+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
The cold drink in his hand did nothing to make Spike feel better as he wandered aimlessly through the graveyard. Actually, he wasn't wandering aimlessly, he was looking for someone; he was looking for *her*. He was looking for the person who haunted him night and day, for the person who he both loved and hated with all his heart, the person who caused him so much pain, but who he just couldn't bear to be apart from. Spike was looking for Buffy Summers : The Slayer. Even her name called forth a million emotions and thoughts. At first he'd just dismissed these feelings, but now he found he couldn't; they were far too strong. Of course he could never tell her about any of this, if he did, he was sure he'd quickly find himself on the sharp end of a very nasty stake. So he kept everything to himself, aware that one day he'd *have* to tell her, or anybody, just to keep his sanity, but also aware that that day didn't need to be for a long time yet. There was no moon that night, so he was relying on his memory, which was getting pretty fuzzy from the drink, to navigate through the graves. This was the time of year he hated more than any other, the time of year he despised almost as much as the incapacitating government chip in his brain which prevented him from killing. It was Spike's birthday. Unlike most people, he didn't hate it because it showed he was getting older, he hated it because of the memories it brought with it. The memories of the person he used to be and hoped to never be again. Shy, vulnerable, hopless William...
+*+_+*+_+1876+_+*+_+*+
His heart swelled with pride as he watched in anticipation as his father read the first poem William had ever written and seen fit to show the old man. It was his 22nd birthday. John Smith's expression stayed blank as he read through the short one page composition, only when he'd finished it and handed it back did it change.
"You call that rubbish a poem?" he sneered and watched as his only son's slight smile fell from his young face and was replaced by a look of sadness. John rose from his favourite chair, slightly unsteady from the drink he'd earlier consumed and drew himself up to his full, terrifying height. William cowered in front of him.
"S-sorry, father." he stammered, trying to grab the piece of paper which held his best work yet from the thick fingers of the man he and his mother feared so. John pushed his son back and took one last look at the poem before proceeding to rip it into shreds. "No!" William exclaimed, but didn't dare step forward and try to stop what was happening before him. When the piece of crisp, white paper was fully ripped up, John threw it at his son's feet and spat on it viciously. William gulped, trying to contain his fear, and started to back away whilst his father reached for his near empty bottle of brandy which he'd been drinking all night.
"Where do you think you're going, boy?" His deep, rumbling voice halted William, who turned to see John holding the brown glass bottle as though it were a weapon.
"J-just upstairs, father," He replied meekly "I need to see if mother needs anything." John shook his head and looked at his son with utter disgust, but for what reason, William couldn't place. His mother had been ill with a mysterious disease for coming near a month now and since John spent most of his time in the local pubs, it was up to him to look after her.
"I'll tell you what she needs," the formidable giant slurred, beginning to advance "She needs someone to put a pillow over her face and hold it there." William was horrified, and he made sure his expression showed it. "Will you do that for me, boy?" John laughed. His son shook his head, desperately searching for an escape route as he recognised the look in John's wide eyes. If he didn't get out soon, he was going to wake up the next morning with a whole lot of bruises. "You disobeying me, young William?" He seemed to be teasing him now. Finally, William made a dash for the door, but John caught him and threw what would be the first punch of many...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
Spike found he couldn't finish the brandy in his hand, discovering it to be tasteless with the memory of his father, and threw it aside. Anyway, he didn't need it, he was already drunk. He sat down heavily on a flat gravestone and hiccuped as he slowly began to count up his age, which by now, he knew to be quite large. His mind, clouded by alcohol, was forced to think. If he was 22 in 1876, that meant he was 26 when he was turned in 1880, that was 121 years ago; so all he had to do was add 26 and 121 together and it was say he was... Spike made a face in the darkness. He was 147. This wasn't old by vampire standards, but it was ancient by his. Everyone he knew had fully expected him to get staked before the turn of the century, but here he was, still walking the earth like he had when he was human. Spike rubbed his temples as his mind made it's complaint at being made to do sums in it's present state, but was momentarily relieved that it had been distracted from it's usual thoughts of Buffy. He glanced around, but she was still nowhere to be seen. He sighed and wished he hadn't thrown his drink away. All of a sudden, Spike found himself longing for his mother, Elizabeth, who he'd never really lost affection for. But he knew best of all that she was long gone, having died 124 years ago to that very day...
+*+_+*+_+1877+_+*+_+*+
The room was extremely dark when William entered, and he had to struggle to make out the thin figure of his mother under the covers of the small bed she lay in. He closed the door quietly, thinking she was alseep due to her lack of movement.
"William?" a weak voice croaked, sounding entirely unlike the one his mother had used to sing him lullabies when he was a child, but like the one of a very sick, ageing woman.
"Yes, mother, it's me." he replied softly, sitting down on the bed next to her. A tiny smile formed on her pale lips, she loved her son more than anything, but he didn't come to see her as much as he used to, not since John had threatened that he was going to get rid of her if he continued to lavish affection on her and stay up there all day. "How are you?"
Elizabeth coughed as her answer, and William was dismayed to see a thin trickle of blood run from the corner of her mouth. He knew it wouldn't be long before she died, so that was why he'd chanced a visit to her while John was out. "Do you know what day it is?" he asked. She tried to shake her head, but found herself too weak, however, he had caught the movement so told her. "It's my birthday, mother." William whispered, trying to refrain himself from crying as he looked closer at her skeletal body which was dwarfed by all around her.
"Oh!" She exclaimed with a cough "I had no idea!" He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from distressing herself and waited for the coughing to cease before comforting her.
"It's alright, I don't mind in the slightest." He told her truthfully. All he wanted was for her to get better, but that was seeming less and less likely to happen.
"How old are you now, William my dear?" Elizabeth queried, hating that she had to ask, but knowing that she must.
"I'm 23, mother." He answered simply.
"23." she repeated, tears forming in the clear blue eyes which resembled his so much "Why, it seems like only yesterday you were a baby on my lap." Then a tear did fall.
"Why do you cry?" William asked her, clearly worried. Elizabeth didn't get to answer, but had she been able to, she would have told him it was because she was so proud of him, because at that moment, John crashed through the door. He ordered William out, and when asked why, he replied innocently that he wished for some time with his wife. William reluctantly left the small room, but stood not far from the door. A few minutes later, John emerged and announced that his mother had died...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
An anguished cry echoed through the graveyard as Spike thought over that terrible night. He still didn't know to that day if his father had actually killed his beloved mother, or, as he claimed, that she had just died of natural circumstances. He had once been told that because he had been a willing participant when he had been turned into a vampire, that part of his human soul had stayed on, which would explain why he still felt his heart break when he thought of Elizabeth's death. Spike had done a lot of research after the gypsy had told him that, and found that many cultures believed that even vampires possess souls, but they are different than human souls. And he also found a text which proved the gypsy to be right. He'd never told anyone about that, thinking that he'd be considered a freak if anyone knew. He laughed bitterly.
"We couldn't have that, could we?" he slurred to the emptiness around him, thinking of how other vampires addressed him now he was chipped. Spike ran a hand through his bleached hair and found himself longing for his natural sandy blond hair colour, the white was cool and all, but it was beginning to get annoying. Plus, Buffy might prefer it. The vampire growled at this thought. He was sick of her taking up all his free thoughts; invading his mind. Just like Cecily had done...
+*+_+*+_+1879+_+*+_+*+
To others, Cecily was just another one of the many pretty girls who attended the parties thrown by the arisocrats of London, but to William Smith, she was exceptional. He saw her for the very first time on the night before his 25th birthday. He was at a party which was thown every year on the same day to commemorate something or other which William had long since forgotten about. It was a nice coincidence that the party was just before his birthday, it meant that he got to cheer himself up. He was just pouring himself another glass of the whiskey which was on offer, when he heard her voice for the first time. It sounded as sweet as an angel's. William hurredly turned around to see who the heavenly voice belonged to and almost dropped his glass when he spotted her. She stood in the center of the main group of people in a pure white dress, her hair had been piled on top of her head and fastened in place with a beautiful cream ribbon. William leant over to the person next to him, not even bothering to see who it was he was about to address.
"Who is the woman over there, may I ask?" he queried in almost a whisper.
"You mean Cecily?" The old man replied. He continued to speak, but William wasn't listening, all he could focus on was her. The room seemed to fade away around him.
"Cecily." he mumbled to himself, tasting her name on his tongue. He gulped down some of the strong whiskey and left the rest on the side table before nervously wandering over to her as if in a trance.
"...Last Tuesday." she was saying. William muscled his way through the crowd and stood just on the brink of the group. Finally, the holder of the party, Matthew Thomas, noticed him and motioned for him to come forward.
"Have you met Miss Cecily, William?" he asked, watching his reaction carefully. It was common knowledge, even to the man himself, that Matthew didn't like him, but he invited him year after year out of respect for his desceased mother who had delivered his wife's child.
"No, I don't believe so," he managed to answer and held out his hand "William Smith." he announced to the angel in front of him. Cecily extended her own hand and shook his briefly, her pale skin making his own tingle. From then on he was hooked. It was just a shame that she didn't seem in the least bit interested...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
A half smile played over Spike's lips as he remembered how he'd felt whenever he'd seen her. Like all the troubles of life would disappear as soon as she spoke. That wasn't a shade on how he felt about Buffy. He had begun to make his way back to his crypt after realising that he'd probably missed the Slayer, and was making sure he walked extra slow, just in case. The cigarette in his mouth remained unlit whilst he searched for his trusty Zippo lighter in the leather coat he'd taken from the second Slayer he'd killed. He eventually found it and paused to take the first drag of it. Then he was on his way again. Marching back to his personal Hell. Spike wished that the next year's birthday had been as simple as that one. But it hadn't been, he'd gone from each extreme to the next. Sadness that his father had died two nights earlier despite how awful he had been, happiness at seeing Cecily, the profound agony at being rejected by her, and the ecstacy of being made a vampire by Drusilla...
+*+_+*+_+1880+_+*+_+*+
It was a full moon which lit the graveyard on William's 26th birthday, casting shadows on the faces of those who watched his own grave in anticipation.
"You know, if he's pathetic we will have to stake him." Darla was saying, mainly to tease Drusilla, but also to tell her what would have to be done in such a case.
"He's wonderful," Dru sang dreamily, kneeling down to the dirt and running a hand over his name which had been carved into the expensive stone. "I looked into his heart and saw his future." Darla raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed, she doubted very much that Dru could distinguish the difference between pathetic and wonderful in her confused state. She leant into Angelus, who didn't take his eyes from the newly dug grave. He was actually a bit excited to see who his Childe had chosen to make a vampire, it would be interesting to have someone new in the group, someone he could mould into the kind of vampire he wanted to have around. The ground suddenly shifted and a mound formed in the dirt, out of it shot a pale hand. A few minutes later, William stood before them, glancing around in wonder at what he could see now which he could not see before. Darla cocked her head to one side and stared at him, trying to decide what to make of the dishevelled gentleman before them. He was handsome enough, with some proper grooming he would look better, but there was something in his overall manner she didn't like. It was like he was over-confident in his own quiet way, like a panther ready to pounce. She only wondered if they were his prey.
"Wondeful." Drusilla whispered, gazing into William's crystal blue eyes. Angelus found himself wishing he could see what she saw. For when she got that look in her eyes, he knew she wasn't seeing what was before her, she was seeing the future.
"Well, I'm hungry," William announced with a smile, showing off that quiet confidence which Darla had detected "Lets say we go crash a party and have ourselves a nice meal." With that he took Drusilla's arm and began to lead her in the direction of a grand hall down the street that was holding the party which was at first scheduled for the day before but which had been cancelled due to William's own death. Angelus decided he didn't like him. He seemed so sure of himself, even though he'd been completely changed forever; however, he and his Sire followed the pair in front into the hall and watched as William had his first taste of human blood. Of Cecily's human blood...
+*+_+*+_+Present+*+_+*+_+
For the first time that night, Spike broke into a smile which wasn't tainted with bitterness or anger. That had been one of the best nights of his life. He remembered how Cecily had looked just before she had died; truly petrified. And he remembered how that had made him feel, like a God who had just risen from the Underworld and was wreaking havoc on everyone and everything around him. It was a shame every night wasn't as sweet as that. Spike reached his crypt and tossed away his cigarette before ambling inside, considerably happier than when he'd first left it and taking pleasure that the happiness hadn't stemmed from the Slayer for once. He was about to take off his black t-shirt when he spotted something on top of his old, battered portable t.v set. It was a note addressed to him. He froze, recognising the handwriting at once; it belonged to Drusilla. Spike warily shuffled over and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. A tear fell down his cheek as he read it, not knowing whether it fell from happiness or sadness. Drusilla had written down the poem which his father had shredded all those years ago, and underneath, in her spidery scrawl, had put simply : "Dear Spike, I will see you soon, my love. Drusilla."Spike held the paper to his still chest, amazed how she had gathered the knowledge to write down that poem word for word. That, he decided, was one of the benefits of having a Sire who could see things in the future and the past. He folded the note back up and put it beside his bed. He stripped down to his boxers and clamboured into the double bed he had once shared with Harmony, glancing more than once at the present his beloved had left for him. Just before Spike fell asleep, he almost subconsciously muttered the first word he'd ever heard when he'd risen as a vampire.
"Wonderful."
That night, for the first time in months, his dreams stayed free of thoughts and images of Buffy, instead he thought of Drusilla and wondered how long it would be before he saw her again, knowing that when he did, he would finally drag himself away from dreary little William and be Spike once more.
The cold drink in his hand did nothing to make Spike feel better as he wandered aimlessly through the graveyard. Actually, he wasn't wandering aimlessly, he was looking for someone; he was looking for *her*. He was looking for the person who haunted him night and day, for the person who he both loved and hated with all his heart, the person who caused him so much pain, but who he just couldn't bear to be apart from. Spike was looking for Buffy Summers : The Slayer. Even her name called forth a million emotions and thoughts. At first he'd just dismissed these feelings, but now he found he couldn't; they were far too strong. Of course he could never tell her about any of this, if he did, he was sure he'd quickly find himself on the sharp end of a very nasty stake. So he kept everything to himself, aware that one day he'd *have* to tell her, or anybody, just to keep his sanity, but also aware that that day didn't need to be for a long time yet. There was no moon that night, so he was relying on his memory, which was getting pretty fuzzy from the drink, to navigate through the graves. This was the time of year he hated more than any other, the time of year he despised almost as much as the incapacitating government chip in his brain which prevented him from killing. It was Spike's birthday. Unlike most people, he didn't hate it because it showed he was getting older, he hated it because of the memories it brought with it. The memories of the person he used to be and hoped to never be again. Shy, vulnerable, hopless William...
+*+_+*+_+1876+_+*+_+*+
His heart swelled with pride as he watched in anticipation as his father read the first poem William had ever written and seen fit to show the old man. It was his 22nd birthday. John Smith's expression stayed blank as he read through the short one page composition, only when he'd finished it and handed it back did it change.
"You call that rubbish a poem?" he sneered and watched as his only son's slight smile fell from his young face and was replaced by a look of sadness. John rose from his favourite chair, slightly unsteady from the drink he'd earlier consumed and drew himself up to his full, terrifying height. William cowered in front of him.
"S-sorry, father." he stammered, trying to grab the piece of paper which held his best work yet from the thick fingers of the man he and his mother feared so. John pushed his son back and took one last look at the poem before proceeding to rip it into shreds. "No!" William exclaimed, but didn't dare step forward and try to stop what was happening before him. When the piece of crisp, white paper was fully ripped up, John threw it at his son's feet and spat on it viciously. William gulped, trying to contain his fear, and started to back away whilst his father reached for his near empty bottle of brandy which he'd been drinking all night.
"Where do you think you're going, boy?" His deep, rumbling voice halted William, who turned to see John holding the brown glass bottle as though it were a weapon.
"J-just upstairs, father," He replied meekly "I need to see if mother needs anything." John shook his head and looked at his son with utter disgust, but for what reason, William couldn't place. His mother had been ill with a mysterious disease for coming near a month now and since John spent most of his time in the local pubs, it was up to him to look after her.
"I'll tell you what she needs," the formidable giant slurred, beginning to advance "She needs someone to put a pillow over her face and hold it there." William was horrified, and he made sure his expression showed it. "Will you do that for me, boy?" John laughed. His son shook his head, desperately searching for an escape route as he recognised the look in John's wide eyes. If he didn't get out soon, he was going to wake up the next morning with a whole lot of bruises. "You disobeying me, young William?" He seemed to be teasing him now. Finally, William made a dash for the door, but John caught him and threw what would be the first punch of many...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
Spike found he couldn't finish the brandy in his hand, discovering it to be tasteless with the memory of his father, and threw it aside. Anyway, he didn't need it, he was already drunk. He sat down heavily on a flat gravestone and hiccuped as he slowly began to count up his age, which by now, he knew to be quite large. His mind, clouded by alcohol, was forced to think. If he was 22 in 1876, that meant he was 26 when he was turned in 1880, that was 121 years ago; so all he had to do was add 26 and 121 together and it was say he was... Spike made a face in the darkness. He was 147. This wasn't old by vampire standards, but it was ancient by his. Everyone he knew had fully expected him to get staked before the turn of the century, but here he was, still walking the earth like he had when he was human. Spike rubbed his temples as his mind made it's complaint at being made to do sums in it's present state, but was momentarily relieved that it had been distracted from it's usual thoughts of Buffy. He glanced around, but she was still nowhere to be seen. He sighed and wished he hadn't thrown his drink away. All of a sudden, Spike found himself longing for his mother, Elizabeth, who he'd never really lost affection for. But he knew best of all that she was long gone, having died 124 years ago to that very day...
+*+_+*+_+1877+_+*+_+*+
The room was extremely dark when William entered, and he had to struggle to make out the thin figure of his mother under the covers of the small bed she lay in. He closed the door quietly, thinking she was alseep due to her lack of movement.
"William?" a weak voice croaked, sounding entirely unlike the one his mother had used to sing him lullabies when he was a child, but like the one of a very sick, ageing woman.
"Yes, mother, it's me." he replied softly, sitting down on the bed next to her. A tiny smile formed on her pale lips, she loved her son more than anything, but he didn't come to see her as much as he used to, not since John had threatened that he was going to get rid of her if he continued to lavish affection on her and stay up there all day. "How are you?"
Elizabeth coughed as her answer, and William was dismayed to see a thin trickle of blood run from the corner of her mouth. He knew it wouldn't be long before she died, so that was why he'd chanced a visit to her while John was out. "Do you know what day it is?" he asked. She tried to shake her head, but found herself too weak, however, he had caught the movement so told her. "It's my birthday, mother." William whispered, trying to refrain himself from crying as he looked closer at her skeletal body which was dwarfed by all around her.
"Oh!" She exclaimed with a cough "I had no idea!" He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from distressing herself and waited for the coughing to cease before comforting her.
"It's alright, I don't mind in the slightest." He told her truthfully. All he wanted was for her to get better, but that was seeming less and less likely to happen.
"How old are you now, William my dear?" Elizabeth queried, hating that she had to ask, but knowing that she must.
"I'm 23, mother." He answered simply.
"23." she repeated, tears forming in the clear blue eyes which resembled his so much "Why, it seems like only yesterday you were a baby on my lap." Then a tear did fall.
"Why do you cry?" William asked her, clearly worried. Elizabeth didn't get to answer, but had she been able to, she would have told him it was because she was so proud of him, because at that moment, John crashed through the door. He ordered William out, and when asked why, he replied innocently that he wished for some time with his wife. William reluctantly left the small room, but stood not far from the door. A few minutes later, John emerged and announced that his mother had died...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
An anguished cry echoed through the graveyard as Spike thought over that terrible night. He still didn't know to that day if his father had actually killed his beloved mother, or, as he claimed, that she had just died of natural circumstances. He had once been told that because he had been a willing participant when he had been turned into a vampire, that part of his human soul had stayed on, which would explain why he still felt his heart break when he thought of Elizabeth's death. Spike had done a lot of research after the gypsy had told him that, and found that many cultures believed that even vampires possess souls, but they are different than human souls. And he also found a text which proved the gypsy to be right. He'd never told anyone about that, thinking that he'd be considered a freak if anyone knew. He laughed bitterly.
"We couldn't have that, could we?" he slurred to the emptiness around him, thinking of how other vampires addressed him now he was chipped. Spike ran a hand through his bleached hair and found himself longing for his natural sandy blond hair colour, the white was cool and all, but it was beginning to get annoying. Plus, Buffy might prefer it. The vampire growled at this thought. He was sick of her taking up all his free thoughts; invading his mind. Just like Cecily had done...
+*+_+*+_+1879+_+*+_+*+
To others, Cecily was just another one of the many pretty girls who attended the parties thrown by the arisocrats of London, but to William Smith, she was exceptional. He saw her for the very first time on the night before his 25th birthday. He was at a party which was thown every year on the same day to commemorate something or other which William had long since forgotten about. It was a nice coincidence that the party was just before his birthday, it meant that he got to cheer himself up. He was just pouring himself another glass of the whiskey which was on offer, when he heard her voice for the first time. It sounded as sweet as an angel's. William hurredly turned around to see who the heavenly voice belonged to and almost dropped his glass when he spotted her. She stood in the center of the main group of people in a pure white dress, her hair had been piled on top of her head and fastened in place with a beautiful cream ribbon. William leant over to the person next to him, not even bothering to see who it was he was about to address.
"Who is the woman over there, may I ask?" he queried in almost a whisper.
"You mean Cecily?" The old man replied. He continued to speak, but William wasn't listening, all he could focus on was her. The room seemed to fade away around him.
"Cecily." he mumbled to himself, tasting her name on his tongue. He gulped down some of the strong whiskey and left the rest on the side table before nervously wandering over to her as if in a trance.
"...Last Tuesday." she was saying. William muscled his way through the crowd and stood just on the brink of the group. Finally, the holder of the party, Matthew Thomas, noticed him and motioned for him to come forward.
"Have you met Miss Cecily, William?" he asked, watching his reaction carefully. It was common knowledge, even to the man himself, that Matthew didn't like him, but he invited him year after year out of respect for his desceased mother who had delivered his wife's child.
"No, I don't believe so," he managed to answer and held out his hand "William Smith." he announced to the angel in front of him. Cecily extended her own hand and shook his briefly, her pale skin making his own tingle. From then on he was hooked. It was just a shame that she didn't seem in the least bit interested...
+*+_+*+_+Present+_+*+_+*+
A half smile played over Spike's lips as he remembered how he'd felt whenever he'd seen her. Like all the troubles of life would disappear as soon as she spoke. That wasn't a shade on how he felt about Buffy. He had begun to make his way back to his crypt after realising that he'd probably missed the Slayer, and was making sure he walked extra slow, just in case. The cigarette in his mouth remained unlit whilst he searched for his trusty Zippo lighter in the leather coat he'd taken from the second Slayer he'd killed. He eventually found it and paused to take the first drag of it. Then he was on his way again. Marching back to his personal Hell. Spike wished that the next year's birthday had been as simple as that one. But it hadn't been, he'd gone from each extreme to the next. Sadness that his father had died two nights earlier despite how awful he had been, happiness at seeing Cecily, the profound agony at being rejected by her, and the ecstacy of being made a vampire by Drusilla...
+*+_+*+_+1880+_+*+_+*+
It was a full moon which lit the graveyard on William's 26th birthday, casting shadows on the faces of those who watched his own grave in anticipation.
"You know, if he's pathetic we will have to stake him." Darla was saying, mainly to tease Drusilla, but also to tell her what would have to be done in such a case.
"He's wonderful," Dru sang dreamily, kneeling down to the dirt and running a hand over his name which had been carved into the expensive stone. "I looked into his heart and saw his future." Darla raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed, she doubted very much that Dru could distinguish the difference between pathetic and wonderful in her confused state. She leant into Angelus, who didn't take his eyes from the newly dug grave. He was actually a bit excited to see who his Childe had chosen to make a vampire, it would be interesting to have someone new in the group, someone he could mould into the kind of vampire he wanted to have around. The ground suddenly shifted and a mound formed in the dirt, out of it shot a pale hand. A few minutes later, William stood before them, glancing around in wonder at what he could see now which he could not see before. Darla cocked her head to one side and stared at him, trying to decide what to make of the dishevelled gentleman before them. He was handsome enough, with some proper grooming he would look better, but there was something in his overall manner she didn't like. It was like he was over-confident in his own quiet way, like a panther ready to pounce. She only wondered if they were his prey.
"Wondeful." Drusilla whispered, gazing into William's crystal blue eyes. Angelus found himself wishing he could see what she saw. For when she got that look in her eyes, he knew she wasn't seeing what was before her, she was seeing the future.
"Well, I'm hungry," William announced with a smile, showing off that quiet confidence which Darla had detected "Lets say we go crash a party and have ourselves a nice meal." With that he took Drusilla's arm and began to lead her in the direction of a grand hall down the street that was holding the party which was at first scheduled for the day before but which had been cancelled due to William's own death. Angelus decided he didn't like him. He seemed so sure of himself, even though he'd been completely changed forever; however, he and his Sire followed the pair in front into the hall and watched as William had his first taste of human blood. Of Cecily's human blood...
+*+_+*+_+Present+*+_+*+_+
For the first time that night, Spike broke into a smile which wasn't tainted with bitterness or anger. That had been one of the best nights of his life. He remembered how Cecily had looked just before she had died; truly petrified. And he remembered how that had made him feel, like a God who had just risen from the Underworld and was wreaking havoc on everyone and everything around him. It was a shame every night wasn't as sweet as that. Spike reached his crypt and tossed away his cigarette before ambling inside, considerably happier than when he'd first left it and taking pleasure that the happiness hadn't stemmed from the Slayer for once. He was about to take off his black t-shirt when he spotted something on top of his old, battered portable t.v set. It was a note addressed to him. He froze, recognising the handwriting at once; it belonged to Drusilla. Spike warily shuffled over and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. A tear fell down his cheek as he read it, not knowing whether it fell from happiness or sadness. Drusilla had written down the poem which his father had shredded all those years ago, and underneath, in her spidery scrawl, had put simply : "Dear Spike, I will see you soon, my love. Drusilla."Spike held the paper to his still chest, amazed how she had gathered the knowledge to write down that poem word for word. That, he decided, was one of the benefits of having a Sire who could see things in the future and the past. He folded the note back up and put it beside his bed. He stripped down to his boxers and clamboured into the double bed he had once shared with Harmony, glancing more than once at the present his beloved had left for him. Just before Spike fell asleep, he almost subconsciously muttered the first word he'd ever heard when he'd risen as a vampire.
"Wonderful."
That night, for the first time in months, his dreams stayed free of thoughts and images of Buffy, instead he thought of Drusilla and wondered how long it would be before he saw her again, knowing that when he did, he would finally drag himself away from dreary little William and be Spike once more.