CHAPTER 1 - LETTERS

LOS ANGELES

DECEMBER 19, 2003

FRIDAY

1:00AM

Spike paced back and forth in the small confines of his 'new' studio apartment, smoking his fifth cigarette in a row. Or was it his tenth?

Before becoming corporeal, he'd been nagging Angel for a space to call his own, only to have his requests fall on the deaf ears of the git.

However, after the fight, in which he beat Angel over the phony cup of torment for the chance to fulfill the Shanshu Prophecy, Angel had been quick to arrange for housing for Spike. Best to keep him out of Angel's sight as much as possible and away from things he could actually affect, now that he wasn't a ghost.

The day after their fight, Angel had sent one of the flunkies over to hand Spike the keys and address of a little, furnished, basement (what else?) studio apartment in East L.A., no less. It had a small bed, a chair, an old black and white TV set, hot plate, microwave, and one of those dinky college dorm refrigerators.

His landlord was the mother of one of Wolfram & Hart's lawyers. Obviously, so they could keep tabs on him, know when he was coming and going. He had looked for bugs when he moved in, and although he didn't find any, he didn't doubt for a second that his whereabouts were being monitored.

"Like the bleedin' Jungle," he said, referring to the book by Upton Sinclair about the meatpacking industries in Chicago, where all the employees worked at the stockyards, lived in company houses and bought their food and necessities at the company stores and more than likely buried in the company's cemetary as well.

For that reason, Spike preferred to find his own sources for blood. A little butcher shop on his way home served his purposes just fine.

Angel had even provided him with a car, not one of the new shiny toys in Wolfram & Hart's garage, but a 10 year old Ford Escort with blacked out windows. How generous!

But that wasn't the reason he was pacing this night, nor was it that the dirty gray walls were closing in on him. Nor that he felt old, useless, and tired.

No, the reason he was pacing was because of what he had seen earlier that day.

Spike had gone into the office, as he did everyday, with the intent to sit in on the latest meeting with Angel and the gang. Not that he was wanted there. Or needed. Despite that he went out almost every night, just to dust a few vamps, see if he could thwart some evil doings. Despite that he would help in other ways, with bigger cases if they would only let him.

But no, Angel dismissed anything Spike had to say, whether or not it was a decent idea, whether or not the others agreed. Angel barely tolerated Spike, wouldn't make direct eye contact with him, and the only reason he didn't just send him packing, was he knew where Spike was likely to go, and of course, the ponce couldn't stand that.

When Wesley had come back, he confirmed that it could be potentially dangerous for Spike to leave the country or L.A., for that matter; send the whole balance of the world out of whack, more than just having two, souled, champion vampires had already done.

Spike walked towards Angel's office. Harmony wasn't at her desk, so he didn't bother to wait for an invite, which now Angel insisted on. Instead, he just walked in. The office was empty. Spike walked over to the window behind Angel's desk to soak up some non-lethal sunrays and look at the view over the city.

He looked back at the door and then back at Angel's desk. If they weren't going to let him in on one of their cases, he'd just find out about them himself.

He looked through the papers on Angel's desk and didn't find anything interesting. Same with the unlocked drawers. He was about to leave when he saw a piece of paper sticking out from underneath Angel's desk. Odd.

He felt under the desk, and found a latch. Down popped a whole other secret compartment. He took out the papers he found and set them on Angel's desk.

His stomach clenched when he saw they were letters from Buffy.

He put them in chronological order and started to read. The first was dated 6/1/03, a couple of weeks after he they had closed The Hellmouth, after he had died. It read:

Dear Angel,

I'm sorry I haven't contacted you earlier, but since the world didn't end, I figured you knew that we won. I also figured that you knew I survived, or someone would have let you know.

We won.

But not without a terrible price.

Many potentials lost their lives and I feel for those families whose daughter's gave their lives for the cause. With Willow's spell, where I shared my slayer power with all of them (not the only chosen one anymore) they had just enough time to fight like a slayer, before dying like one as well. In battle. Against Evil. And yet I live, as do most of the gang.

I know you didn't know Anya, but she was a good friend and Xander's girlfriend (once more, and almost had been his wife, but that's another story).

And then there's Spike. I gave the amulet you brought to him. Actually, he'd seen us that night and when I got back to the house and (besides some jealous vampire crap, not unlike yours), he asked about the shiny trinket. He said that since you were going to wear it, then he was the likely candidate, that it needed someone strong to bear it, unless I wanted to give it to Andrew (don't ask, but think of him as...somewhere between Cabaret and Revenge of the Nerds, if you want to get an idea).

I gave it to him, because he had become a champion in so many ways. Not in a big, sweeping, 'Caped Crusader,' type of way, but in consistently steady ways. Trying and succeeding in becoming a better man. Becoming a man.

A man I was very proud to know.

Spike wore it into The Hellmouth and when it activated, energy exploded upward, through the ceiling of The Hellmouth and all the way up through the floors of the school, blasting a hole right out of the roof. As the sunlight came down, it literally went through Spike and shot out through the amulet, in a huge swath, literally exploding the ubervamps and tumbling the walls of The Hellmouth, and all of Sunnydale in it's power.

I tried to get Spike to leave, told him he'd done enough, but he stood fast, saying it was something he had to do, that it was for him to do the cleanup.

stupid, stubborn vampire

But he stayed, he finished, Spike closed The Hellmouth. Without him, there was no way that our handful of newly empowered slayers could have killed thousands and thousands of ubervamps, for that's how many were in The Hellmouth, just waiting to come out.

It's taken me two weeks to complete this letter. It's just so hard for me to put it all down. I've tried to come to terms with all of it; with not being the only chosen one (you'd think that would have been easy, but it feels like I'm adrift somehow now...without an anchor)with Sunnydale being gone forever, with Spike dying...that's been the hardest. I feel like I should feel guilty that I'm feeling worse over losing Spike over all the others, but I can't.

I told you that Spike was in my heart, but it wasn't until the very last moments of his existence that I told him. Know what he did? He denied it. Funny, huh? I think he thought that I was just saying it to him because I knew he was going to die, but it wasn't. It wasn't.

Angel, I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you to hear, but I spent too much time and energy denying my feelings for Spike and even though it does him no good now, I won't deny them to anyone for the sake of being proper of whatever the hell it is people expect(ed) from me.

The really pathetic (on my part) and sad (on his) thing about all this is, that I don't think in his whole life, Spike really ever felt loved by anyone. Not even as William.

Yes, I know about William. Quite a bit, in fact. It was being jilted by a woman, which sent him into that alley the fateful night that Dru met up with him. Now, once again, for love - not just for me, but for humanity, he dies a last time.

Irony, huh? I think Spike would appreciate that.

I just wish that you could have known him these past few months. I know there is at least a century and more of animosity between you about things I don't even know and probably don't want to...but he had become a good man...and if you could have gotten past that, I think you would've seen that.

As for me, I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with myself. We're in Sorrento, Italy right now, locating other slayers who have been called, trying to get them together so we can begin training them somehow. It's just that they're scattered all over Europe and even further. The task will be daunting. In the states, Faith and Robin Wood are setting up a training school for these slayers in Cleveland.

I hope all is well with you and wish you much luck in trying to run Wolfram & Hart.

All my best.

Buffy

Spike wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

She loved him! She had told Angel as much, she had meant it! Angel knew, despite what he'd said to him during their fight. He bloody well knew!

The next letter was dated September 22, 2003:

Dear Angel,

Good news!

We've been able to locate about half a dozen of the new slayers, who've been called. That's of the good. Language barrier, not so much. Luckily, Giles knows some Italian. We've been starting to train them, which keeps us all busy, and keeps me in some sort of shape, because since I've been here, I haven't had one sense of a vampire anywhere around. But then again, Sorrento just isn't a hotbed of demonic activity, unless you call wine drinking evil. There would probably be more in Rome, which is where I think we're heading next.

The area we're in is beautiful, but somehow I just can't feel it. I mean, I see it, smell it, taste it, yet something's missing.

That's about it. Just wanted to let you know I'm okay, whatever that means.

Best,

Buffy

Spike sighed, there she was in a beautiful country, surrounded with beautiful scenery, peace and quiet and she's aching for a smackdown. Well, he knew how she felt.

November 1, 2003

Dear Angel,

We're in Rome! So much more to my liking...two things I'm liking: vampires to stake and shopping. Not so much in that order.

At least going out and slaying vamps gives me some purpose, even if Giles insists that I take along half the contingent each time I go. Sometimes I sneak out by myself, just to get some peace and quiet. Ha! Slaying vamps being equated with peace and quiet. Well, after I slay 'em it does become a lot more peaceful! They seem to like to hang out at the Coliseum a lot, and I like being there, too. Too bad for them.

As for shopping...heaven. Leather is big in Rome, not in a kinky way (though it may be, too) but in the wallets, picture frames, outside of hand mirrors, etc., sort of way. Oh, and the fashions - wow! Dawn and I have been having a picnic decking ourselves out like the most in-style European ladies.

Guess it's called shopping therapy and by the looks of the new wardrobe and shit load of shoes I've acquired, guess I'm needing a lot of it.

Empty pretty things.

Best,

Buffy

Spike had been so happy to hear something about Dawn and he smiled just imagining Buffy shopping and buying new shoes, clothes, and what-not, but he'd stopped smiling when he'd come to her last couple of sentences.

Her last letter was just dated about three weeks ago.

November 28, 2003

Dear Angel,

We're England bound! A friend of Giles has come through with an offer of a building to use for training the new slayers, plus rebuilding the council. Not on my top priority, but Giles thinks it's a good idea. Well, with him leading it, it won't be the same council at least. Guess he'll have to start training watchers, as well as me and some of the other girls from Sunnydale that were with me, in charge of training with the newer slayers.

Pretty funny when you think of it, I've got 7 years under my belt, and these girls have about 7 months and they're also being called upon to train others. Well, having survived The Hellmouth, guess that qualifies them, as much as anything.

We'll be staying at a house that Giles owns in London. Who knew?

I'm glad to be going to a country where the language difference won't be such an issue (if you discount the new slayers) but I hear the food sucks and I've been spoiled by all this yummy Italian food and wine. If I didn't train so hard every day, I'd probably weigh a ton by now. As it is, I've gained almost 10 lbs! Not that I'm worried, I think I lost almost 20 this past year, what with worrying about everything, being short of money, worrying about...everyone, not to mention, working at that greasy spoon pretty much put me off food. So, guess it's a good thing that my clothes aren't hanging off me like so many rags, as they were in the beginning.

We'll be arriving in London around December 10. I'll write you once we get settled in. Probably after the New Year. Is it possible that the holidays are so close? Last year it was horrible at Christmas time, Spike had been captured by The First and nearly killed and that was when we saw our first ubervamp. Happy holiday memories, huh?

Speaking of Spike, I was out patrolling a couple of weeks ago and I could have sworn that I saw him, only it was just some punk who'd dyed his hair white and had a leather coat on. And damned if he wasn't a vampire, also. I killed him extra dead, just for making my heart almost stop when I saw him!

I just can't believe he's gone sometimes. It just feels like he's still here, just not here. Know what I mean.

Hope you have happy holidays, Angel. You know you'll always be my friend.

Best,

Buffy

"I am still here, Buffy," Spike whispered. He wiped his eyes again. He took one more look at the letters. He wanted to take them with him to read again and again, but he knew he couldn't. He didn't want Angel to know that he'd read them. So, he committed her letters to memory, to bring out when he wanted to. He brought the letters to his nose and inhaled deeply, just getting barely the faintest scent of her off of them, but it was enough. It was her. Buffy.

He'd replaced the letters carefully the way they had been and left the office. There was still nobody about, which seemed strange. Just then the elevator door opened and off walked Angel.

"What are you doing here Spike?"

"What do you think I'm doing, you ponce? Waiting for you and your band of do-gooders, see what's up, the latest evil, the latest plan which you can exclude me from."

"Why bother then, Spike?"

"Well, just want to know what's going on. What else have I got to do?"

"Well, there's nothing going on right now, that's why I took the morning off and went to Santa Monica to see a client. A normal, non-evil client."

"I see, well, I'll just mosey along, then."

"Yeah, why don't you do that Spike?"

"And why don't you get stuffed?" Spike replied, walking off.

He smiled as the elevator doors shut.

Spike lit yet another cigarette, as his mind reread Buffy's letters. He had to see her! Even if that's all he did, even if only for a moment, he had to go to London!

END CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2 - ACROSS THE POND

LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 18, 2003

12:00 NOON

Across the pond, Buffy sat in Giles library looking over some of the latest information, which Giles had just handed her, on some of the latest slayers who had been identified. Willow, with the help of the coven, had been able to do locating spells. The harder part was the language barrier and trying to convince their families that they needed to let their daughter's come to London for at least a year, so that when they met up with vampires, which they would all eventually do, that they would know how to handle themselves. It wasn't enough that they had just been called, but being bestowed with the mystical energies of the slayer, also meant that, whereas before they may have gone through their whole lives, never being aware of what just lurked beneath the surface or around the corner, now they would sense it, even seek it out, as was their duty. But without understanding what that duty meant and how to dispatch their enemies, they would likely be killed.

Giles had just returned from the Philippines, by way of Russia and looked all the wearier for it.

"Svetlana Kasovkova, Republic of Russia, 18 years old," Buffy read aloud, skimming through the details. "Coming next week? Before Christmas?"

"Um, no. That's been changed. She's coming January 2nd," Giles said, "So is Jessica Ramirez, from the Philippines."

"Well, good," Buffy said, "wouldn't make any sense to make them miiss Christmas at home with their families, would it? I mean, it's not like we're starting classes next week or something."

"No, but it's important that they start as soon as possible, you know how many of these girls we have to locate, and I have to be here to start their indoctrination, but then I have to leave to find..."

"I know, I know," Buffy said, wearily.

"I'm sorry I have had to leave you so soon after we got here, Buffy. I trust that Walter was able to take you and Dawn around to see some of the schools for her?"

"Yeah, he was all sorts of helpful, don't worry Giles, I know you had to go."

"So, did you find a suitable school for Dawn to attend?" he asked.

Dawn and Buffy had spent the past couple of weeks looking at schools around London. In Italy, since they had been moving about, plus there were no language immersion classes nearby, Buffy had Dawn just keep up with her studies on through online classes. Now that they were going to be in London a while, she thought it best that Dawn go to school and meet some people her own age.

Dawn agreed, having had quite enough of being all mature and research-y to last a lifetime in the past year. Well, at least until she had a bit of something normal for a while.

"She settled on the American Community Academy," Buffy said, "or was it called American Preparatory? Gosh, we've looked at so many I can't keep the names straight anymore."

Giles looked over at her, with a slight frown.

"What?"

"Well, I did hope Dawn would pick one of the more prestigious schools, like..."

"I know Giles, and we looked at those and they had wonderful things to offer. And I know that being in London or Europe, for that matter and going to something called American anything is sort of lame, like it defeats the purpose, but Dawn just really seemed to spark when we were there. Plus she saw a girl who reminded her of Janice, so that was rather nice. She did consider the others, I mean, you know how important school is for Dawn and she's only got two years left before college, but she decided that she needed something familiar. Think about it Giles, she's lost her mom, me, her home, her school, all of her friends, except for a couple who knew her email from before. I think that she just wants to see some familiar faces, at least it seems like that, because they're all American teens, whose families are also over here, working or living, or whatever."

Giles sighed. She was right, plus the school was as academically challenging as any of the English ones, or so he'd heard.

"Very well, that's fine. When does she start?"

"In January, after the holidays."

He nodded, "Well, I must go put these things away, and perhaps even take a bit of a nap before supper. I think all that jet lag is finally catching up to me. I'll see you later, then?"

Buffy nodded. She got up and wandered into the drawing room, then the kitchen, where the cook was busy cutting vegetables for the night's dinner.

"Would you be liking some tea, Miss Buffy?" Polly asked.

Polly was cook and all around bottle washer. She'd been working for Giles ever since they'd arrived, and from what Buffy had gathered, before, as well. They had known each other a long time and Giles said he trusted her to keep secrets, not that they talked openly in front of her about their...erm...business, but none-the-less. Polly, in her early 50's, had a kind face, with graying blonde hair, which she wore in a bun. She was only a little taller than Buffy, but had a bit of a matronly figure.

"No thanks, I'm just...I don't know...restless?"

"I see," she said, pausing for moment to look at Buffy, who took the opportunity to look down to examine her newest shoes.

She'd felt the sadness surrounding this young woman, ever since they'd arrived and had wanted to reach out to her somehow, but knew it really wasn't her place. But now, here she was, just a hurtin' all over and Polly couldn't help herself.

"Someone be missing from your life, isn't there, Miss Buffy?" Polly asked, in her mild Irish brogue.

Buffy's head shot up. She stared at Polly and saw only concern in her eyes. She didn't know why that this almost stranger's concern made a lump form in her throat, but it did. Maybe it was because nobody else ever brought him up anymore, and after all these months, neither did she. Even when she had, in the beginning, she'd been met with uncomfortable silences, as she tried to tell them finally, what Spike had meant to her and how much it hurt that he wasn't there.

Buffy nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

"Then why don't you go to him?" Polly asked, gently.

"I can't," she said, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks at any second.

"Sometimes things get complicated, I know. But if you be loving him and he be loving you, then you should really follow your heart. Heads are messy things that get in the way, sometimes."

Buffy let out a guffaw; "You don't know the half of it! I would...I would...but I can't go to him, he's dead. Spike's dead," she said, and this time the tears came."

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry Miss Buffy. I didn't mean to get you all upset, I didn't know...please forgive me stupid mouth me stupid nosiness," Polly said, mortified, as she came over to hug Buffy.

Buffy let herself be pulled into an embrace as the tears flowed.

"You want to talk about it?" Polly asked a few minutes later, after Buffy had straightened up.

Buffy shook her head.

"Well, if you ever do..." Polly said, gently.

Buffy nodded and started to leave the kitchen, then turned back to Polly, "He was English," she said, smiling, "but he hadn't lived here for a very long time."

"Ah, then Spike's not his real name, then. 'Course if he was American, it probably wouldn't be either, but I wasn't sure, lots of crazy sounding names I hear on TV that you American's have."

"Like mine?" she asked, grinning.

"Oh no, Miss Buffy. There are plenty of women here named that. It's a nickname for Elizabeth. That be your real name?"

Buffy shook her head. How one could get from Elizabeth to Buffy she'd never understand. It wasn't the first time that someone had asked her if that was her 'real' name, and it probably wouldn't be the last, either.

"William," Buffy said, "his name was William."

"William what?"

"Um...huh...? I don't know, he never told me...and I never asked."

"Well, I'm sure that he was a fine young man, if you loved him. The reason I asked about his family name is that most of our surnames here have such a long history. Just thought maybe you might find some comfort if you looked up his family or his ancestors, seeing that you're here and all that."

Buffy smiled a little, having just gotten an idea, "Thanks Polly...that's not a bad idea...I like it."

"You're welcome Miss Buffy. If you ever need anything..."

"I know. Thanks again," Buffy said, making her way back to Giles' library.

END CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3 - LONDON BOUND

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

DECEMBER 19, 2003

FRIDAY

8:00AM

After a long internal debate with himself, in which time he surely must have worn a path from the door to the window as he paced, as well as having gone through at least two packs of fags, Spike packed a small bag of clothes, stuffed it underneath his coat and left his small flat.

Angel had arranged it so that Spike had a small salary, if that's what the ponce wanted to call it. More like pocket change, just enough to keep him from being desperate; not nearly enough to do anything but merely survive on. At less than $100.00 a week, even with free rent, it didn't leave much left after gas and cigarettes, a bit of nosh.

How the hell was he going to get to London, without robbing a bank or something? Nah, not a bank, convenience store would be easier. Shit, he really didn't want to do that either.

Spike drove to Wolfram & Hart, as he did every morning, but this time, with the idea of caging enough cash, somehow, in order to fly to London!

He didn't know how he was going to accomplish this, as he couldn't very well go stealing from peoples pocketbooks and wallets, as security cameras were all over the place. Nor, did he want to just rip off a credit card, as that would surely be noticed.

Spike had spent his morning and afternoon trying to act as normal as possible and inconspicuous as possible, as he wandered about, looking for something, anything that could even be sold on the street for some money. He'd just have to disable a few cameras. However, he came up empty handed and was frustrated. He found himself on Angel's floor, knowing that Angel was out on a case. He'd even asked to go along, knowing he'd be turned down, but he didn't want to arouse suspicion by not acting interested. He caught himself staring longingly at the door, his fingers just itching to open it and once more, go inside and read Buffy's letters, but he knew his chance of not getting caught a second time would probably be nil. Plus, getting caught would only hamper his plans. That is, if he'd had any.

The answer to his dilemma came in a most unexpected way. As he wandered about, Fred, who was on her way to the mailroom, carrying a large box greeted him. He didn't mind her company at all, seeing as she was the only one who seemed to give a damn one way or the other about him.

"Hey, darlin' mind if I tag along?"

"Oh, hey Spike," Fred said, distractedly and giggled, like she sometimes did for no apparent reason, "just going to the mailroom to get this off. Have to do it ourselves, since we haven't hired another mail person, since the last one died."

"So, now you're science girl extraordinaire and mail person, eh?" Spike asked, walking backwards and holding out his arms, into which she placed the heavy carton.

"That's about it. I really don't have time for this either! Knox was just in the middle of an experiment and if I don't get back there in time to help him..."

"Why don't I just take it down for you then?" Spike asked, stopping.

"Would you really?"

"Why not? Not like I'm doing anything better with my time here. Poncy git won't let me participate at all, 'fraid I'll show his hero status up for what it really is, which is a load of..."

"Spike!" Fred's voice warned. She hated it when either Angel or Spike started going on about the other, for she was fond of both of them. Angel for what he was, how he had saved her from Pylea and was always helping people, and Spike for what he'd done to save the world. Not to mention he wasn't too bad on the eyes either and he always made her laugh, blush, or both.

"Alright, luv, alright. I won't go on about the poof for your sake and your sake only. Just get the box down to..."

"Just make sure that they get it out on the flight to France, first thing in the morning," she said, as she turned to head back the way she came, her tiny feet hurrying as much as they could.

France?

"Sure thing, I'll tell 'em," Spike answered and headed for the mailroom.

"Thanks Spike, good night! See you tomorrow," Fred yelled as she rounded the corner.

Spike glanced down at the box. It was being sent to an address in Paris.

The mailroom door was open, so he walked in and looked around. Finally he came to an employee's only door and walked in.

"What do you want? Only mail personnel are allowed in here!" barked a ruddy complexioned man in a brown, nondescript uniform.

"Sorry, mate. Got orders from science girl that you should get this on the morning plane to France."

The man grunted, grabbing the package from Spike.

"Watch out, I think it's fragile."

The man only grunted again, but set it down carefully in a mailbag on wheels.

"So, this is the mailroom, eh?" Spike said, making conversation, while he looked over the surroundings.

"Yeah, big deal. Need anything else?"

Spike's brain was going a thousand miles a second, trying to figure out a way for him to stay here for a while, when he spotted a big pileup of mail on one of the tables.

"Um, no, I don't need anything else, but it looks like you need something."

"Me? What would I need?"

"Oh, I don't know, but judging by the fact that you seem to be all alone, and there's that big pile of mail that doesn't seem to have moved in who knows how long, it would seem that you could maybe use some help. Unless you don't care what the senior partners think of the way you're running the mailroom," Spike said.

That did the trick, the man deflated, even shook slightly. "Cutbacks!" the man mumbled, miserably. "Don't know how they expect me to do all this, when it used to be done by three of us!"

"Pity that, stupid gits. Oh well, guess you must have something else lined up. Or," he paused, "do the senior partners even fire someone or do they just...?"

He shrugged apologetically, and started to turn.

"Wait!" the man called, "what did you say about help?"

Spike turned around; "You want my help?"

"Are you offering?"

Spike eyed the man, until he finally looked away, "Well, I was going to offer you a hand, seeing as my services upstairs aren't needed at the moment. Honestly, I've nothing else better to do, if you want..."

"I do. I'd...appreciate it. Ever sort mail?"

And so Spike stayed downstairs, sorting mail and packages, long into the evening.

"Say mate, what carrier services do you use to get these packages overseas?" he asked the man, whose name was Rudy.

"We don't use any carrier service, we fly them all over on Wolfram & Hart's private planes," Rudy answered.

"I see. Makes sense, probably don't want anyone nosing about, can't exactly claim 'demon brains,' on documentation, now can they?"

Rudy shook his head, turning just a pit pastier than he already was.

"So, where do the big shots keep their planes at? Can't imagine them being over at LAX, now can I?"

"They're underneath the building."

"Underneath?" Spike sputtered.

"Yep, right underneath the building is a large hangar, which actually opens up into these massive tunnels. The tunnels run right under the city, all the way to LAX in fact. Planes roll right out of our hangar there and onto Runway 10."

"Secret of course."

"Of course. If you want to see it, when we're done, you can help me take these downstairs."

"Sure," Spike said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. This was better than he thought.

An hour later, Rudy and Spike, with a cart full of mail and the package from Fred, were heading down to the hangar, via a secret elevator, located in the back of the mailroom. Well, actually in the back of an empty closet, in back of the mailroom.

The doors opened and Spike let out a soft whistle. It was, indeed, an airplane hangar. Huge and cavernous.

"This is it," Rudy said.

"I can see that. Where do the planes roll out at?"

Rudy pointed to a far wall, "There, it opens up. Now where the hell is Sam?"

"Who's Sam?"

"He's the one who's supposed to sign off on all these before I can leave." He looked at his watch and cursed, "Shit! I'm already late."

"Hot date?" Spike asked.

"Well, yes, but with my wife. It's her birthday. One time of year I'm almost sure to get some, after I take her out to a nice dinner, ply her with a bottle of her favorite wine, and give her a very expensive gift. But, not if I don't get out of here in time!" he said, darkly.

"Well, why don't I stay for you then, get it signed and all that?"

Rudy looked at him, hesitating. Then he looked at his watch again, realizing that his chance for loving was ticking away.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Spike. Just stick around until Sam comes by. You'll recognize him, by the lollypop that's sticking out of his mouth. Ever since he stopped smoking..."

Spike nodded. Not that he would give up smokes for lollypops.

"Need me to lock up or anything?"

"Nah, door automatically locks."

Rudy got on the elevator and gave Spike a wave goodbye.

Spike turned back towards the hangar and walked over to the plane to take a look. It was a cargo plane, with a large underbelly. He wondered what else besides mail might fit in there for Wolfram & Hart.

There was a deafening sound and the feel of an airlock being broken, as the wall on the far side of the room suddenly lifted upwards.

A small little service truck came driving in. It drove right over to Spike and stopped.

"Who are you?" asked the man, Spike recognized by the lollypop description.

"Sam, innit? Rudy asked me to have you sign off on these," he said, motioning towards the cart of mail.

"And where's Rudy?" he asked, suspiciously.

"He had a hot birthday date to keep with his wife," Spike smirked.

"Ah, yes," Sam said, smirking right back, "alright then, let's have 'em."

Spike handed over the ledger, and Sam signed his John Hancock to them.

"Um, where do I put these?"

"Just leave 'em there, Rudy'll pick them up tomorrow," Sam said, backing up the truck.

"Wait, can you make sure that top carton gets on the plane to France tomorrow morning? Science girl said it's important. Don't want her mad at me, anymore than Rudy wants his wife mad at him, if you get my drift," Spike said winking.

"There she is," he said, pointing to the plane, as he put the truck into gear, "just go ahead and use the stairs and put the package in there yourself. Just remember, it's your responsibility, then."

"I'll do that. Which way is the elevator again? Don't want to get stuck down here all night now, do I?"

Sam pointed behind Spike.

"Of course."

Sam rolled his eyes as he drove off. Damn stupid newbies!

Spike waited until Sam's truck had driven off, and the door to the hangar had closed before walking up the stairs to the plane's cargo hold. He looked in; it was already jammed with packages, all on their way to Europe. He placed his package near the door, behind some orange mesh that held the rest of the packages in place while the plane was in flight. He found some old tarps in the back and hoped that they wouldn't be using all of those, as he planned on hiding under a few of them.

He went back down the stairs, and sent the elevator up, so it would look like he'd left. Then he went over to a desk in the corner, rifling through it for anything that might come in handy. He found about $60.00 made up of one $20, and the 8 $5's. He left the larger bill on top, and took all the $5's, replacing them with $1's and hoped that Sam didn't notice for a while. He also took some lollypops, seeing as it was going to be a good long time until he could light up again.

He walked back up the flight of stairs to the cargo hold and over to the farthest wall. Pulling two tarps on top of himself, he lay down against the wall and waited.

END CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4 - WILLIAM CHANCE TOWE

LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 20, 2003

2:00PM

William Chance Towe, Buffy repeated to herself. William, meaning protector. Chance, meaning, inveterate gambler, someone who has survived by good luck, and Towe, meaning, vigorous, steadfast, stubborn. Suited him, she thought.

It had been surprisingly easy to find out Spike's name, once she'd found the Watcher's Diaries and did a little cross referencing.

William Chance Towe. Born August 15, 1852 to Anne Blakinship Chance and Henry William Towe. Educated at Oxford, graduated, 1874. Studied Classical Literature and Languages. Disappeared and presumed dead 1880. Never married. No children.

The story picks up, of course, when Spike, travelling with Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla makes his not-so-subtle presence known across Europe in the late 1800's and into the early 1900's, after which, they go on to America.

Buffy took down an address and closed the books, returning them to their places on Giles' shelves.

The next day, Buffy transferred to her second bus, getting off at Bartholomew Street, near the Health Center and walked for the next couple of blocks until she came to the street whose name she'd copied down.

From Giles' house, she could have almost walked, being that it was only a couple of miles, but it also intersected some major thoroughfares, so she'd opted for public transportation. Buffy now stood in front of the house at 22 Patshull Road. It was a medium to largish sized red brick house, on a street of similarly sized homes. It had at least 2 stories, maybe a third. Buffy wasn't sure it was a third story or the attic, or both. There was a garden in the front, along with some shade trees, enclosed by a short 3' redwood stained fence and gate.

There seemed to be a small stone crest of arms set into the brick above the window, though she couldn't see it's design from across the street, but she'd seen similar since coming to London. The heavy wooden door was painted a pale shade of green, contrasting with the brick, and there was some Victorian-looking scrollwork along the sides of it, matching those of the porch's wooden rails.

Buffy squinted at something in the yard; it appeared to be some sort of sign. She crossed the street to get a better glance at it.

It read:

Room for rent, please inquire inside. It also gave a phone number.

Buffy continued to stare at the house for a while longer. She was just about to walk off, when the door opened and a woman appeared in it, startling Buffy.

"Miss? Are you interested in seeing the room we have?" she asked. "If you are hurry and come on in, I have to leave in a few minutes.

Buffy swallowed, "Um...yes, I am...thanks," she said, as she opened the gate and walked up the sidewalk.

"Name's McTavish, Margaret."

"Um...Winters, Anne," Buffy said.

"So, you're American then, eh? Are you over here to work or go to school?"

"Work mostly, though my sister is also in school."

"Well, this room is only for one person..."

"Oh, that's alright, she's staying with relatives. I just thought maybe I'd like to get out on my own."

"This seems to be quite an old house," Buffy commented, looking around appreciatively at the beautifully done interior, the wine red carpet and cream and wine chairs and settee, "I mean that in a good way," she added quickly.

"That it is," Margaret McTavish agreed, as she walked her through the drawing room, dining area, and out to the kitchen.

"I'm sort of a history buff," she said, winging it as she went on, "I'm doing my thesis on the Victorian Era."

"I thought you said you worked?" she asked worried. Last thing she needed was a poor student who couldn't pay.

"Yes, well...I work, but I'm also working on my thesis, but I've got over a year to finish it, as the professor is doing a sabbatical abroad at the moment. So, yep, mostly working right now," she lied, grateful that she'd picked up all the lingo of academia from Willow and Giles.

Margaret sighed in relief.

"You wouldn't happen to know the history of this place, would you? Or of any of the previous occupants?"

Margaret looked at her and brightened, "As a matter of fact, what you're seeing here is about what this house looked like originally. A couple of years ago we had the interior all stripped down to its Victorian Era splendor. You wouldn't believe the layers of paint and wallpaper that lay...well, nevermind that. Let's just say it cost a pretty penny and an ungodly amount of time."

"I can imagine," Buffy said, and she could.

"Problem is my husband has taken ill for the past couple of years and hasn't been able to work, that's why I'm advertising for boarders. In fact, that's where I'm heading when you're done looking; over to the convalescent home to visit him."

Buffy looked at Margaret McTavish. She couldn't have been much more than 40 years old, much too young to have a husband in a convalescent home.

"I'm sorry," she said, "how long has he been there?"

"A couple of months," Margaret said, "they might let me bring him home for Christmas though. Even if it's only for a couple of days, I think it will help cheer him up," she added.

Margaret went back to her role as tour guide, and Buffy dropped the subject.

"Do you happen to know the history of this place? Of the former occupants, by any chance?"

"Well, it just so happens, that my husband's mother was related to the very early owners, so when this place came up for sale, my husband and I grabbed it up. Their name was Towe. Anne and Henry, had a son named William. Not much known about them and what is known is pretty sad. Father died while William was a boy, he went missing when he was about 28, and his mother died right afterwards. At least, that's what is presumed, as neither the son, nor the mother's bodies were ever found. Still, there's a grave marker next to the father's for them in the cemetery.

Buffy's heart was pounding. She was actually taking to a relative of Spike's.

"What cemetery?"

"Ack! I forget the name, but I'll think of it in a few minutes. Would you like to see that room now?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure," Buffy said, following Margaret up a narrow staircase to the second floor.

"This is the room," Margaret said, opening the door to a small room, probably no larger than 10 x 10 feet. It had one small wardrobe in it, a narrow twin bed, although slightly wider and longer than the usual twins she'd known, yet smaller than a double, there was also a small bureau and dresser, and one Victorian looking chair off in the corner.

"So, what do you think Miss Winters? It's not much, but it's comfortable. The loo is down the hall. There's a shower and bath in there, also. Long as you don't need it from 6:30am -7:00am, then we'll get on fine together."

"Um, I'll have to let you know, Margaret. It's very nice, but I had a couple of more rooms to look at today."

"I understand. Just let me know, alright."

"I will. By the way, this room...do you know whose room this was?"

"Yes, this was the son, William's room."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, if the little drawing in the family bible doesn't lie, then I do believe that would be correct. Plus, the larger one down the hall, would probably have been the parents, and the other one, by the way it was designed, was probably for servants, presuming they had them, which I am."

"This bed, is it...?"

"Good eye, Miss Winters. Yes, it is original, though not the bedding, of course, it's been redone."

Buffy sat on the edge of it, sinking into the feather like softness, and ran her hand over the wooden headboard; imagining Spike laying here as a boy, dreaming of things, reciting schoolwork passages to himself...

"Um, Miss Winters? Would you like to see the attic? I haven't been up there in ages, but I do believe that there are a few things up there that belonged to the original owners."

Buffy nodded, trying not to seem too enthusiastic.

Margaret grabbed a couple of torches and they went up the stairs. The attic was large, covered in the usual spider webs and dust that attics invariably were covered in. Margaret walked ahead to the far right corner of the attic.

"This is where some of the older stuff is," Margaret said, pointing to a trunk, "I'm not sure whose stuff this really was, as this house has had a lot of owners in the past 150 years. I have to make a phone call to let the home know I'm going to be a bit late. Just come on down when you're done, okay?"

"Thanks, I won't be long," Buffy said, kneeling down.

Buffy set the torch down, it's light pointing up, and with both hands, she pulled the lid up. The first thing she came to was an old quilt. Underneath it were clothes, both men's and women's. She handled them carefully, taking in the intricate designs of the dresses, as well as the tiny, tiny waists. Even as small as she was, she was pretty sure that she would be terribly uncomfortable having to be drawn and quartered into a corset in order to wear them. Next she looked at the men's clothing, wondering if it was the father's or William's. She ran her fingers down the sleeves of one of the shirts and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She smiled when she got a faint scent of something that seemed to register inside her mind as Spike, though she suspected that it was as much her imagination as anything. Obviously, no smoke, whiskey, or leather smells, just a faint something else.

She lay the clothes on the inside of the opened lid, which was propped up against some boxes, to keep them from getting dirty, and looked further at the rest of the contents of the trunk.

There were various trinkets, a bit of jewelry, a ring, and then at the very bottom she found some old notebooks, on top which was written, Property of William C. Towe, in Spike's familiarly peculiar handwriting. Her hands shook as she lifted them out.

She opened the first book and read the inscription. William ChanceTowe, 9 August 1875.

She started reading:

I've been out of school now almost a full year, and still have not found any work related to that which I studied for. It's all very discouraging, yet I soldier on.

It is the same on the social front. Almost all of my mates from school have now married or are engaged and it seems only I and one other, Percy haven't as of yet. Though as for Percy, I'm not sure he even like women, so then it's just me.

I have however recently seen a sister of a friend of mine who has taken my breath away, oh that she would notice me, the lovely Cecily Adams.

Buffy wondered if that was the same woman, who 6 years later told William that he was beneath her, causing him to run out to a fate which he didn't know awaited him in the shadows.

She wanted to read more of his journals, but she knew that Margaret was waiting for her to leave so that she could go visit her husband. Quickly her mind went over her options. Slip the journals into her purse, ask to borrow them, or ask to come again. She opted for the latter. Sighing, she replaced the journals and then the clothes on top. She was just about to close the lid, when she saw there was a compartment between the lid and its shiny lining, much like the top of a suitcase. She pulled the lining a little, and the metal rivets creaked and flexed. She reached in and there were about two dozen photographs and letters. She quickly put aside the letters, which from what she could tell, were between Henry and Anne and looked at the photos. There was one of a chubby faced baby. She smiled, when upon closer examination, she saw the telltale distinctive little round chin of his, the broad forehead and straight nose. She turned the card over and it said, 1853, making him about 1 year old at the time. His round, almost cherubic face was graced with the fullest set of brown curls she'd ever seen. She giggled, looking at the dressing gown he was in. He almost looked like a little girl. God, Spike would have been so embarrassed and she, Buffy Summers, would have so enjoyed it. Suddenly she stopped giggling and she found that her eyes had filled with tears.

"Damnit! I wish you were here to be embarrassed you stupid vampire!"

There were some other pictures of him as a boy, lots of his parents; his mother's features most like his, from what she could tell of the old daguerreotypes.

Then right before she put them back, she finally saw one of William as a young man. Her heart sped up, as this was undeniably the face of Spike, albeit, with a more gentle look than Spike usually wore, and with period style clothes and hair. But still...it was his face, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips...

Buffy's breath hitched in her chest as she fought for control.

This picture, his baby picture, and one of him and his parents, she slipped into her purse.

She finished putting everything else away and made her way downstairs, after once more looking into William's old bedroom. She thanked Margaret, said she'd let her know about renting the room, and asked permission to come and look in the attic again.

"Sure, why not. Just call first, alright?"

"Thank you, I will."

END CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5 - ARRIVAL

PARIS, FRANCE

DECEMBER 20, 2003

11:00PM

Spike shook himself off and looked around him, trying to get a sense of which way to head. It had been a long and boring flight for him, locked down in the cargo hold with only a couple of lollypops to tide him over. Truth be told, he had also not enjoyed the cold. Funny, coming from him, but he'd been spoiled he supposed by living with humans for so long; first in Sunnydale and now, what with mulit-million dollar fancy office complexes.

Cold crypts or cargo holds for that matter, just didn't do it for him anymore. He needed the warmth, the sensory perceptions. He needed a bloody cigarette the whole fucking flight!

He looked back at Orly Airport, through the fields he had just run through, trying to get his bearings. It had been pretty easy to slip out unnoticed after the cargo hold had been opened up and after the packages had been taken off of the plane. But, he had been concerned that they would close the hatch back up afterwards, which meant he would have had to make either a hole in the plane to get out, which he wasn't sure he would have been able to do, or make a racket, bringing attention to himself. Luckily, he hadn't had to do either.

He'd just simply jumped down and strode off through the darkened runway, until he came to a fence, which he easily scrambled over.

He heard the soft lowing of a cow nearby and followed the sound.

"Sorry mate," he said to the Jersey, which stood alone, chewing it's cud, "this won't hurt you too much, but I really am hungry." Spike slipped into game face and grabbed onto the cow's neck, biting down and letting the warm blood slip over his tongue and down his throat. The cow stood still, unconcerned, as Spike drank for the next few minutes.

"Well, not quite as tasty as otter, but a lot better than that pig swill. Thanks," Spike said, giving the obliging cow a pat on the rump, as he made his way toward the road.

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He hitched a ride with a truck driver heading toward Calais, where he could catch a ferry across the channel to the Motherland. It wasn't until he was almost halfway there, that he finally understood the man's broken English, that he could have taken a train and been in London tonight.

He sighed. So much he didn't know about Europe anymore, how to get around being close to the top of the list.

By the time the truck pulled into Calais, Spike could see that it was only another hour to dawn. He would have to wait until the next evening to go any further.

He found an old warehouse on the outskirts of town, which looked like it hadn't been used in years, and settled in for the day.

He awoke around 6:00pm the following evening, feeling a sense of anticipation. Hurriedly, he headed towards the ferry station to find out the schedules. There was a ferry leaving around 8:00pm that would get him to Dover around 10:00pm, but he'd still have to get to London. He asked where the train station was and found that the Eurostar stopped in Calais for passengers around 10pm and would get to London about an hour later. Much better.

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LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 21, 2003

11:30PM

Spike stood outside the rail station in the middle of London, wondering what he should do next. His initial enthusiasm wore off once he realized he hadn't a clue as to where he would be going once he arrived.

He wandered around London that night, from the inner city, to it's more outer reaches, trying to get a feel for the city he'd left so many years before. It was getting towards morning when he found himself in his third cemetery for the night; hoping that he'd get a sense that she'd been there, hoping that maybe while Buffy was in London, she would go out patrolling.

He amused himself with fantasies of her tackling him, straddling him, ready to stake the the Big Bad, only to realize it was him. Her stake would drop, as a look of amazement would cross her features, next thing, she would be in his arms, kissing him passionately as he... Or, more likely, she would think he was just another wanker, like the one she saw, who reminded her of him and she would stake him accidentally before he got so much the chance to say, 'Bloody hell, Slayer!'

He sighed. Not realizing it, he had wound up in front of his family's old home. He peered through the darkness at it. It still looked almost the same. He stood there for a long time, realizing that he should be hurrying to get away from the coming dawn, but mesmerized by memories and something else which drifted ever so softly over his senses. He didn't notice when the lights came on, or when the front door opened.

"Hello! You, across the street, what do you want?" Margaret McTavish called out.

Spike looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Well? Are you here about the room or are you casing the place, because if it's the latter, just want you to know I'll be calling the authorities straight away."

Room? Spike saw the sign then.

"The former. Ma'am."

"Well, this is a hell of a time to come round looking for a room, isn't it?"

Spike looked up at the sky. Time to think quickly.

"I wasn't really coming to call right now, just coming off my job at the pub and thought I'd do a walk-by and see what the house looked like and all that."

She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

"Work nights then, do you?" she asked, motioning him over.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well, I work most days, but sometimes I'm home. Regular noises going to bother you?"

"No, I sleep like the dead."

She cautiously opened up the door for him; "I've had some other inquiries, too. There was a young American woman here just yesterday asking after the room," Margaret said, thinking about her.

"I see," Spike said, distractedly.

"I don't think she is coming back though. Think I would've heard from her. She seemed to be more interested in the history of the house and its former occupants than the room."

Spike barely was listening to her, lost as he was in looking around. He walked ahead of Margaret over to the dining drawing room, noting the fireplace, the ceilings, the walls, little things about it that had been forever etched into his mind's eye as a boy. He walked over to the windows, peering briefly through the drapes, up at the lightening sky.

She talked about the rooms as they went through them, but Spike barely heard. They were at the top of the stairs now and then she was opening the door to his former bedroom.

She looked over at him. He had such a world weary, sad look on his face, as he tentatively walked around the room.

"I'll take it," he said softly.

"What?" she asked, not knowing if she'd heard correctly.

"I'll take it," he repeated.

"Well, usually I do a background check and..." she stopped to look at him, he had sat down on the bed, his head in his hands.

"Um...what do I call you?"

He looked up at her and she was touched by the pain she saw in his eyes for a mere second. Then it was gone.

"Call?"

"Your name?"

"Spike. William, if you'd prefer."

"William," she said, just like the person who had once lived here. Suited her that his name should be the same, somehow.

"I'm Margaret McTavish. So, William...when would you like to move in?"

"Now."

"Now? As in now? Right now?"

Spike nodded, then cleared his throat, "See, person I was with, I got kicked out, so if you don't mind, yeah, now would suit me fine," Spike said, reaching in and handing Margaret the rest of his cash, which amounted to about $42 and some change, American. "I can get more tonight, for the first month's rent. And in pounds, too."

She looked at the money suspiciously, "Why do you have dollars?"

"Only money I made tonight at the pub was by some American who tipped in dollars. Spent all my pounds on some dinner. I'm sorry. I can change it over later if you wish."

"You say you got kicked out? You're not just looking for a place to stay for the night are you? Because I'm not running some flop house, you know."

Spike shook his head; "No, I shalln't be going back there and I really would like to rent this room," he said, looking up at her, his eyes pleading.

She shook her head, knowing that he wasn't being totally up-front with her, yet somehow trusting him none-the-less.

"Alright, William. I'll rent you this room for a month. See how we get on with each other. At the end of that time, if it doesn't work out, I don't want any problems, understand?"

Spike nodded.

"You have any other stuff to bring over?"

Spike thought about it, he didn't, but he figured he'd buy some stuff later tonight to satisfy her, rather than her just think him a vagabond, a homeless person, a vagrant, which in all honesty, he did rather fit those descriptions, just didn't care to think of himself in those terms.

"Um, yeah, I'll pick up my things from my old flat tonight and bring 'em over. Don't have much anyway."

She nodded, "Alright then, I'll leave you be. If you want anything...well, there's food and tea in the kitchen. Loo is down the hall."

She started to leave when all of a sudden he realized what she'd said to him downstairs.

"Mrs. McTavish? What did you say about an American woman looking after the room?"

"It's Margaret. And to answer your question, nothing much, though I was pretty sure she was going to take it, as interested as she seemed to be. At least she was very interested in the history of it and its former residents."

"Did she know them?"

"From about 150 years ago? I think not! Said she was doing her dissertation on the Victorian Era. Something like that. She said she'd like to come back and look at more of that old stuff in the attic, so maybe you'll meet her."

He tried to keep his voice even, "What did she say her name was? She sounds rather familiar; lots of them college types come into the pub and all that."

"Think she said her name was..." Margaret looked up and stifled a yawn. Head would work better after she had her tea, "oh yeah, Anne Winters. Yeah, that was it. Know her?"

"I might," Spike said, evenly.

"Well, goodnight then, or good morning, whichever you'll be going by."

Spike nodded as she left the room, closing the door after her. He stood up and threw his duster onto the chair in the corner, then collapsed on the bed.

His head spun as he took it all in, the flight, being back in London, his old room, even his old bed. And...Anne Winters? Could that possibly be...?

Buffy's middle name, forever remembered from when he'd visited her grave all those 147 days, a couple of years ago; sat running his fingers over the inscription again and again and again. Winters, the opposite meaning of her last name. It was almost so bloody obvious, as to be funny. Therefore, it really couldn't be anything other than a cruel coincidence; a joke from The Powers that Be. Probably just some silly, overeducated bint trying to make a name for herself, get herself published...

Spike curled up on his side, pulling the blanket around him and was immediately assailed by her scent coming from the side of the bed. Tears stung his eyes, all the while he inhaled deeply, knowing that his mind had to be playing tricks on him. Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, his face in the spot he imagined her scent so clearly.

END CHAPTER 5

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