. There are the pipes." Giles was obviously shaken but too proud to back out of his agreement.

Buffy shook her head, exasperated at the mindless effects of testosterone and instead stomped toward the bathroom to inspect said pipes for strength and security. Behind her she could hear the steps of Angel as he struggled to force Drusilla into the hallway, whispering words of pleading and reassurance on his way as the vampiress jerked and fought the passage. Giles came rattling up a safe distance behind them, his arms laden down with very strong, very sturdy chains.

Buffy's eyes widened as she took them from him and met his eyes, the teasing coming back slowly.

"Ooh, shiny." And they were. Not worn but new, the silver almost blinding.

While her back was turned, Angel had impatiently thrust Dru into the tub, her wailing and screeching wearing gratingly on Buffy's last nerve. She showed no sympathy as she slapped the chains around her body and attached them to the pipes, winding them round and round till she felt secure that the vampire would be staying put. She deftly avoided the snapping, snarling jaw that made bites in the air—rather too close to her neck for comfort. When she finished, she gave the attached chain a petty tug and felt like sticking her tongue out at the monster with a beauty's face, even with fangs protruding.

"So now what?"

Buffy stood waiting for Angel's reply, hands on her hips as she looked back down the corridor. Anywhere but at the female vamp that inspired too many questions that she so didn't want answers for.

"I could patrol with you," Angel offered, his voice soft and encouraging. Yet to Buffy, it sounded whiny.

She didn't rush into an answer, slow to give up her fantasies of patrolling with Spike, ones which she had invested a lot of time in developing that day. Without any intention, her eyes finally fell back on Dru and one of the questions teasing the edges of her mind forced itself to thought.

This pariah had been Spike's lover for over a century. She'd shared everything with him, had been his key to the world of depravity and death. She'd opened up worlds that Spike would never be able to sample again if he remained by Buffy's side, and again his lack of soul became an issue.

How could she possibly reconcile all she knew of vampires—of their hunger for the weakness of human flesh, their feral desires that decimated lives—with the reality of Spike and his pursuit of her? This was a world Buffy was meant to eradicate, not perpetuate by being choosy about who she let survive. Angel was a special case; he had a soul. Spike and Dru didn't, and even though one was being forcibly controlled and the other had chosen a different road, was her teaching so wrong and so open to interpretation that she could leave off this decision and save her the ache developing in her heart?

"Sure," she answered finally, turning with a final glance at Spike's ex and heading out of the apartment, all the while cringing at the calls of hatred that were aimed at her retreating back.

Angel followed along behind her in silence, barely the thud of his footsteps audible as they made a brisk pace through the town to the first stop of the night. The vampire found it to be companionable, while Buffy felt it strained. The little moments they had shared in the past, the intimate little smiles and glances...they were all gone now. Evaporated on the winds of change as if they had never existed.

Buffy looked at Angel now and saw a stranger. When she first met him, she had been sucked all the way in by his enigmatic personality, fast becoming addicted to dark and mysterious. The problem was that once they had become close, begun to share time and saliva, nothing had changed. This vampire with a soul was as much of an intriguing puzzle to her now as he was then.

Except the kind of puzzle you admired the picture of but wanted to leave the pieces in the box.

The kind of puzzle you shrugged your shoulders over while declaring it way too hard and time-consuming.

The first vampire of the night took Buffy head on, jumping out unexpectedly from behind a tree. The Slayer threw her first punch as she eyed the male frumpy looking vampire with a note of disdain.

"Tell me you weren't actually hiding from us behind a tree?"

The vamp nodded his head fearfully, then took to his heels and tried to run, bursting into teeny tiny dust particles seconds after a stake lodged itself deep in his back.

"Well, that was way too easy." Buffy smiled at Angel. He returned it with a quirk of confidence as he moved a little closer to take her hand.

"I've missed you so much." His eyes were round and imploring, yet completely unseeing.

Buffy's flinch went unnoticed, her waning smile ignored as he lifted her into his arms and gave her a breath-stealing hug.

"I've been going crazy holed up with Dru all this time. I hope Spike has been a help."

"Oh yeah. Big with the helpful. Helpful Spike. That's exactly what he's been. That's what we call him these days." Buffy abruptly pulled herself from the arc of Angel's arms and stepped quickly a few steps away.

"So, Dru's all big with the crazy, huh? I thought you were supposed to be helping with that." Her innocent statement met eyes gone deep with remorse.

"As much as I would love to help her with that, I don't think it's possible. She had her sanity compromised before I sired her."

Buffy stopped in complete surprise. "She was already nuts when you vamped her? Why would you want a psycho vampire in the family?"

She watched his head hang lower, his hands gripping tight the stake in his hand and the jaw clench in guilt inspired self-anger.

"Angelus sired her, Buffy. He wanted the benefits of her sight, but thought it amusing to break her mind before he took her eternally."

Buffy watched Angel separate himself from his demon, and felt nothing but irritation. After experiencing so much with Spike—the care and affection, the consideration and respect—she found it difficult to draw such a distinct line.

If gaining a soul split the being into two, what on earth could be left of Spike if he gained one? Sure, he still retained the rough edges, the darkness of being evil. Buffy could feel the strain sometimes of Spike's efforts to exert control on himself. Occasionally though, she welcomed the glimpses of the monster. Spike's demon had never once tried to hurt her, make her submit. In fact, the few times Spike had allowed his evil side to show, the tenderness had been beautiful.

"But you've been helping her? I thought that was why you took her on," Buffy asked as she walked away, checking recent graves for the signs of vampire raisings. Angel followed dejectedly behind, hmphing intelligently.

"I've been helping her regain her strength."

Buffy spun on her heel to face him, her face stuck in a show of stunned surprise.

"'Cause that's what all Sunnydale citizens needed to make them feel safe at night. A fully healed, strong loony vampire." Buffy's seething sarcasm made him wince. "Why on earth are you looking after her? Just hand her over to me and I'll dust her if you guys can't?"

Horror replaced his miserable acceptance of her mockery. "She's my childe, Buffy. She's my responsibility."

"She's nothing but a soulless killer."

"What? Like Spike?" Angel stood confused as he watched Buffy's face harden in determined denial. Instead of asking for an explanation behind her stubborn attachment to the peroxided vamp, he continued. "I am helping her," he grit through his teeth in the face of her condemnation. "She will change. Just give her a chance."

Buffy's disbelief stretched on the air and instead of answering, she resumed her path, allowing Angel to continue to tag along while she sought out some more of those evil killers she could actually dust without an unlife saving argument.

 

Xander had been to Willy's before. More than once even. But it had never been like this. Never before had he walked in and encountered an atmosphere of fearful respect. A room full of baleful looks, yet belonging to those too afraid to make issue and come and tear his head from his shoulders. Nope, this time he visited Willy's he was safe as houses. For he had Spike at his side. And could he sound any more superhero geeky if he tried?

"So, what'll it be, Whelp?" Spike's lazy drawl brought a smile to Xander's face.

"I trust you, Spike."

The vampire's eyebrows got lost in his hairline as he pinned his least favourite Scooby with an inquisitive glance. He searched for the insincerity and was knocked sideways when it wasn't there. To all intents and purposes, Harris's smile was genuine.

Spike couldn't speak. He'd never taken the time to contemplate how acceptance from this friend of Buffy's would feel—he'd never thought the possibility anything but miraculous, and being evil and all, miracles weren't exactly handed out for the likes of him.

"A beer then, mate?" Feeling an uncomfortable prickle in his eyes, he decided to forgo the boy's reply and went hastily toward the bar.

Xander watched him go with a confusion that he found disconcerting. Stating a trust in an evil undead creature of the night had started out as a mere slip of the tongue, but the moment the sentiment passed his lips, lost itself within the other words in the air as said, he found himself agreeing. Not strongly perhaps, but he certainly had never felt the need to run for his life even once in the whole day.

And that allowed Xander to grin. He sat back in the booth, his hands behind his head, elbows bent in a manly show of strength. And waited for his beer. The grin bared major teeth. God, he felt happy. On the edge of major excitement. A beer. This being buddies with the evil object of the Buffster's affections might not be so bad after all. Certainly not intolerable.

Xander sat up straight as a mug of beer was thumped down in front of him, and he grasped the handle in eager thirst. The first mouthful frothed in his mouth, leaving a little moustache around the outside of his lips that he licked off with a goofy giggle. The taste was kinda dull, the smell a bit like piss, but he could push past it. He was a man. And Spike was buying.
They drank in companionable silence, the occasional eye clash during their many looks around the room. The demons were on edge, periodic roars making Xander jump in his seat, spilling the flow of his mug a little down the front of his t-shirt, while Spike stayed still—as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Or a vamp, cause hey, kinda cool. In the undead, no heartbeat to pump the blood through the body kind of way. And the black leather and snow white hair was all of the coolness too, thought Xander as he took a generous sip of his third mug of beard.

Xander let his mind fumble over the realisation, and as the words 'Spike's cool' banged the sides of brain, he let a small increasingly inebriated giggle wheeze past his lips.

"What's there to laugh about, Whelp?"

Xander stopped to try and think; had he laughed? And if he had, at what? While he thought about it, his eyes fell on the mussed up curls on the vamps head and he giggled again.

He pointed at Spike's head and let out a hearty laugh. "That is just so cute."

Spike's eyes widened so fast and so with the width that he thought maybe his eyeballs had exploded...which would explain the sudden red haze behind his eyes.

"Right, then. I'm cuttin' you off," Spike told him, his voice strict and uncompromising.

But Xander was full of the funness; all the jollility he'd mushed into his day. All the pavement beating and agent ass-kissing with Spike on the look-out for the perfect space for a formerly evil Big Bad to take up residence. The concept was so hilarious that Xander felt unable to help the rush of giggles that had him collapsing on his table, the tears flowing like a river over the formica bench top of their booth table.

Spike watched Harris collapse in a very girly display of uninspired laughter. The bar had been quiet—no jokes, no chaos demons. Seriously nothing in there for the idiot to laugh about. Spike watched him, holding a tumbler of Jack half filled of which he had managed to slug back a mouthful or two while he was busy deciding whether or not to be pissed off about this inept display of manhood by one who yearned to grab the title but was years off the mark.

Feeling uncomfortable about the intimate setting, sitting opposite the whelp without a scrap of conversation to offer, Spike almost involuntarily let his eye fall on the back door and sighed in relief. It was closed, so obviously a game was in progress. Right then, a diversion, and something he could teach Harris that might help him out financially—keep him off those bloody hideous odd jobs he was bound to retry after he finished up his schooling.

"Come on, then." Spike jerked his head to indicate the door in back. Xander returned a goofy smile but got to his feet obediently.

"What's back there, Spike? Or is it a surprise?" And he rewarded Spike's sobriety with an inebriated and exaggerated wink, making Spike take an anxious step backward.

"No bloody surprise, Whelp," he almost shouted, though with a major squeak in his tone. "Just a game of cards. Nothing lush." Spike paused, gathered his manly courage and took a step closer to the brunette and whispered his intent.

"'s poker. Thought I could teach you how to cheat, yeah?"

Xander's face lit up like the dragon cracker in Lord of the Rings.

"Poker? Demon poker?" The enthusiasm saw no boundaries, shocking the other patrons in the bar with its lightness, its insensitivity to the dark, evilness of the room.

"Yeah," Spike responded with a smirk. "Play for kittens an' all. Jus' don't tell the Slayer."

And Xander's dubious walk into the world of 'moderately evil turned redemptive' began, aided by the tipsy confidence instilled by a few bottles of glorified hops.

 

Giles was ready to go outside and feed himself to the first demon he came across, just to stop the sound of voluble discontent before it completely blew away his eardrums. He hadn't left his sofa—ears shielded with cushions pushed hard against them—since Buffy and Angel had left for patrol. His skull was reverberating in an alarming manner and he could feel every single cell on his skin screaming in an enervated protest to run hard and fast away from the extreme sound. At least every five minutes his eyes were drawn to the stick of knobbly wood lying just to his right. He was bloody positive his ears were bleeding internally.

He'd taken up humming, at first low but gaining in volume until he rivalled the unholy racket echoing in the space between his eardrums. It took minimal time for him to come to a crashing halt, the crescendo of the buzz of his own voice added to the banshee wail of the vampiress chained to his water pipes making him rapidly conclude the folly in such an action.

Just as it got too much—right as he was bound for the kitchen to retrieve a knife to slash his own wrists—the noise ceased. The change made him reel, left the man in him slightly off-balance while the watcher part of his person started to gather weapons in apprehension.

Hesitant steps bound him to travel the short path to the bathroom, his heart pounding an erratic dance as he made to face off with the vampire who'd tried not that many hours ago to make holes in his neck.

She was stretched out gracefully in the enamel tub, an act thoroughly incongruous to her surroundings, and yet she achieved it. Her eyes were fixed on him, and as he stopped in the frame of the door, he felt swept away by her raw beauty. Without decision he almost swayed toward her, the stake in his hand clattering against the tile floor. He felt eager to please her, make her comfortable as her voice soothed the ache that was his head into a pleasant numbness; an accepting calmness that left him kneeling by her, the key to the chains hovering over the lock and his throat exposed to her fangs.

The second the chains released her from their grasp she pounced, extra sharp incisors digging hard into his flesh, the hazy veil that had obscured his mind of all rational thought rushed back to the fore.

But the weakness hit him like a ton of bricks, and his legs buckled more, leaving him almost hanging from her jaw. The rush of his blood through his veins toward his neck was a roar of the surf, deafening in its power. He heard nothing but his life as it gushed out of his throat, his arms hanging weakly at his sides while his eyes fell uselessly on the abandoned stake.

"Bleeding fuck." The feral outburst broke through the fog and he felt the slice against his skin as fangs tore their way out. His blurred vision picked up an image of white fury as it spun on the floor, a fistful of dark hair tangled as he reefed the head attached to his neck back violently.

Giles struggled to process that Spike, the evil vampire and visitor to his home, had just saved his life and gained his unwavering support.

And then he collapsed and everything was dark and cold.

 

Spike was on him as soon as he walked through the door. The first punch left crumbling plaster and a wary Buffy on the edge, about to jump in. Another uppercut had her enter the fight, mindless of Giles's belongings as she threw Spike across the living room and took up a protective stance in front of Angel.

The room stilled in an electric silence, an emphatic statement of sides washing over the vampire that had just saved a life. Disbelief caused Spike's eyes to turn pale as he watched Buffy, shades of his Buffy—full of loathing and disgust as she flayed him undead with her pain of Heavenly rejection—shining through until he could do nothing but straighten his lips in angry resignation.

So he did what he had to so as to not break down in front of them.

He ignored her, too much hate for her clawing a hole in his belly.

"What kind of a...would leave a crazy..." His eyes burned hot as he stared straight through her to his grandsire. "Half-starved and angry vampire with a human without even fucking telling him she could thrall him into letting her go?"

Angel mumbled a denial, shock keeping his tongue largely unresponsive.

"You great thumping moron. What did you think she'd bloody well do? All chained up in a bathtub. You haven't let her hunt for ages and you actually thought she'd be alright with that? You're a bigger wanker than I thought. Vampire, mate. Thought you knew that." His voice cut flesh, tore it fresh from the bones as the implications of his words sank in and the disgust washed over them.

Buffy's body tensed even more as the scenario gained an image in her mind, and her watcher became the new victim.

"Giles?"

"Is sleeping the sleep of the nearly drained dead," shared Xander as he came down the stairs from Giles's bedroom and took a supportive position next to Spike.

"Get Drusilla, and take her the fuck away from here. You let her come near the watcher again and your dust will be floating on the not so sunny breeze."

Spike turned away and stomped to the bathroom, returning almost immediately with the unconscious brunette, the cause of so much trouble. No care was given in the exchange, Dru thrust into the arms of her sire with a not so subtle shove toward the door, Buffy standing quietly aside as she stewed in her own guilt.

"What's thrall?" Buffy risked, her voice low and a bit scratchy as she contemplated how it looked that she had shown support of Angel against Spike.

Spike looked incredulous as he turned his back to her, tearing up the stairs away from her and to check on Giles. She was left with Xander, and for the first time she noticed how pale he looked.

"It was like Jessie all over again. The fangs, and the neck, and the fangs...and Spike? God, I thought Batman was a superhero, but he saved G-man's life. Smelt the blood on the walk outside and...man...I never knew they could move so fast. It was like...and the fangs...and Spike?"

Buffy looked at him again as the story began to repeat, and as she caught his tears falling against pasty cheeks, the knot lodged in her throat loosened and hurt.

She'd backed the wrong horse. She'd allowed Angel to wheedle his way back into her thoughts by sharing her night with him, and instead of supporting the vampire she'd wanted to be with, wanted to do dirty things with while they dusted off monsters, she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. She'd thought the attack was jealousy based and juvenile; punching Angel into the middle of next week was so not the way to handle things and she was no one's possession.

As her eyes climbed the stairs slowly, one excruciating step at a time, she could feel Spike as he hovered over her watcher. Could feel him as he retreated from her emotionally. While it left Buffy feeling confused and frightened—the near death of Giles left her feeling numb.

Without checking on Giles, without saying a word to Xander or Spike, she bolted from the apartment, sobs breaking through her restraint and drowning out the calls from her friend to stop.

A/N...I am extremely grateful for all the support I have received while writing this story. It is all finished so hang on for the ride.

Chapter 12:

When Angel opened his eyes she was there, standing before him as if she was his own heavenly guardian. Everything about her shone; shouted her perfection like a production of God’s choir. Her lips were still, and with their lack of movement he found it impossible to tear his eyes from them. Lush soft pink naturally pouting at him, beckoning him to touch, to taste.

The prickling of his body was his answer to the promise of her standing before him, wordless but beautiful as she watched him. Her eyes sparkled with an innocent arousal that inspired surges of similar within his frame, but before he was too moved, too inspired to take up the offer, he was lost in the sheen of her hair.

Blond streaks that were alight without benefit of earth’s fire.

In silence her body called to him and he answered with the forward momentum of his feet. Her gaze never wavered, intently watching him and taking heed of his physical instruction. He took everything in as he reached her, the subtle breath she took to control her erratic pulse, the strength of her arousal on the air, the little shifts in nerves and confidence as her body shook delicately before him.

Her presence was unexpected but welcomed. Forgiveness of his sins swept over him as he remained solid in her presence, a hand slowly raised until the fingers tangled in the soft silken strands of wild wheat. It shook, the mercy of her permission almost breaking him.

Forgotten now were all the aborted attempts at intimacy. He dismissed all his arguments of why he must maintain some distance from the girl he’d fallen for while still a mess of a vampire, feeding on rats in alleyways. She was standing before him in the style of a perfect offering, a valiant offering to a master vampire who’d been without touch for a century.

His arguments were no more and finally he nudged her gently to his bed, allowed her to sit and stare as he memorised every small dip in the shape of her face. Every little slight, yet perfection made up the whole that was her, and Angel felt himself as enthralled as he had been the day Whistler had opened her world into his.

They sat side by side, only touching by the awed tightening of his grip in her hair. Nothing else felt right, not yet. Not without the words that could set them both free, that could give them the final direction they had both been hoping to travel from the moment she had taken him seriously. The moment she had allowed him beyond the fringes of his life.

“Buffy,” he almost gasped, the words falling from his lips in valediction of singledom. She’d taken his heart over the past months and he felt it time to finally let her know it. Confirm at last the truth they’d felt but so far never voiced. To finally acknowledge it without his usual taunts of distance and stunted intimacy.

“Angel.” Even the quiet of her voice betrayed her deity, and for one devastating and panicked second he contemplated turning his back, not allowing her to sully herself with the likes of him. Taking the decision from her hands. He was so utterly unworthy of having her like this, within his arms, upon his bed.

But Angel knew he was weak, and so the stop he felt he should bring to this interlude remained absent. Instead his fingers trailed from the glistening lure of her hair to the smooth plane of her cheek, finally tracing the line of her bottom lip.

Her fevered sigh against his digit, warm breath brushing over him, set his cock to a pulsing preparation. He was never one who could hold out, the sins of the flesh too enticing for him to ignore for long. So with barely a touch—no need for build up when he’d had well over a year of fantasies to stir him along—he was ready to possess her, to know her fully and make her his.

He would be her first lover; her only lover and he knew he owed her an experience to remember. But the need to take the next step was almost debilitating as his hardness grew, the restraint becoming painful. But first. The groundwork must be cemented—he must make her sure of his feelings for her.

Her quivering lip brought attention to his ongoing silence and his face—threatening to be consumed with the power of lust—struggled to remove the experience that would frighten the innocent.

“Buffy,” he said again, his throat scratching at the word, constricting so far to almost prevent his declaration from getting through. “I…I love you.”

The light in her eyes flared, a swirling heat leeching out to encompass him in her excitement. He could see the sentiment returned, knew it down deep in his soul before she even made a sound—even parted her soft, beautiful lips to form the joining words.

But still, when they finally came, he felt closer to heaven, felt close to forgiveness.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, tears blurring the sparkling green of her eyes, and at last Angel had his permission to seek her lips. He took them in a soft promise before allowing his hands to drift over buttons. His haste was countered by the soft touch as he pulled the fabric from her skin, leaving her flesh glowing in the darkness of the room.

Her shivering shyness as she covered her breasts only calmed him slightly, prevented his almost lascivious licking of his lips. He felt like a wolf determined to force his way onto his mate, but something at the back of his mind tugged his memory, reminded him that Buffy was a girl—supernatural powers notwithstanding—and deserved a calm and measured consideration of her first time. He owed her an experience to remember—happiness over her decision to come to him. But the demon calling for action, calling for completion no matter the consequences was eager to begin the show, and Angel had difficulties reining it in.

He made himself stop, placed his hands gently on her now bare arms and encouraged her hands away from the curved surprise waiting for his attention. The soft swell of her breasts made sharp needles of his skin prickles. His heart didn’t thump, no circulating blood rushed to his head, but he felt the rush all the same.

Felt the rush and couldn’t wait any longer. His mouth latched onto her hard and he began the seduction that would make Buffy his.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~


In Spike’s head, it had all gone differently. Rather than the whelp by his side, physical support saying more than words—and not something necessarily that Spike wanted to easily discard—it was Buffy. Buffy who just knew in her heart that he was in the right, who didn’t need an explanation of his attack before just believing in him.

When had it all started to go wrong? Was it right from the start when he’d stupidly made a wish for something he had no right in wanting? Or had it been when it had started to work, started to reveal a Buffy without hang-ups of the ‘poofterish’ kind and he’d allowed his heart to get happy? Why was he even wondering about it? He’d always known that magic had consequences, and he’d be more than a wanker himself if he believed any good could ever come from misguided wishes made drunkenly to Vengeance demons.

Spike hung his head; allowed it to fall into the cradle of his hands as his body assumed the position of defeat. He remained in watch over Rupert, having sent Harris home despite his loud protests of wanting to help.

Spike couldn’t bear the thought of anyone watching him. Couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing what he really was. A loser who’d gained nothing by going back in time. A failure who had already caused the beginnings of pain for these people who would be his hated family in the future, but who were determinedly placing him in the middle of their lives now without the benefit of anything but faith.

His Buffy in the future would have rushed to the poof’s side without a second thought to loyalty, too. Spike had lived around her for years, protected her as best he could, had looked after her merry gang and her kid sis while she had been visiting the great beyond. All without a shred of thanks, if you please. But he’d done it for years. Always been there for back-up, for information despite the lack of a dollar when the monetary enticement all but dried up. He’d been there as fodder for the Big Bads, he’d been her shoulder to cry on when she couldn’t tell her truths to the ones who supposedly cared for her, and he’d been the one to love her, so totally and faithfully that he was crushed by her lack of care.

But knowing he was the dependable vampire, the sincere in love vampire, meant little when it was always his grandsire she would always go back to. He didn’t know if it was a comfort thing, if being her first love meant she had one of those stretchy elastic strings joining the two so that at any crisis it snapped her back to Angel’s side, no questions asked.

But this time, he’d had enough. Seeing her bounce into the fight with her fists cocked—fury tightening her stance—he felt something within him snap. Some little whiff of ozone in the air warning him that his wish was unachievable through no fault of his own. He’d tried, made changes with all the little Scoobies. Made his experience with each and every one of the buggers better. Even found himself liking them.

But not with her. Nothing changed with her. She still meted her affections out by the thimbleful. And dished out her displeasure and distrust with a bucket.

Now Spike knew that nothing ever could change.

Buffy was never meant to be his.

The sooner he accepted the inevitable, the sooner he could do something to get over it. The sooner he could devote his time to just helping the Scoobies remain alive and kicking while he sorted out what to do with the rest of his unlife.

Just that thought caused his heart to bleed. He knew he couldn’t go on being near Buffy forever when there was no possibility of her ever falling for him. He loved her with so much depth that it consumed everything he was. And yet, if he remained he’d slowly crumble away to ashes.

Seeing her with the bumbling foot soldier had hurt—in a way that was the right of the unrequited lover. But seeing her now with Peaches, fighting by his side, taking up his defence…well, it pissed him off at every level. William the Bloody ponce, looked over again. It burned his gut for sure.

Spike felt his fangs slip through the shields, lumpies grappling with the normal human bones of his face and he felt a growl tickle at his throat. He’d bloody completely had it with women. The lot of them were cursed, hell-bent on sucking out all the bleeding marrow of his unlife. They were contrary, selfish evil bitches…far more vicious and evil than him.

A groan from the bed halted his warm up to his ‘all women are bitches and should be drained at birth’ speech. Spike was on his feet in the next breath, hovering over the weakened watcher with a concern that was damned unseemly for the likes of him.

Rupert was too pale, and Spike still wasn’t sure if he shouldn’t have packed the man off to the hospital. Harris had suggested it, but at the time the watcher’s heartbeat had thumped a reassuring tune and Spike left him to his bed upstairs. All the better to be on hand to knock Dru out each time she regained consciousness and to confront Peaches the second he came through the door.

And that went well.

At least Spike knew where he stood…and it was about a metre and a half away from Buffy when it counted. But only centimetres from his biggest enemy in the ‘stay away from Buffy’ camp. Will wonders ever bloody cease?

When he came back to earth from his angry self-berating, he encountered wide, curious eyes. Giles passed a hand over his face and then flicked at his teeth, pointing out to Spike that he was sitting over a man in full gameface who had just been vamp chow, and very nearly dead.

“Sorry, mate,” Spike apologised as he let the demon features slip back into obscurity. Not until he sought out the rhythm of the only heartbeat in the flat did he realise Giles had not shown fear at being confronted by his demon. His eyes filled with awe even as Rupert’s eyes drifted closed again and he passed into a more relaxed sleep. Reassured that he was safe. Reassured that he wasn’t dead, and despite the demon presence in his room, unlikely to be.

The acceptance and belief—something he’d craved but not received from Buffy—brought tears rapidly to the surface. He returned to the chair he had chosen to stand vigil from, burying his feelings of fear in losing Buffy. Not like it was a new situation. He’d lost her in his world, too. For some reason this hurt even more, broke apart all that he had felt secure in.

He’d believed so strongly that Buffy had loved him, but duty to the Scoobies prevented her from acknowledging it to herself. Duty to her watcher’s misguided teachings to stick to her belief that Spike was soulless and therefore evil of the really bad variety.

And being dragged from her heavenly home had so skewed her senses that she trusted nothing, no one, and so any feeling for him that she might have been developing would probably have taken her years to acknowledge. Years after she had killed him—one way or another.

He’d buried his face in his hands again, the cup of his palms feeling decidedly damp. Spike had always been emotional, but since his turning and rebirth into the Aurelius family, he’d grown a pair. He’d learned how and what to hide to keep his secrets safe—and also his unlife. Angelus favoured no weakness, and that William couldn’t prevent some of it from showing through in relation to Drusilla, meant that he’d never been able to make it to Angelus’s private mark of acceptance.

But Buffy had made him cry more than he ever had in his entire century of being second to Dru. Of being important to no one. But now…well now, he had people. Had a purpose that wasn’t all about Buffy—purpose that gave him no hope but some small measure of achievement. As his swimming azure eyes fell on the figure quietly resting himself back to health, he recognised the beginning of that purpose. He’d gained the Scoobies trust, something impossible for him to do in his future. Now what was he to do with it?

He sniffed the air once and breathed a resigned and sad sigh.

“I smelt the magic in the air before. Never suspected it might have been you.” His voice sounded dead, no inflection of the emotion that usually typified Spike.

“I could see there was a bit of a situation, so I stayed back for awhile.”

Anya looked just as she did the last time he saw her, and it scared the bejeezus out of him.

“Put the face away, luv, before you hear me screamin’ with nightmares.” It was a start, a small hint of a chuckle and Anya let the wrinkled reality of her demon face slip into nothingness.

“What are you doin’ here, pet?”

Anya answered his question with a silence that emphasised the nervous twitching of her hands. The doom that had been drowning him in depression since he’d found Dru’s fangs buried in Rupert’s throat seemed unlikely to lift as he watched the changing expressions of hope and anxiety chase themselves across her face. But she was in no rush to enlighten him, and instead she took a seat on the bed and watched the man she had been working for over the past two years in concern.

Spike left it, having a feeling something would be before him to consider before the night was through that he wasn’t yet ready for. As the minutes turned to ten, they united in a steady, companionable silence, and watched Giles as he diligently sucked air into his lungs, confirming his secure grip for the moment on the world.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~


Angel was all thumbs in his eagerness. The exploration of warm skin with his fingertips was something new, yet old. It had been beyond long since the last time he had touched a woman, which to him made this all the more special. Even more so that it was Buffy.

Buffy watched him with wide eyes, naïve in the ways of men and love, but so very willing to learn. Her strong yet tempered hands moved over his naked skin, hesitant fingers tracing around the ball of his shoulder. His skin was cool, yet not in a way that would squick her. It was nice.

“I’m so sorry about Giles,” he told her, his voice heavy with the disappointment of his failed control of Drusilla. “I never thought she would…”

“Shhh.” His sun covered his lip with a firm, determined finger, and once she had caught his eye, washed all memory of the previous events of the night from his mind, succumbed to the draw of a kiss.

Her lips were soft, cool but inflaming his ardour.

“Buffy,” he gasped, his cock already so hard he was in pain. “I can’t wait, can’t go so slow.”

Her nod of permission was hesitant, slightly frightened, but the end result was the same. She pushed apart from him to continue removing her top layer of clothing, leaving Angel hungry yet speechless as he waited for her.

This was the beginning of all his dreams; the culmination of his first moment of crush when he had been shown her by Whistler in LA. Buffy joined him on the bed and their lips met again, drawing out the innocence of the deed.

Angel buried his human face in her throat, contemplating the virginity that she was giving him, and surrendered to the joy of the moment. As he drew back, her green eyes never wavered in their trusting gaze while she watched his own disrobing. Angel lowered his body back to hers and captured her in a tender kiss.

Nothing had ever been so perfect.

Nothing so glorious as he pushed his way into her body, as he soaked up her goodness and felt his dead heart swell with perfect love.

And as he felt himself reach that wonderful moment, he released his energy into his love’s depths and snuggled in beside her, his arm curved over his brow as he settled back and fell asleep.

With the lowering of his eyelids, the magic faded into sleep and he was left with the mysterious reality of Dru wrapped naked around his body, the artificial heat he’d felt fading from his mind and closing in on the coolness that had always been against his flesh.

Beside him, a brunette lay with a frown marring her satisfied moment. One look at Angel beside her and she tumbled from his side.

She stood over the bed, looking down on her sire with eyes glittering with a directed madness.

“Daddy’s a wicked boy for leaving Princess all a quiver.” She pouted then began a slow exploration of her body, culminating in the release that had never been close under the attentions of the elder vampire.

Drusilla trembled with delicious aftershocks and returned to the bed to watch over her pretty picture.

“Sleep, my sweet. Princess will be waiting for your surprise.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“What happened?” Anya had kept her own counsel for thirty minutes, just sitting and watching the still form of Giles as he recuperated from his violent ordeal.

“Weren’t you here?” Spike’s voice came out on a self-recriminating croak.

“Only popped in when you were attacking Angel.”

Spike was startled at first at the short, yet informative sentences that Anya was aiming at him, so used to her left field opinions that were nothing if not bizarre. He surmised that perhaps the gravity of Giles lying so ill on his bed had shocked her into near silence.

“Silly git decided to babysit Dru. The poof forgot to tell him she does thrall, so she conned him into lettin’ her go and she took a chunk outta his neck. Now he’s all anaemic.” His smile was bittersweet.

“And Buffy?”

Spike raised pained eyes, cold in their blueness as he pinned her to the spot. She showed her demonhood admirably, not succumbing to his intimidation now that she could more than protect herself.

“What do you think? Bitch jumped in to save the poor hard done by Poof. Peaches gets more forgiveness than he bloody deserves.”

The slow fall of tears spoiled the effect of his harsh words. Again his heart was breaking. No matter which Buffy he tried to love—either in his future or this untouched and innocent to heartbreak Buffy of his past—she would never choose him.

Spike shook his head, his hands running in distracted roughness through his hair. The action served as some kind of settler, a miracle in itself as the agitation was set to zoom. Again Spike became aware of Anya’s quiet presence and wondered what she was doing here.

“Out with it, Demongirl. What are you doin’ here? Wouldn’t be makin’ house calls for the hell of it.”

His suspicious gaze was hard, piercing, and he felt a small sense of satisfaction when he saw her give an involuntary shiver, even though she’d likely be able to put him in the bloody ground now with her souped up demon powers.

Anya took a deep breath, patted down the skirt of her pretty floral dress, and deflated like an empty balloon.

“I was hoping you would take back the wish.”

Spike’s eyes were suddenly riveted to her mouth, hoping yet wondering if he really wanted to be sure she’d said what he thought she had.

“Why would I want to do that, luv?”

“Now that I’ve been human, I don’t feel right about some of the things people are wishing from me. There have been deaths, and some of them pointless.” She stopped with a nervous laugh. “I want to smash the amulet and be human again.”

“Simple as that, yeah? Why do you need me to take my wish back again?”

Anya looked at him as if he was the stupidest vampire undead.

“Don’t ‘spose anyone’s been askin’ about me?” he asked her hopefully, the real question implicit in his tone. Has Buffy been asking…?

“No. Sorry,” she rushed in when she noticed how crushed he was at the neglect. “Though to be fair we have had a few problems. An apocalypse to prevent.”

“Yeah?” This news perked him up and he waited for her to fill him in.

“Tara was shot and…”

“What the bloody hell?” He jumped to his feet, gameface surging forward as his protective instincts kicked in. “What do you mean Glinda was shot? Is she alright?”

The sadness shadowing Anya’s face was his answer, and he shook his head in agitated denial.

“The others? What about Buffy?” His voice was broken, tears cracking the steadiness.

“Oh she was shot, too.”

Again he was menacingly on his feet, his voice raising in terror. Not again, he couldn’t help screaming inside his head. He couldn’t take losing her again.

“Oh, she’s okay now. Willow saved her before she died again. But Willow went kinda crazy and tried to destroy the world. You should have seen her, all black hair and eyes, super scary. Knocked me out, nearly killed Giles. She did kill that Warren guy…he’s the one that shot Tara and Buffy…but Xander saved the day. Ironic, really, but he stopped the world from ending and now Giles has taken Willow to a coven in England get her some help in controlling her magic. Oh, and the Magic Box is being repaired after Willow almost completely destroyed it.”

Spike was stuck in place, not moving a muscle as the tale of horrors unfolded in the air around him. Anya sounded like she was recounting a rather fun stage show and he was appalled at her lack of empathy for the people she had been friends with for the past couple of years.

“An’ you want me to go back to that?” There was no doubting the incredulous tone to his voice.

At her vigorous nod he felt like smacking her. But as his furious amber fell onto the sleeping man on the bed, he began to remember all that he had achieved by being in this world, and he didn’t mean the money or the Gem that made him now invincible. He had made friends. These Scoobies trusted him, looked up to him. Or at least, they were on their way to believing in him.

So you’d think that…

“You just bloody well hold on there, pet. If I’ve been schmoozing and the likes here in the past, then how did everything go all arse over tit in the future. I think you’re pullin’ my leg.”

He never knew demons could blush.

“Oh, alright,” she mumbled in irritation. “So that’s one version of what was going to happen if you hadn’t made the wish. Look, you’re mucking things up for me by being here. You’re changing Xander and making things all different. I need you to go back before you change it all too much.”

He had too much to lose now. Sure, he might never have Buffy, could never beat the poof at anything to tell the truth. But if he went back, not only would he be going back to an apathetic, abusive Buffy, but all her friends would hate him again. They would want him out and would be threatening his life every other day until he left Sunnydale for good.

Whichever time he chose, there would always be Buffy. Young, in love with wanker Angel in this time Buffy, yet Spike friendly with her mates. Or bitch Buffy backed by the entire gang and armed with deadly stakes and crossbows. Each decision would include a Buffy that would never choose him, would come to hate the sight of him.

So, what would it matter? If demon girl wanted to be human again, if she wanted to be…the scream tore through his throat with a violence borne from knowledge.

“Oh God,” he shouted as he collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing at his neck.

“Oh fuck,” he swore as the tears poured forth down his face.

“What? What is it?” called Anya frantically, her eyes darting around the room in a desperate longing for answers.

Spike’s speech was momentarily crippled, his voice becoming hoarse from the wailing his demon felt it necessary to make. He repressed the truth as much as he could, but the fire that burned at his neck was undeniable, and as Spike raised a tear-soaked face to the ceiling, he had the answer to his dilemma.

His eyes found Giles’s as the weaker man tried to shoulder his way to sitting against the headboard of the bed. The question hung in the air, unspoken by Giles despite being shouted hysterically by Anya, and it was the watcher that received Spike’s tortured response.

“She did it,” he cried, very near literally.

“What has she done, Spike? I presume you mean Buffy?” Giles’s voice wobbled with his weakness.

Spike nodded, dumbfounded in his emotional acceptance.

“The silly bitch slept with the bastard. Hello fucking Angelus.”

His fear was immediately shared, and blue eyes clashed with green.

“So,” Giles ventured. “In light of this catastrophe, one wonders what your decision is to be in regards this wish?”

Spike lowered his eyes, ashamed yet scared.

“And don’t think we won’t be discussing this at a later date.”

Contrary to his fears, there was no censure in the Watcher’s voice and Spike met his eyes again, relief allowing a small smile to spread along his lips. It disappeared as he recalled his first go round with his grandsire, the consequences for this group of people by allowing his family to run rampant around the Hellmouth.

If he could do nothing else, he could make sure that the teacher that Rupert had his eye on would stay safe while she attempted to finish translating the spell that would re-instate Angel’s soul. Maybe this time without the curse, so at least Buffy could have the lump of her dreams rather than become emotionally retarded from being without her soul mate.

Spike directed his answer to Anya without looking at her, instead showing his respect and support of the man still sprawled beneath his bedsheets.

“The wish stands, luv. I’ve things to do here. Grant one other wish, pet, then smash the amulet.”

He felt rather than saw Anya’s dejected acceptance, then felt the need to watch her as he offered an olive branch.

“Let things unfold, yeah? Let that Cordelia bird make her wish and you’ll be human ‘ere again with the whelp, and maybe I can help makin’ things stick this time.” He offered her a wink and sighed in relief at her suddenly enthusiastic and happy smile.

“Of course, Spike. You’re a genius.” She darted forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Spike stood stunned in the same spot as she demonstrated her exiting arm wave and disappeared to her own time.

Belatedly, “That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you lot for years.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~


He wasn’t sure what woke him. Whether it was the subtle movement on the bed beside him as she rolled away from his body. Or the sound of her voice as she hummed a very tuneful rendition of Greensleeves.

Or it could have been the pain that seared the inside of his chest, forcing him like a bullet from the bed and outside the apartment, tearing at his skin to counteract the pain, try and turn it in on itself while he tore it out and killed it.

It burned as much on the way out as it had when forced within.

The release was immense, the return to himself more profound than he would have ever expected. The leash was gone and it released a mountain of pent up anger, vengeance that he wanted to act on immediately. He wanted to tear this town apart, rip everything with a soul to shreds for no reason other than he wasn’t able to physically constrain his own and blow it apart.

As he came more to himself he felt his senses magnify, honing in on a woman—a hooker—as she approached him, a cigarette hanging from her lips. He pounced and within seconds claimed his first easy meal. Exhaling the second-hand smoke, he spied Dru in the door opening, her nightdress thin and transparent.

An evil smile consumed his face as he leered at her. Looking around the now empty alleyway, he gestured her to come forward.

“Come here, Childe. On your knees. Time to show Daddy how glad you are he’s back.”

Dru grinned as she fell to the hard ground, her hands seeking the hard length of his cock. No hesitation and her cold mouth engulfed him, deep-throating in the way she knew he would only accept, expecting the punishment that would undoubtedly come from not reading his mind when he required a change in action.

His body tensed as the release neared its quarter; spasming happily in her mouth as his cum flooded the recess. The first blow came as his limp dick slipped from between her lips. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the apartment’s bed and fucked her till the sun came up, spurred on by her laughing insanity each time she welcomed him back.

It was good to be home.

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