Buffy: 6x999

by Adam Tuttle

This story takes place just before the season 7 opener-- Perhaps in place of this season's premier. Everything is as it should be; I've made no trickery of the events of last season. Love it or hate it, but for the love of God, pick one!

Buffy the Vampire Slayer
"Episode 6.999"

Timeline: This story takes place just before the season 7 opener-- Perhaps in place of this season's premier. Everything is as it should be; I've made no trickery of the events of last season. Love it or hate it, but for the love of God, pick one! And, I may have forgotten a few things, in which case, stop being so damn picky! For cryin' out loud, people, I'm only one guy. I do have other things to do, you know. It's not like I sit 'round on my computer all night every night!! Geeze, stop being so critical-- You're being worse than my mum!!

Disclaimer: Sod off. I disclaim nothing. But, since I claim nothing either, I suppose that I'm okay with the legal types.

Rating: Intense scenes including mild swearing, graphic rape, adult situations. No kiddies, 'nless you grew up watching Jerry Springer, in which case, you'll be just fine.

Final thoughts: Special thanks to Trixx for being such a lovely young thang, and for almost being my beta. But, since she never got back to me, I should give that thanks to me for being so damn good all on my own!! smile Love the feedback, children, so feed away, please. I'm especially curious about your thoughts on the ending, so don't forget to mention what you felt/thought/experienced with that, too. Thanks, all.
Cynergy@shaw.ca

____________________________

Scene I
_______
London, England. Two months ago.

It's hardly dusk, yet the city has been overtaken by the dreaded London fog. Warm lights from buildings only a few blocks away are blurred and dulled. All the good English are tucked away before their fires and under their covers. But this city, one of the noblest in the world, is truly a city that never sleeps; The homeless wander the streets now, looking for food and comfort, and the roving gangs who would have you believe that London becomes theirs after nightfall wander here as well, looking for a poor soul to terrorize. But it is not theirs, despite what they might say. Perhaps once it was, and perhaps it might be again, but not now. In these times, there are other creatures that own the night, and all but the dimmest of rouges knows which alleys to stay away from, and which cemeteries to avoid. It is these creatures which are of interest to us on this typically frigid evening-- More so one in particular, and we'll set off to find him now, so pray take a seat and let us lead you to him.
We pass over the city, not paying close attention to anything in particular. The city blurs with our speed and the fog itself seems to back away. We have a mission, one that we are eager to complete, for it's been too long since we've strayed from The One, the Slayer, and we know there's more of her to see before the night draws to a close.
We come upon a cemetery and slow, drifting closer to the ground, becoming not unlike the fog itself-- Invisible yet tangible. We slither closer, unimpressed by the erieness of the night and the biting chill, for we've seen worse than this, and will again before the night is drawn to a close. A matching pair of tombstones appears through the fog at the crest of the hill ahead, and we head for these. What, you ask, could be so interesting about these tombstones, which are so old that the names of those who lay underneath have been worn away by the wind and dust? We're glad you asked that question, friend. All this is so much easier to explain if you would only ask these questions. Our focus is not on the tombstones themselves, but on the presence of the bleach-blonde man kneeling before them, the paleness of the roses in his hands seeming almost bright against his alabaster skin.
His face is a mask of composure, his blue eyes peaceful, his eyebrows knit together in thought, his hair mussed as though from a long, weary journey. And then, in a soft voice befitting of this cemetery, he speaks to the gravestones in turn:
"Mum. Da," says he, his English accent strong and proud as he lays a rose over each grave, "It's me, Spi- William, I mean. How, um, how've you been?"
"Right, dead." He frowns and chuckles darkly at himself. "Forgot." The wind whistles around him, making the tails of his leather duster billow out behind him. The wind would make any man hug himself to keep warm, but this man, hardly a man at all, does not even notice the chill.
"It's been a while, I know, a-and, I'm sorry I haven't been 'round. Been busy. Been killing." He pauses here, and glances away, jaw set, and blinks rapidly for a moment.
"Look, anyway, I just wanted to say that it's okay now. Found me a nice place to settle down. It's quite nice, better than any life you could've given, would've given-- Better than the one you did, at any rate. Just thought since I was in the neighborhood, and all, that I'd stop by and see how you's getting along."
He frowns and chuckles again at himself, but it seems to our ears that there is less humor and more frustration behind it. "And again, you're dead, so I'd wager you're not getting along much at all. Gods, I had a whole bloody speech all ready, and--"
He stands with a frustrated grunt, and balls his hands into fists. Ridges grow across his forehead as the demon within him surges forward; sharp canines extend from his upper jaw and his eyes yellow and his voice turns deadly dark. "Don't even know what the bloody hell I'm doing-- Whatever possessed me to come back here? Neither of you was ever much in the way of parenting, anyway. Oh no, it was always 'poor William, too feebleminded to be anything but a bad sodding poet,' and, 'poor William, can't find someone who'll stoop to lovin' him.' And the worst part is you've got no idea how wrong you were, 'cus you're dead. How ironic is that, then? I had to die to get you to notice me, your own bloody son, and you had to die before I got it in my head to tell you how I feel. And to think I came here with the intention of thanking you for being my folks, and maybe even apologizing for killing the both of you, but it's just rot, isn't it?" He glares accusingly at the tombstones for only a moment, thought it is more than enough to make us want to back away from such malice, unshakable as we are.
But, before our will is brought to the point of breaking, the demon that turned his body into a vampire and stole his humanity fades, and his expression softens. A sad smile breaks out across his chiseled features. "Bloody bad parents you were, but you were still mine. Long time ago, that was, and forgive and forget is my motto, so I suppose I-- well, suppose I should put it all behind me now. You're dead, and I'm not, right? Bygones can go right on being bygones, I say, 'cus I'm alive, and you're not. I've got a soul again, and what've you got? Nothin' but dust." His smile grows, and we're reminded of a child who has just won his first argument with an adult. "Right then, good 'nuff. Take care. Love ya, and all."
Still smiling, he turns and walks away into the fog, leaving us alone in the darkness beside the graves of his parents. Following him seems an interesting idea, but we've no time for that now. Rest assured, dear friend, that we'll be seeing more of William in the very near future. He has his own personal battles to fight just now, so we'll stop in on him another time, when he's a little more under control. It just wouldn't be decent of us to intrude now, wouldn't you say, friend?
But there is one last thing that you may have missed that ought to be given another moment of our time. Behind William, deep under the cover of shadow, can you see it? Don't look with your eyes, friend, look instead with your other senses. Can you feel the presence? There is a deep hatred smoldering, and it is so powerful we may almost see it glowing from within the trees. But, William neither sees nor feels it at this moment, but rest assured that it will come to his attention shortly. Even now, as William-- Or shall we begin calling him Spike, for that is the name we will come to know him by later-- leaves the cemetery and starts back across town to his rented flat, it follows him stealthily, hunting him.
Exactly what will follow when these two bodies come together, we are left to guess, for too much time has passed already and we have not the time to see for ourselves, but looking ahead to the future as is within our power, we may leave with a light heart, for Spike will escape it's scaly clutches on this night, though the battle to pass will be a hard one, and it will leave Spike shaken in more ways than the physical. Spike, you see, knows this evil quite well indeed. Without spoiling what will follow later, we must admit that when the two finally meet in an alley not far from here, the look on Spike's face will be one of both startled surprise and of recognition.

Scene II
________
SunnyDale, California. Present Day.

The darkness inside the abandoned warehouse is almost suffocating. Buffy Summers, The Slayer and our charge, stalks carefully over the uneven floor, crouched and ready to spring at the slightest noise. A creak over her left shoulder causes her pause, and her eyes narrow as she gazes into the darkness. Silently, a wooden stake appears at the ready in her hand. Her breathing, we hear, is slow and calm, serene almost. If you knew her like we know her, you would realize that she is in her element in the darkness. In many ways, it's all she's ever known.
"God, this is soooo boring," says a silky female voice from behind her. "This is what you do *every* night? No wonder you can stand working at the Doublemeat-- That's exciting compared to this."
Buffy stands at her full height, her stake drops to her side, and she turns to the voice, her expression that of utter annoyance. We turn with The Slayer and see Dawn, her younger sister, standing with her arms crossed over her chest. In her hand, a sliver of chrome gleams in the moonlight reflected through one of the few unbroken windows.
"Dawn," Buffy hisses, "keep it down."
"But this sucks, Buffy," Dawn whines back, becoming the very picture of today's teenager. "I'm serious, this is totally boring. Another half hour and you'll have to stake me yourself, 'cus I'll die, I'm sure I will."
Buffy points the tip of her stake at Dawn in warning, "don't tempt me. Anyway, you're the one who wanted to start coming out on patrol with me. You want to do that, you've got to train, just like I did."
"Train?" Dawn frowns and holds out the silver object we noticed a moment ago; It's a spork-- Half spoon, half fork, the Boyscout's dream utensil. "You call this training? I could've brought a rubber band, or something, which would be more intimidating than--"
"Start small, grasshopper," Xander interrupted, stepping out of the shadows. His thick muscular frame is hidden by layers upon layers of heavy padding, and a heavy but dull battle axe is wielded across his broad chest.
Without looking, Buffy spins and kicks out at Xander's chest, hitting him dead square in the chest, knocking him easily backward off his feet, and axe spins off into the darkness. She charges forward as he is still falling and the stake in her hand is pressed against his chest, over his heart, before he has settled fully onto the concrete.
"Gotcha," she says in all seriousness. Then, a grin spreading across her face, "you bad evil vampire."
"Yeah, grrr" he grimaces, his eyes bemused, "and, ouch?"
"Oh come on, you big baby, I hardly even touched you."
"No no, it was your shoe, but your foot was still in it," he grinned as he allowed Buffy to pull him back onto his feet. "And, ouch?"
"See, Dawn?" Buffy turned, her hands on her hips, as she scolded her sister, "you've always got to pay attention, no matter what the distraction-- Even something as annoying as a younger sister."
"Yeah," Dawn nods unenthusiastically. "Ha ha. You're so funny-- Looking, I mean! That wasn't even fair, Xander makes too much noise. Willow's the tricky--" Dawn turns, reminded that there is still another vampire in the warehouse with them, and screeches when her eyes focus on the glowing fangs of a vampire in the shadows.
The fangs fly forward and Willow's face appears around them, then her padded body as she jumps toward Dawn, a plastic spoon gripped in her hand. The young redhead growls playfully as she brings the spoon around toward Dawn's stomach in a deathblow. But Dawn is faster, and she blocks Willow's attack with her forearm, then plunges the spork harmlessly into Willow's padded chest with hardly any hesitation.
"Fwoosh, vampire dust." Dawn turns back toward Buffy, a smug grin on her face. "Clean up, isle seven."
Buffy stares for a moment, her mouth hanging open in surprise, then; "your swing was weak, a-and you were off balance." She secrets away her stake and walks away in a fluid motion.
Dawn's brow knits in anger and she takes off into the darkness after her sister. "What? Hello? Killed a vampire on my first try, thank you? Hey? Buffy?"
Willow steps toward Xander, who is struggling to undo the clasps holding his padded suit on. "I got sporked."
"I noticed. Tsk, tsk," Xander joked, his face straining to unbuckle himself. "Someone didn't read up on proper spork defense. Better hope Giles never hears about this; he'd be so disappointed."
"Maybe I'll get an A for effort?"
"Hmmm, maybe for presentation? Where'd you get those fangs, anyway?"
Willow's grin spread and she spit out the novelty glow-in-the-dark fangs. "Magic Box; Two for a dollar."
"Clever girl," her best friend nodded thoughtfully. "But! Are you clever enough to get this stupid buckle undone?"

We follow these two, careful to keep within earshot, as they leave the old warehouse and out into the humid evening air. Buffy and Dawn are close by, standing under a lightpost, still arguing.
"I did fine," Dawn is saying. She turns to Willow and Xander as they approach with us in tow, "tell her that I did fine."
"You did great!" Willow exclaimed without hesitation. Then, noticing the frigid look Buffy fixed her with, "p-pretty good, I mean." Then, with more hesitation, "not bad." Then, regarding Buffy directly with a confused expression, "n-needs improvement?"
The Slayer appears satisfied and regards Dawn again. When she turns away, Willow gives Dawn two thumbs up and grins widely.
"See, Dawn," Buffy continues her lecture, "needs improvement means more practice, more training, before you can come out on patrol with the rest of us. I'm not going to let my little sister get herself killed by some- Some- I don't know what- Something bad because she didn't prepare herself enough."
"Who are you trying to be now? Giles, maybe? Blah, blah, blah, train, train, train, blah, blah, blah," Dawn snorted, throwing her head back, flipping her long chestnut hair out of her face. "How am I supposed to prepare myself if you won't let me actually go on patrol with you? With an actual stake, or even an axe, or something that actually has a sharp edge? I can't get myself ready if I'm learning how to fight with a spork, Buffy! What am I going to do with that, scratch the vamp's itches? Did Mister Giles make you learn how to fight with a stupid little twig before he let you use a stake?"
Buffy sighs, and puts her hands on her hips. "No, he didn't," she begins slowly, obviously choosing her words carefully. "But, that doesn't mean--"
"You think I can't handle myself, is that it? Y-You think I'm just some fragile little girl, or something?"
"No, Dawn, that's not--"
"'Cus I'll have to remind you that it was me who used to kick your butt when we were kids."
"What? No you didn't. You always wound up running to mom crying, and I always ended up sitting in the corner until-Look, that doesn't matter, Dawnie. I'm just trying to keep you-"
"If you say safe I'm gonna scream," Dawn warned her older sister. From her expression, we can easily assume that she is being deadly serious. "Nothing in my life is safe, and you know it."
"No, I was going to say alive."
"By sheltering me? You think that's going to work? In what twisted world did you grow up in, Buffy, 'cus it couldn't have been this one."
Buffy frowns and glances back at Willow and Xander, who are admiring the night in an overtly obvious way to keep from watching the arguing siblings. No support here, it seems. "Okay, look, Dawn. I'll make you a deal, okay?"
Dawn crosses her arms across her chest and frowns. "I'm listening."
"Keep training-The way I say-and I'll let you come on patrol with me-Not now, but sometime."
"Sometime soon," Dawn amends.
"Sometime soon," Buffy agrees with a slow nod. "When you're ready," she adds quickly at the end.
"But, sometime soon," Dawn amends again, hopeful.
"When you're ready," Buffy nods again. Our Slayer seems more resolved this time; we can tell by the worried light in her eyes.
"Which will be really soon," Dawn nods.
"Maybe. But its not tonight, and you need to get home to bed now." Buffy turns back to Willow, who just happens to be looking at her now. "Willow? Will you take her home?"
"Yeah, of course," Willow nods first at Buffy, then at Dawn. "Absolutely."
"I'm not going to forget you said that, you know. You said sometime soon," Dawn calls back over her shoulder as she and Willow begin the walk back to their house.
"I said when you're ready!" Buffy calls after her.
"Which will be soon!" Dawn yells back, now out of sight around a corner.
Buffy and Xander begin walking also, but in a different direction. Xander lives only eight blocks from here, and a cemetery lies between, so it's a small feat for us to guess where Buffy is going.
"You know," Xander starts slowly, glancing carefully at Buffy for signs, we can only guess, that she's about to attack him again. "Dawn was pretty good tonight, and she has been picking everything up pretty quickly."
"Oh, Xander," Buffy rolls her eyes and offers a pleading look to the muscular young man. "Not you, too?"
"None of my business," he holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying."
They walk in silence for a moment, weaving to avoid the small piles of garbage in the alley. Buffy kicks a can far into the distance with hardly any effort and sighs. "She's my little sister."
"Which is why it makes sense that she'd want to spend time with you. And, since you're the Slayer, and all. . ."
"So, this is supposed to be some sort of bonding thing?" Buffy laughs without humor. "We're supposed to be doing each other's hair, and talking about boys, and stuff. A sister-sister vampire slaying is not a bonding thing, Xander."
"Okay, maybe its not," he agrees. "But, how many times have you done each other's hair, or talked about boys?"
"We've done that-I mean, I've thought about it. . . She's asked me about boys," Buffy replied with a frown that grew with each word. Xander smiles knowingly. "I just don't have time for things like that, b-but I want to. I want her to have a normal life, you know?"
"'Course you do, Buff-But that's not what the two of you have. Sure, it's a little cockeyed to go out and kill things together, but it's what you've got. In case you haven't noticed, Dawn hasn't exactly had a lot of experience with a normal life; She's got too much of her sister in her."
"Yeah, I noticed," Buffy nods. "I just wish I could beat it out of her, or something."
"I think they still serve jail time for that, actually."
"When she's ready," Buffy says, signaling the end of the conversation. "Not until she's ready."
"See you tomorrow night at the Bronze?" Xander asks when they reach the corner.
"Wouldn't miss it. Dawn's staying at a friend's house for the night-- Kari, I think her name is." Xander opens his mouth to say something, but Buffy reads his mind, "I've already confirmed with her mom that they're really staying there."
"Figured you would have after that last time," Xander nods and smiles. Then, "well, I'd say have fun, but that's just plain bad mojo. So, be careful, then."
"Always do," Buffy nods and gives her friend a wave as he jogs across the street toward his house. Without a backward glance, Buffy starts off toward the nearby cemetery.


Scene III
_________

The cemetery is unusually quiet tonight, and the frustration on her face grows with each step. Our Slayer is looking for a fight, and has thus far been denied in that regard. From her tense walk, we judge that she has been feeling the presence of something else in the cemetery for quite some time, but has been unable to locate the source of it. We too have felt this presence, and know that it is not human, but dared not leave Our Slayer's side to find out exactly what and where it is-- Though the rage we feel from it seems familiar. The suspense is much more interesting for us than the truth, and we are here for a singular purpose, anyway; Follow and observe.
Unable to shake the feeling, Buffy leaves the cemetery by vaulting over the high rock wall separating it from the street, and continues on in her seemingly random passage. Having full access to her mind, we alone know that her instincts have taken over now. She knows there is something else in the night, and fully intends to find it before returning home to the few comforts she knows.
Her instincts, strange and mysterious though they may be, prove infallible, and Buffy tracks the presence between two tall buildings in what passes for the industrial district of town. The darkness grows in strength the deeper into the alley she goes until it surrounds her. There are no lights hanging from backdoors between these buildings anymore; they have all been broken long ago, and the shop owners have since given up replacing them every night. Shards of glass lie here and there on the cement, reflecting slivers of moonlight from above as Buffy passes.
Her stance lowers, and her walk becomes silent. A scuffle sounds from around the next corner, and she tenses but does not slow. A stake appears in her hand and raises to chest height, arm crooked outward, ready to strike at the first evil to reveal itself.
A man screams, and is cut off abruptly, replaced with a wet sucking sound not unlike that of a balloon filled with pudding being suddenly and violently torn open. Buffy rushes forward, mentally cursing herself for hesitating, and rounds the corner ahead from where she heard the scream emanate, dropping into a wide and perfectly balanced fighting stance.
An empty alley greets her eyes. Well, almost empty, that is. A man in his late thirties, wearing a white cooking apron and a grease-stained white tee-shirt, lies on the floor of the alley in the small box of light provided by the moon above. From the abdomen down, he is nothing but blood and torn flesh, yet he is still alive; His eyes blink, unseeing and dazed, and his mouth works as if to protest such treatment. As Buffy moves to crouch beside him, his meaty hands grasp at the coils of intestinal track that hang from his belly, but his eyes seem empty of response, as though he has no clue he is holding parts of himself that should never be held.
"Don't try to move," Buffy says, her voice calmer than an ambulance driver's would be, if greeted with the same gristly scene.
"Gaaa," the man replies, his mouth working like a fish's, opening and closing over and over. "Kooh," he says again.
"He's in shock," she tells herself-and us, though unknowingly. "Somebody call 9-1-1," she yells to the half-open door before them. A clatter of silverware signals that someone has ventured close enough to the doorway to see the cook laying in a growing pool of his own blood. "Call an ambulance!"
A rustle of leather from above gathers Buffy's attention, and she cranes her neck upward to catch the tails of a long, dark duster fly out over the alley for a moment before pulling out of sight. Part of her mind, we see an all too clear image of a familiar face flash over her eyes, and of the coat he wears even on the hottest nights. "Spike?"
She moves to follow him, but the cook's hand seizes her ankle. It's not a strong grip, one that she could easily break if she chose, but instead Buffy hesitates at the man's side for a moment longer. The moment is enough, it seems; His eyes focus briefly and lock onto hers. "Gaaa," he says again, then his heart stops; we can see it through what is left of his shredded chest. His mouth opens and closes, then opens again for the last time, and his eyes flutter shut.
Like a shot, Buffy is up and away, running through the twisting alley, trusting her skills and instincts to allow her to follow the presence we still feel nearby. Lunging over a tall pile of boxes, she drops into a forward roll on the other side and comes up again without losing a step, still following the invisible trail left behind the mysterious and very obviously deadly creature. Fixed in her mind is the image of Spike kissing her, then that of the dead cook, and then the question, 'is it possible?'

An hour later, a very weary Slayer opens the door to her house, dropping her coat on the floor only inches from the coat rack by the door. She is obviously the worse for wear after chasing the presence through nearly every alley and side street in SunnyDale; Her pants are ripped at the knees, and the strap of her bra shows through the open gash in her shirt. The frustration on her face, though, is not because of this. The fact that she was unable to find the creature that killed the cook is. Having followed her the whole way, through each jump and sprint and trip, we saw the determination in her eyes replaced with weariness, then desperation, and finally, before she gave up, resignation. Our Slayer is not one who takes failure lightly, and tonight has been no exception.
She circled back to the scene of the crime before returning home, and was satisfied to see the rotating lights of an ambulance already there, and the paramedics loading the corpse carefully into the back. It would be in the paper tomorrow, she knew, and found herself wondering what she would read there. A dog attack, perhaps? A tragic accident some kind? There were plenty of excuses, and the reporters never failed to latch onto one. Almost seven years living in SunnyDale and Buffy had yet to read anything about the truth in the post, and doubted that she ever would. We, dear friend, tend to agree with her in this instance. It would be difficult, we could assume, to keep market values high if news spread that the town was built on a mystical convergence such as the Hellmouth.
So, weary and sore, Buffy limps up the stairs and into her room. She shows no care in removing her clothing, for both shirt and pants are now destined to become cleaning rags, and slips into a soft cotton shirt and shorts before climbing into bed and drawing up the covers. Her light will stay on tonight, as we know it has many nights this summer, though even Buffy herself perhaps does not know the reason why.
And as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, we silently bid our charge goodnight, and drift away ourselves.


Scene IV
_________

The Bronze, lively, popular, and wholly inexclusive. These are the best words used to describe SunnyDale's hottest night spot, and they are no exception tonight. A local band named after the lead guitar's first pet fish lets a melodious tune filter through the building's speakers while the singer, a waifesh girl with neon blue hair, hypnotizes the audience and dancing couples alike with a tale of the greatest love she has ever known, and the single mistake which cost her that happiness.
A trio, two young girls and a taller, gangly boy, huddle together on one of the couches as we pass. They catch our eye, seeming so familiar though we know for certain we've never met them before. We catch only a fragment their conversation as we glide through the crowd.
"That Corona," the boy mutters angrily, "does she take lessons to be that mean, do ya think?"
"M-Maybe it just comes naturally?" One of the girls suggests helpfully, her long red hair dipping briefly into her eyes before she sweeps it away self-consciously.
"I doubt *she* comes naturally," the other concludes, her blonde hair secured back into a ponytail. "Genetic testing, it's gotta be."
"Where would you take lessons to be mean, anyway?" The redhead frowns at her own question. "I mean, would you look in the phonebook? W-What would you even look under? Cat-I-ness?"
"Just dial 555-B-I-C-H," the boy nods with a wide, foolish grin. "And in three short classes, you too can piss the pants off those around you."
"Maybe just shoes, 'cus I'd hit her with one of mine. Those blue stilettos!"
"Ooh! I love those ones!" The redhead leans closer to the blonde, excited. "I wish my dad would let me wear stuff like that."
"Oh, don't worry, Jill, I'm sure the good Father will join the twenty-first century sometime," the blonde smiles.
"'Doubt it, Buffster," the boy grinned, "the Father still thinks women have smaller feet so they can get closer to the sink."
"That's not true! I-I mean, um, w-well, I guess it is, but still," Jill replied. "Not nice, Cliff. Bad, uh, boy!"
"Why do you call me that?" The blonde frowned. "Buffster?"
"'Cus you're so strong. You're the only junior in school who can bench more than the teacher," Cliff shrugged dismissivly, glaring off at a girl who could only be Corona as she passed close to them. "Pardon me for trying to get some nicknames started."
"I've got a few nicknames for you," Corona supplied as she walked past, pausing only long enough to smile sardonically at Cliff.
"Got a few for you, too, Cor," Cliff shot back. "No wait, 'for a good time just call' is more of a motto than a nickname, isn't it?" Corona rolls her eyes and saunters away while Cliff smiles after her.
"He's just mad because I wouldn't call him Tiger in front of his friends when we were six," Jill supplied with a giggle.
"That's so totally and completely not, um, e-exactly correct."
Both girls stared at Cliff, their eyebrows raised, waiting for him to finish.
"It was Puma. Puma's are cooler than tigers."

We allow ourselves to be swept up in the crowd again, and pulled toward another table with another trio of friends, though certainly older and more mature than the ones we just left. We might, if time were not such an issue for us, take a moment to examine exactly how and when this trio passed from the youthful innocence displayed a moment ago into the world they now live in.
As before, we arrive in the middle of a conversation and are left to catch up on our own.
"I love those shoes," Willow was saying. "I've got a dress that would match those perfectly, if you wanna borrow it sometime. F-For the right person, I mean." She smiled slyly.
"Thanks, Will, but I think it'll be a while before I find myself with a reason to dress up. Weddings, funerals, Dawn's graduation, and dates-- In that order."
"Aw, don't be so hard on yourself, Buff," Xander cut in, pulling Buffy into his muscled chest. "You'll find the right holiday to wear something all purdy-- Halloween, or maybe the Queen's birthday?"
"Definitely an underappreciated holiday," Willow nods to herself.
"Gee, thanks." Buffy smiled at Xander despite herself. "I'm overwhelmed with the support. Maybe I'll be in a wedding before that?"
Xander smiled and shrugged his shoulders, "Maybe, but I doubt it. Anya's talking to me now, and we're having a dinner tomorrow, but we're a long way from taking our vows." He paused a moment and grimaced, "I still think of *him* when I see her."
Buffy smiles sadly and nods. "I understand." We too understand but you, dear friend, may not; Last year, Anya shared a brief but passionate tryst with Spike, a vampire-- One we met under a different name so many months ago-- One who claimed a love for our Slayer, in fact. Wounds were suffered on both sides of this table, we assure you. But, they say that time heals all wounds. Pay close attention and don't stray far from us, and you might just get the chance to see whether that old wives tale proves true.
"B-But it's a start, right?" Willow asked Xander, her eyes hopeful.
"Yeah," Xander nodded thoughtfully. Then, he slowly breaks into a grin that makes Willow smile in relief, "yeah. It's a start."
"I'm gonna head home now," Buffy said abruptly. Had her friends been watching, they may have noticed the tightening around her eyes when Xander smiled at the prospect of reuniting with his estranged love. But, it seems that only we noticed that quick shift in emotion.
Willow and Xander both turn to Buffy, surprise and concern on their faces. "What?" they said in unison. Then, only Xander this time, "was it something I--"
"No, nothing like that," Buffy smiled at her friends. "I'm just tired, and I've gotta work in the morning. Bills to pay and mouths to feed, and all that wonderfully mature, grown-up stuff."
"We'll walk you home," Willow supplied helpfully. "I should get to bed, too, anyway. Test tomorrow in my History class, and a rested brain is a happy brain."
"No, it's all right," Buffy shook her head and excused herself from the table. "I'm gonna do a patrol before I go home, anyway."
"You're thinking about finding whatever it was that killed that frycook last night?" Xander asks with a frown.
Buffy nods but says nothing. Her friends can read the renewed determination on her face as easily as we can.
"And you didn't see anything else in the alley? No sign of whatever did it, at all?"
"No, nothing," she shakes her head. "But I felt him-It, I mean. Whatever it was, I felt it."
"Maybe we should come with you?" Willow asked. Her voice is steady and brave, and we feel a swell of pride for the young woman. Having met her six years ago, we are forever surprised at how brave and loyal she has become.
"Naw, I'll just see you at home, Will, if I'm not already asleep by the time you get in," Buffy smiles.
"O-Okay," Willow said, casting an easily missable glance at Xander. "If you're sure."
"Yeah, it's fine. I'll see you guys later."
"Yeah, alright. Night, Buff, pleasant--" Xander's words were lost somewhere in the crowd that separated them as Buffy walked out the doors and into the night, her night.
Xander and Willow sat in silence for a moment, neither seeming sure what to say that would fill the void left by Buffy's passing. Instead, they listen to the haunting voice of the singer as it filled the room.
"She misses him," Willow said finally, evenly, when the band stopped for a break.
Xander's posture tensed and his hand, resting atop the table, balled into a fist. He looks off into the room, above the crowd and when he speaks, his voice was carefully neutral. "I know."

Scene V
________

Willow walks into the Summers' home-- her home now, too, she again reminds herself although she's been living here for almost a year-- and closes the door softly behind her. It's late, and we can see how tired she really is, more so than she would ever let her friends know. The redhead slips off her coat and leans into the empty livingroom.
"Buffy?" She whispers. There is no answer in return, not even from Dawn, who should be in bed anyway. Willow sighs, but we do not see any surprise on her face; she never thought that Buffy would be home to greet her.
She flips the porch light on before heading carefully up the stairs on her tiptoes. In her room, she closes the door behind her. A room always feels more like your own when your belongings are present, but to our eyes and senses, despite all the clothes and knickknacks that are clearly Willow's, this room feels empty. A calendar hangs from the wall, oversized X's over each date passed. This month is full of them right up to today, and as we watch, Willow crosses out another with a thick black marker, sighing wearily as she does so. Should we feel the need to flip back through months past, we know that there would be a similar x over each date since late June.
Around her, through her eyes, we feel what she feels; the room tightening around her even as she finishes the x, constricting like a snake around her lithe body. Willow shudders and closes her eyes for a moment, unable to breathe. And, at that moment, we feel her strength, born not of magic, but of something else entirely-- We could call it will, or perhaps sheer determination. The room returns with a jerk back to it's original size and dimensions, and Willow takes a slow, even breath before opening her eyes again.
She puts the marker down and reaches for the framed picture on the nightstand under the calendar. It's Tara, the cinnimon-haired beauty who once called Willow her love. But, that was before-- before the problems with Willow's magic, before the estrangement, before Tara's death separated them forever. Romeo and Juliet were no more tragic a tale than the story of these two, we assure you. If you trust us for nothing else, trust us here, dear friend, and perhaps someday we'll tell you the whole story.
A remorseful tear rolls down Willow's cheek, unbidden, and yet she smiles at the woman in the picture. "Love you always," she says, and we are helpless but to believe. Then, regarding the calendar with steady eyes, she continues in the same breath, "never again." And, we want to believe her, we honestly do, but something in her tone gives us pause. We are here only to observe, true, and not to judge, but perhaps you cannot help yourself from feeling a small measure of fear for this woman, for the doubt we hear in her own words. Perhaps neither can we.
Willow sets down the picture with utter care, centering it with the tips of her fingers, before moving toward the closet, already pulling her shirt up over her shoulders. We'll take this as our cue to leave, for such things were and perhaps always will be for the eyes of someone else alone, someone who is no longer with us in body.

Scene VI
_______

Buffy walks alone through the semi-darkness, her eyes easily adjusting to the shifts between darkness and the light from the few remaining overhead fixtures in the alley where the cook was murdered the night prior. Her hands are buried in the pockets of her light jacket and her eyes, which scan the shadows restlessly, seem distracted; We can guess that she is only seeing half of what her eyes sweep over. As we did with Willow, we bend our minds to hers, our charge, and see what she sees.
The alley, plain enough, but also flashes of something else cross her vision, blinding her from the present. A long leather duster wrapped around a short muscular frame-- The alley-- Strong cheekbones under her own stroking fingertips-- A black cat crossing her path in the alley-- Strong, cold hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer-- The alley-- Cool blue eyes regarding her above a tightlipped, coy smile-- The alley-- His lips-- The alley-- His lips pressed against hers-- The alley-- His lips tracing the subtle lines down her neck.
Buffy trembles at the memory, and a wistful smile plays across her lips. She catches herself, and the smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
"No, uh uh," she scolds herself sharply. "Not thinking about him."
She walks past where we hover, invisible, and we hear her again, speaking softly to herself, "this is me, not thinking about him. Not at all. No Spike in Buffy's brain. Thinking about, um-- Okay, Doublemeat Deluxe: Bottom bun, mayo, tomato, meat patty, middle bun, lettuce, two pickles, meat patty, special sauce, top bun."
She walks on for a moment in silence before we hear her sigh to herself. Then, "Doublemeat combo burger--"

The Summers' house comes into view as Buffy rounds the last corner. The alley is far behind her now, and our Slayer has already voiced the ingredients of every item on the Doublemeat menu several times over. She steps off the sidewalk onto the neatly mowed lawn and starts toward the front door. Only a step away from the porch, she stops-- freezes, to be more exact-- and her eyes track around toward the tree standing in the yard, then the grass around it. Her body grows even more tense, and her eyes narrow sharply. The stake appears in her hand again, but hangs uselessly by her side as she walks to the tree and kneels beside it. We hover over her shoulder as she glances quickly around her, searching for someone. Then, apparently satisfied, her attention-- and ours-- turns back to the small scattering of cigarette butts crushed before her on the dirt around the tree. A smile begins to bloom on her face, but turns into a frown as she realizes that the butts are all old, months old, in fact. We know that she has seen them before, and we may easily guess that she has knelt here many nights prior to this one, always looking for a new one among the old. We might also assume that the frown present on her face, and the sense of confused remorse surrounding her, are neither new, nor welcomed.
She stands, and another memory takes control of her vision, this one less pleasant than the ones before it. Spike kneeling over her as she lays struggling on the bathroom floor, her robe coming loose at her waist, revealing a little more smooth white skin with each time she tries to twist away from his grasp. The expression on his face, oblivious to what he was doing to her mind, much less her body. The taste of her own tears on her lips, the remembered sounds of his fingernails scratching over white cotton.
A sharp crack splinters the night, shattering the memory. Buffy's fist is flattened against the trunk of the tree. The bark around her fist is split, and falls to the ground when Buffy pulls her hand away. The mark left on the tree, we see, will be visible for months to come.
Hugging her wounded hand to her chest, Buffy turns and walks into the house without a backward glance.
We watch her go, but do not follow; There is nothing more to bear witness to here tonight. Instead, let us depart to another part of town, where the lights are dimmer, and the neighbors less upwardly mobile. Pray follow us, friend. It's more than past time to catch up with an old acquaintance of yours and ours.


Scene VII
________

In the dream, Buffy is standing in the bathroom wearing only a white cotton robe and is leaning over the steaming bathtub, checking the temperature of the water. One leg is up on the edge of the tub, revealing a tender, tanned thigh and only barely hiding the beginnings to the firm curve of her behind. Her hair is hanging loose in front of her face, but when she senses his presence in the room with her, she tucks it behind her ear and stares at him, somehow managing to act surprised to see him. Of course he'd be here. Where else would he go?
"Hullo, Luv," he hears himself say. How can he do anything but love her, he wonders?
The dream blurs, as dreams are wont to do, and without warning, he finds himself lying atop her while she lies on the tiled floor. His heart is pumping in his chest-Nay, thrashing within him, it seems. His heavy breathing is matched by hers as she twists under him, her body pressing against his most sensitive of parts. The robe she wears begins to loosen, and he fancies he caught a glimpse of the rosy skin that surrounds her nipples. She bucks against him, her breathing growing heavier, and says something. The word itself is lost in his ears, and he hears only "more." He feels the heat from her skin as more of the robe slips away and her leg rises to press against his side. His hand, the only one he can feel or see in the dream, rides up the outside of her bare thigh, and glides back down on the inside, his fingers searching for the warmth he knows will greet them. But, before he can nestle even one into the folds of silk between her legs, he sees a glimmer of light on her cheek, and his eyes focus on the tear that traces a path down her reddened face. He stops-Everything stops, his hands, his body, his heart, and he finally hears the words she has been repeating over and over since he found himself lying atop her: "Please stop."
"My God. What have I done?"

Spike wakes with a start, batting away the thin sheet that covers his bed. He is sweating, which is no small feat for a vampire born and raised in the Dark. He sits up, his muscular chest heaving in shocked breath, and his eyes open wide as the dream replays itself on his subconscious. "Bugger," he says to the empty motel room.
He kicks off the sheet still covering his naked body and swings his legs over the side of the bed, unmindful of the notebook that bends and tears under his feet. He leans forward and rests his head in his hands for a long moment that is almost painful to watch. His arms flex powerfully when he runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath.
"Wasn't me," he whispers to the room. "Not who I am now."
He sits there a moment longer, rocking softly, his hands wringing against themselves. A tear, small and almost invisible in the darkness runs down his face and over his lips. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out and laps at it, then his hands wipe away the shimmering trail from his cheek.
"Bloody hell," he says, and stands. He reaches for his pants, lying across the back of the nearby chair, and slips into them. He is still tucking his black tee-shirt into them when he reaches for his duster and heads out into the night.

The night is calm, and Spike seems to find some pleasure in this fact as he walks through the cemetery, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. A modest mausoleum rises in the distance, and he slows as he draws closer. It used to be his, this place, but that hardly seems correct to say. The he who he is now is not the he who he once was. Whatever the context, Spike once occupied this place, and had made it his, spending countless hours decorating and re-arranging what meager furnishings he had in order to make it feel more like a home than a hideout.
He starts toward it, but stops when he hears someone coming through the brush ahead and to the left. He takes a step backward into the shadows and waits.
Clem, the loose-skinned demon and closest thing to a friend Spike has, appears with a bag of groceries in his hands. He is humming the theme music to 'The Loveboat' while he walks and bounces his head to the tune, but just before he reaches the front door to the crypt, he stops humming and freezes. His floppy ears seem to perk, and his head jerks this way and that. Spike holds his breath needlessly. Clem turns and stares into the shadows where Spike stands motionless.
"Hello? Is someone there?" It was a guess, and Spike does not answer him.
"Spike? Is that you, buddy?" Clem takes a hesitant step forward, but does not venture far from the doorway.
We watch as Spike shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, debating revealing himself. We were not there to witness it, but Spike had already dropped by to see Clem when he first came back into town. The two shared a long conversation wherein Spike told his friend almost everything that had happened in Africa and in England afterward. Clem, for his part as a good friend, welcomed Spike back with open arms, congratulated him on having his soul returned, and even offered to move out immediately if Spike wanted his old place back. Spike refused without explanation. That was a month and a half ago. Something has kept him away until tonight.
"Just go inside," Spike whispers quietly to his friend. "Turn the bloody hell around and go inside, you mangy-eared sonova-"
As if hearing him-Which would definitely have been possible had the wind not picked up just then-Clem turned and quickly unlocked the cast iron door to the crypt and slipped inside, baring it from within.
Spike hurried around the crypt, keeping to the shadows, and walked on. We told you some months ago that we would drop in again on William-Spike, as he is called now-when he was in a better frame of mind. You can see, however, that we have lied to you. Events are in motion even now that we could not foresee, and it is our duty to witness these things, though some of what we see may not make sense until the whole picture is uncovered. Pray follow us some more, though, and we will do our best to give you the best possible view once that picture is revealed for us to see.

He wanders aimlessly through the streets, hardly noticing the few people who pass him-who steer clear of him. He stops before a shop window with decorative lettering stenciled onto the surface. 'Magic Box,' it says. A sign in the window reads that the store has been closed for nearly an hour already.
"Anya," he says. In his mind, we remember with him what happened that night, when both were still stinging from the rejection they had suffered at the hands of the people they loved the most-When they shared each other in an act of passion and desperation. "Shouldn't have happened," he continues thoughtfully. "Too bad it did, then, right, Spike, you stupid git?"
He stands there a moment longer, unsure what he should be doing. In the window, his reflection mirrors his sways back and forth. He notices and studies it for a moment, smiling at himself. Then, with a frown, he lets his Demon face come forth. In the window, ridges grow from his eyebrows and across his forehead. He opens his mouth and sees long, wickedly sharp fangs behind his lips. His frown deepens.
"Monster," he whispers. Then, he smiles, "least I'm a sexy one, at that." The ridges fade away as he watches. He shakes his head and smiles sadly, then moves on.
Ahead, an old woman steps out of a darkened shop with a large bag in her hand. She sets it down on the sidewalk and turns to lock her shop door. Just then, a man rushes from across the narrow street and grabs the bag without breaking his pace, then sprints off with it. Had he not been looking over his own shoulder to see the woman's reaction, he may have stood a chance against what was about to happen. Then again, perhaps nothing could have helped him, short of a cross or stake. But, these are not everyday weapons, even in SunnyDale.
Spike's steel-toed boot hooked around the man's ankle as he passed, sending him sprawling on the pavement. When he turned, his expression of rage-Intensified by the blood that spilled from his broken nose-is cut short by Spike's smile. The demon within him has risen again, though it has not taken control of as it once would have. His eyes have yellowed again, and the light from the lamppost cast evil shadows over the ridges on his forehead, but he is still more human than demon inside.
"Sodding amateur," Spike sneered, baring his fangs. "Ought to kill you just for making the rest of us look bad." Nobody ever said that he made a great human.
"F-Fuck you," the man stuttered, finding his voice-Or perhaps the voice of a frightened child, which is what it sounds like to our receptive ears.
"That right?" Spike grins and starts to reach for the man's throat. "Fuck me, is it?"
The man scrambles backward on his hands and kicks out with his legs, trying to knock Spike's hand away. The vampire's fingers curl around the would-be thief's jugular and haul him back onto his feet in a single motion.
"Right then, ponce," Spike says, pulling the man's face close to his own. "Bugger off home and think 'bout what you've done."
"W-What?" The man sputters weakly. He can hardly breath, so managing to get even a single word out through the vampire's steely grip betrays the surprise he must feel. Being faced by a demon is bad enough, but having that same demon tell you to run home and think about what you've done is apparently worse, we gather.
"Ten 'Hail Marys,' or 'Our Fathers', or something," Spike continues, rolling his eyes. "Just get the bloody hell out of here, mate, before I change my mind 'bout not killing you for sport."
Spike lets go and gives the man a healthy shove which was hardly needed; The moment those cold fingers pulled out of his throat, the man was off like a shot from a gun, almost tripping over himself in his haste. Spike chuckled quietly after the man.
"T-Thank you," the woman says from behind Spike.
He picks the stolen bag up off the ground and turns, his human features restored, and tries to offer a small, unpracticed smile that ends up looking more like a grimace. He hands the bag over and nods, obviously uncomfortable, "right."
She smiles at him in return and back away slowly, glancing nervously around. She is holding the bag awkwardly, hugging it against herself. "I remember when this town was safe to walk through at night."
Spike smiles widely, "must have been before I moved into town, I'd wager."
The woman nods slowly and returns his smile, but we see that she does not understand the joke, and probably would not want to, anyway. She turns and starts away again, her head turning back and forth in sudden, jarring glances as she nervously searches the street.
"Here! Luv?" He says after studying her for a moment, then hurries to catch up with her. "Why not let me walk you home, just supposing that reject tries for another pass at you?"
"Oh?" She replies and her eyes grow wider as she looks around the dark street and notices just how deserted and lonely it has become. "Oh," she says again, and a relieved smile grows across her face. "That would be sweet of you, young man."

Spike stands under the tree in the Summers' front yard, smoking a cigarette and gazing up at the light present in one of the windows. Little is visible through the half-drawn curtains, but Spike doesn't care, he believes its probably not for him to see, anyway. By his leisurely stance, leaning against the tree with his hands in his pockets, we gain the sense that he has been doing this for quite a few nights now. He glances around every so often to be sure that no one is watching him, but always looks back up at the window before long. The cigarette burns down to the filter and he swears when it burns his lip. He kneels and carefully snuffs it out on the heel of his boot, then secrets it away into the pocket of his coat.
"Wouldn't expect you'd like to know I'm still here, Luv," he tells the window with a small smile, patting his pocket thusly. "Getting a stake in the chest would be the best thing I could hope for if you knew, I suppose," he motions at the visible bare spot on the tree where Buffy's fist peeled away the bark.
He stands again and returns to leaning against the tree. Were we to stay here until the final moments before the sun rises, we know that we would only be keeping Spike company at his post. His hand searches the inside pocket of his duster and produces a small plastic bag full of cookies, given to him by the old woman when he got her home safely. He takes one out and nibbles on it thoughtfully.
"Chocolate chip," he mumbles between bites, and smiles at himself.
He shifts his position and lets his head lie flat against a nook in the tree, then closes his eyes.
And this, dear friend, is where we leave him as we found him, lost in memory.

Scene VIII
_________

His hands inside oven mitts sewn to look like cows, Xander carefully pulls a casserole dish out of the oven. Whatever is inside-We are omnipresent, but not omnipotent-is burnt black and thin wisps of gray smoke rise from its surface.
"Crap," he mutters to himself, and sets the dish on the counter beside the stove.
"What was that?" Anya's voice, from the living room.
"N-Nothing!" He replies in what he hopes is a good-natured tone as he waves a towel at the smoking dish. "Like Mother Xander always said: As long as the fire alarm doesn't go off, it's a success."
All the elements on the stove are covered with pots of various sizes, some containing easily recognizable things like soup and carrots, but one of the pots is a total mystery even to us. Peering inside Xander's mind, we are sorry to say, is no help to us either; Even he has no idea what is in that pot. Stirring one briefly with a wooden spoon, he turns the heat down on another, before focusing his attention back onto the steaming casserole dish with the black, crusted surface.
"I guess when it says to cook for twenty minutes at two hundred degrees, setting it at four hundred doesn't mean only ten minutes in the oven," he nods to himself. He picks a knife up from one of the drawers and sets about trying to scrape off the black shell over the, the, well, that still is not clear to us. "Gotta try to remember that for next time."
Behind him, Anya steps into the open kitchen and wrinkles her nose. "Did you attempt to put a Tupperware dish in the oven again, Xander?"
"No," he said, indignant.
"But, I'm quite sure that I smell burning rubber."
"That's just the air freshener," he replies, then rolls his eyes at his own poor excuse. Having gotten most of the black off the lasagna in the casserole dish (We were as surprised as you are, we assure you), he turns and catches Anya smiling at him. "Okay, you caught me," he admits, smiling goofishly.
"You turned the temperature up thinking it would reduce the cooking time again?"
"Maybe just a little," he nods, holding up his hand, thumb and index finger an inch apart to show how little. "Got most of the burnt off, though, look!" He showcases the lasagna dramatically.
"Very nice," she nods, and we hear her stomach rumble quietly. "My stomach seems to like it."
"I like making your stomach happy," Xander nods. "It's one of my many purposes in life."
She smiles again, and we feel Xander's elation. "Shall we set the table, or is there more scraping to be done elsewhere?"
"Nope, that's the only thing that needs scraping, I think. Maybe put out a few fires, but that's childs play by comparison."
Together, they lay out the plates and cutlery, neither speaking. Anya catches Xander looking at her, and Xander does the same more than once while they prepare the table for their meal. When their eyes meet, they both smile reflexively, but we feel the tenseness in the room, even if they do not; Some wounds, it appears, require more time than others.

"So, how's work going?" Xander asks between a mouthful of lasagna.
"Oh! We received a shipment from our supplier in Naples, but it was all the wrong items. I had to send most of it back, but they still charged the store for everything, and would not give me my money back! So, then I threatened them with the lawyer that I don't have-Did you know that lawyers are expensive?-and they said that would be fine, and I said that I would take an exchange in place of the money, and they said that would be fine, too, and then I got my Mandrake root and monkey intestines and these little tiny figurines that probably will never sell but are strangely endearing nonetheless. Pass the carrots, please?"
"Wha?" Xander stared at her the whole time she spoke without even blinking, seeming almost hypnotized by her voice. His mouth hanging open ever so slightly, we would not be wrong to insist that there is still love and utter rapture in his eyes for this girl.
"The carrots? I want them. Now. Please," she repeats herself with a frown.
"Right, the carrots. I have carrots!" He passed the dish across the table. As she takes it from him, their fingers touch briefly.
"Carrots are good for the eyes," Anya said slowly, her eyes locked on Xander's.
"And you're good on the eyes," he replied with a smile.
She smiled back at him and dipped her head but did not break eye contact. The two of them stayed like this as the seconds ticked by on the oven's clock before finally Anya spoke. "My arm is getting tired."
Xander continued staring at her for a moment, then broke out into a laugh. Anya joined him almost immediately.
"I'm sorry for what I did, Xander," Anya said after the laughter died naturally.
Xander set down his fork and regarded his plate for a lingering moment. "I know," he said.
"And you are sorry for what you did, also?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.
"I-I'm sorry for the way it turned out," he nodded slowly, carefully. "I just wanted to stand in the church-With you, I mean-and not have any doubts. T-That's what I thought would happen, so when I had doubts, I-I guess I just freaked a little."
"But, you are sorry for leaving me at the alter?"
"I wish you wouldn't say it like that," he replied with a frown. "You were still at the back of the church. I-It wasn't like I turned and ran when the minister asked me if I would take you, or anything."
"So, you are not sorry, then," her arched eyebrow crashed into the other above the bridge of her nose as she frowned.
"No-I mean, yes-I mean, I'm sorry for the way it turned out," Xander stammered. "But, like I said, I wanted it to be okay, I wanted it to feel right, Anya. I didn't want to feel like I was making you settle for anything less than what you deserve-and I still don't! You looked so perfect, so happy, and I couldn't get the thought out of my head that I would be the reason you weren't happy later. I-I love you too much for that, Aun."
"So, leaving me at the alter-No, sorry, in the back of the church, was something you believed would make me happy?" Anya's frown grew with her rising anger.
"No! Of course not! It killed me to do it, b-but, I didn't see what else I could do."
"Going through with it would have been a start."
"But, it wouldn't have been, Aun, that's what I'm trying to say," Xander slapped his open hand down on the table. He frowned at it and folded it into his lap with the other, then, "look, I don't know a lot about how to have a happy anything. You know that better than just about anybody. I've never been in a relationship that actually worked out in the end, and for the most part, that's never really mattered to me-It was never life or death, you know? But, Anya, I love you so much, and even the tiniest shred of doubt in my mind that I might not make you really happy, as happy as you make me, means that I would rather spend my life miserable and alone. The things that guy, that demon, showed me at the church-"
"But what he showed you wasn't real," Anya said quietly. From our vantage between them, it appears to us as though things are on the verge of reaching a climax, perhaps even a positive one, though that remains to be seen.
"No, it was all magic and lies, I know that now," Xander nodded, leaning closer to her across the table. "But, I didn't know that then. All I saw was you being unhappy, and I was the cause of it. I-I couldn't live with that. And, if we had gone through with it then, that's all I would have seen, all I would have thought about. I would have asked myself, 'when does it all change? Will it be today, or tomorrow, or the next day?' Anya, when I marry you-Not if I do, when I do-I want to go into it knowing for sure that I am going to always be able to make you happy, and make you smile. I need to know these things, because when you hurt, so do I, and when you cry, I wish I could, too."
"R-Really, Xander?" Her eyes are hopeful, and the lines around her mouth are more pronounced; she is holding back a smile.
"I love you with everything in me, Anya."
Now she does let herself smile, and her eyes light up in turn. She reaches across the table for his hand, knocking the dish of carrots aside, spilling them onto the table, but neither of them even notice.
Instead of offering his own hand, Xander stands and steps around the table to meet her. He takes her hand then and leads her to stand with him. His hand brushes over her shoulder and cups the back of her neck while the other snakes around her waist. He pulls her close, and all the while, his eyes search her face. She wets her lips and gazes dreamily up at him, putting her hands on his chest, curling into the sweater he wears. And then, closing his eyes, Xander leans down and kisses her full on the lips, putting every ounce of passion into it that is his to give, and she kisses him back with everything that is hers to give. The kiss drags onward, and slows time for the both of them. Anya's hand brushes his cheek, feeling the stubble there, and Xander's hand moves to cup her breast in an expression of closeness rather than lust.
Still locked together, his lips on hers, Xander opens his eyes, his expression stricken, and breaks away from her. She does not understand at first, her lips and eyes relay this fact as she tries to lean into him for more, but he holds her away. He stares at her, searching her.
Understanding, her fingertips brush his lips and her eyes tell her that she's sorry for what happened. His eyes tell her that he knows, but he cannot forget-- Cannot forget seeing her locked together with Spike in an embrace much like this one, though he might want to. Finally, we see the despair in her eyes matched by that in his, and then the tears finally start. Tears that have been waiting to fall from the both of them; Perhaps they are tears of healing rather than of pain, but we sense that it will be some time before we know for certain.
We leave them here, for this is another of those moments too precious and private for our eyes. As we drift through an open window into the welcoming night, they stand as we left them, inches apart, his eyes searching hers, and hers telling him how sorry she really is and asking him to find it in his heart and in his love to forgive. Omnipresent, yes, but not omnipotent; we do not know what will be decided here tonight, or any night thereafter. We expand into the night, and had we lungs to scream, we would ask the world to help Xander to forgive her as loudly as we are able. But, dear friend, we have not lungs for such things and never before have we wished it otherwise more than we do in this instant.

Scene VIII
___________

Below the window from which we made our discreet exit, a lone figure stands on the opposite corner, looking wistfully up at us. It is Buffy, and although there is no way she could possibly know what has just happened upstairs, her face is nonetheless sad and thoughtful. We draw close enough to hear her sigh before she turns and continues through the night.
She has caught the trail of the presence again within a second, and her instincts instantly take over, forcing from her mind any thought or question of the apartment she has just been studying. Her movements gain both purpose and speed as she cuts across the street and behind a tall building. Her mind is focused to a needle's edge, and the smell of decay from the bags of garbage littered here escapes her. Her eyes are hardly being used now-- she is following a path that she does not need eyes to see. She weaves left around a corner, sidestepping another tin trashcan, then another left back onto the street and across it, into another alley. Buffy holds the presence in the front of her mind through each turn and twist. There is no hesitation in her step when she reaches junctions behind and between the buildings; She is guided by something more than the young woman she is, guided by generation after generation of Slayers before her.
"Now you pay," she whispers without breaking pace, feeling that the presence is very, very close. She rounds another corner and skids to a stop.
Spike is kneeling in the alley before her. He looks up when she rounds the corner and bares his fangs in surprise. His Demon face is already surfaced, and his features are contorted and cruel, yet the surprise on his face is somehow still clearly visible. Blood streams from his mouth, still wet and glistening, and his shirt is stained with it. Laying before his knees, the half-naked body of a sixteen year-old girl stares up at nothing, blinking slowly and regularly, obviously in shock. The white skin on her arms is smeared with blood from Spike's hands.
"Buffy?" He asks, and the demon fades out his features. His hands keep their grip around the young girl's fingers.
"You twisted sonovabitch," Buffy growls and throws herself at him. She does not stop to ask herself whether he is the source of the presence she has been tracking this evening; She does not pause longer than it takes for her heart to break with disappointment, and then she is moving again.
Her feet leave the ground and she spins in the air, her leg extending out, toes pointed, in a kick aimed at Spike's head. His arm begins to rise to parry, eyes narrowing in preparation for being struck. The young girl twitches when his hand leaves hers, and a tear rolls down her reddened cheek.
And here we must call a halt to all this, for things are moving too fast to make note of all that must be seen. Buffy's movement through the air begin to slow, as though swimming through water, and finally stops. We drift around behind Buffy, studying her grace, evident even frozen in time. Spike's arm is still on the way up, and it too is frozen, motionless. The girl in his lap, her eyes half-open in a catatonic state. No sounds, no breeze, no movement.
There is another side to this moment, and we assure you that it bears notice. With that in mind, we have no choice but to undo what has been done. It is only unfortunate that we are unable to change what will come to pass this night, only observe.
As though time itself has come unwound, Buffy reverses her direction, flying backwards, moving faster with each passing heartbeat. Her leg coils inward again as her feet touch the ground; Spike's arm comes down and returns to grip the young girl's hand. Buffy runs backward at full tilt back around the alley, then backward across the street, and through the previous alley. Her minutes-long pause outside Xander's building passes in hardly a second, and further back we follow, to her house, upstairs to her room, into the shower, back to the Doublemeat palace where she works. . .
And now, we allow time to pass before our eyes again.

Customers stand lined nearly to the doors, waiting for their turn to order. At the front counter, the two cashiers-- an older woman named Tracy, and our Slayer-- stand motionless. Both are looking up at the clock on the wall beside them. It reads as being only seconds away from six. Both Tracy and Buffy count down the seconds silently. Customers lean forward, trying in vain to make themselves noticed.
"Hello? I want the Doublemeat Deluxe, please?"
"Mmmm," Buffy nods absently, not taking her eyes from the clock in order to address the woman in line.
"Today, possibly?"
Tracy looks at Buffy, her eyes narrowing. Buffy meets her gaze without blinking. In their eyes, we can see mirrored determination pass between them, a silent challenge.
In the office in the back, the door opens and the manager steps out, glancing down at his wristwatch, and back in the front, only two seconds remain before six. Almost in unison, both Buffy and Tracy's hands move to the button on their separate registers labeled 'Cash-Out.'
The second hand on the clock inches toward six, and Tracy's finger wavers over the button. In the back office, the alarm on the manager's wristwatch goes off with a chirp. And before he pushes the button to turn it off, Buffy has already pushed the 'Cash-Out' button, removed her cash tray and is half-way to him, passing the next shift's lone cashier with hardly a smile-- He's a prick anyway, she dimly hears herself think. Drifting along in advance of Buffy, we see the stricken expression on Tracy's face; she has hardly even managed to pull out her cash drawer.
The manager offers a tired, uncaring smile to Buffy as she holds her drawer out to him with a wide, "I'm done work and you're not" smile. He takes the drawer from her and jerks his head toward the rear door, silently giving her permission to leave.
"See you tomorrow Tracy," Buffy waves on her way out. "Better luck next time."
"Yeah, yeah, Summers," Tracy nods back, settling into a the chair outside the manager's now closed office door. "Next time I get the register closer to the office."
Buffy hesitates for one last smile, then leaves before the manager has time to finish counting her money for the night, lest he decide that maybe he wanted her to do it for once. Sometimes, Buffy decided, it was good to have as little responsibility as possible.
We follow her for a block or two after she leaves the Doublemeat, but when she turns North, we turn South, and lose her into the growing shadows. We know full well where we will find her tonight, anyway.

We rush by inches above the concrete, speeding through intersections, over the sidewalk, through the brush, straight across town, and into the fullness and open spaces of the largest cemetery in town. The sun is down over the horizon already, and the moon is growing full before our eyes, seeming to be rushing itself to gain a better vantage over the city. We weave among tombstones without pause, following the bootprints we can see in the spongy grass.
Cresting a hill, we find Spike leaning against a tombstone, balancing himself in a sitting position, watching the lights of the city wink at the night. It's a wonderful view, but not what brought Spike here tonight. Coming around to his front, we see that his eyes are half-hidden in a mist of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from his lips. His hands are hooked into his belt and his eyes dart, narrowed, back and forth across the city ahead. Like Buffy, Spike has full intent to spend his long, lonely evening hunting for the mysterious presence both have felt over the last few days.
Sensing something, he stands and brushes himself off, then begins down the hill at a jog, tossing his cigarette a distance ahead of himself, then crushing it under his boot when he passed.
"Not gettin' away tonight," he tells the night. "Not unless you kill me first."

But, almost an hour later, Spike finds himself crouched at the mouth of an alley, smoking another cigarette in quick, frustrated puffs. He knows that the palpable hatred he feels in the back of him mind is close by, but has yet to catch even a glimpse of it.
He finishes the cigarette and stands, stretching out the kinks in his back from crouching, and punches the wall with force, swearing at himself.
"Where the bloody hell are you, then?" He whispers, eyes scanning the darkness for some sign of her prey. "No fun if you don't give a Polo to my Marco, and all."
Movement catches his eyes across the street, and his eyes tense and strain to penetrate the darkness. A figure steps out into the moonlight and Spike knows instantly that it is the source of the unbridled hatred he has been feeling ever since London-- And although he had only seen it the once, in an almost pitch alley in his old city, it looked exactly as he imagined it would.
It's clothing matched what Spike had worn the very first time he had come to SunnyDale so long ago with Dru in his arms; Black jeans, open red buttoned shirt with the black Tee underneath and long leather duster covering all. Except, this version of him was not blonde-- Had no hair at all, infact. This is a true demon standing before him, not one filtered through a human body; The ridges across it's forehead are more pronounced, more like horns, and it's mouth is a nest of needles. It's hands are hardly hands at all-- More like talons, it seems to Spike, and appeared easily sharp enough to rip a man in two with a single swipe.
"That was a mistake, mate," Spike snarled at it, already starting across the street, hands balled into fists. "Showing yourself like--"
He stopped, hearing a woman's scream from nearby-- On the left, up the street, he guessed. Reflexively, Spike's eyes darted toward the sound just in time to see a young girl, hardly sixteen at most, run across the street. Her own head is fixed on someone behind her, and from the speed she runs, we may easily assume that something bad is chasing her. Were we limited to assuming, friend, we would not be wrong; Only meters behind her, two men are giving chase, both laughing and taunting the girl.
Spike stopped in the street, unsure what to do. The demon still stood before him at the mouth of the alley, taunting him with it's refusal to run, yet the girl was in some trouble herself. He growled at himself, at the indecision.
"Bugger," he swore loudly, then started off in the direction the young girl had run.
We hold our position for a moment after Spike has passed out of sight. The demon has moved deeper into the alley again, but we can still see it's glowing yellow eyes. While we watch, it winks at us, then laughs, it's voice resonating somehow, as if coming through an electronic synthesizer. And then, it is gone, scaling the brick wall of the building as easily as you might climb a small hill.

The screams had first grown quieter, which Spike was glad of, for they made something inside him want to cry out with her. But when they stopped altogether, the vampire missed them. No screams, we well know, oftentimes meant dead. Spike knows this also, but from the point of view of the killer, rather than the savior.
He is still running, pausing at every corner with his ear cocked. Hearing nothing, he sprints to the next, and the next, and the next. Finally, now deep within the twisting maze of SunnyDale's sidestreets, he thinks he hears her breathing somewhere up ahead, and worse, he smells blood in the air. He has already guessed what is happening behind one of these corners, and it both chills him and conjures images that are two horrifying for our minds. Also, a painfully clear image of Buffy in a white cotton robe enters his mind, twisting on the floor of her bathroom, pinned under him. He snarls and his demon face surfaces, distorting his handsome features.
Knowing he will follow on his own, we leave Spike and follow the scent, tracing it to it's origin in one of the many branches in the alley.
The two men have the girl pinned to the ground. The larger man, wearing a white tee-shirt that is yellowed with age and stretched too tight over his large stomach, has the young girl's arms pinned behind her back with one hand. The other he has cupped over the girl's mouth, pulling her head backward at a painful angle to press against his not-insignificant chest.
The second man, older with salt-and-pepper hair left long and tangled, holds a knife before the young girl's eye. Blood drips from the blade, fresh from the slash on her arm.
"You gonna keep quiet now, Missy?"
Unable to speak with her mouth covered, the girl's only response is a fresh trickle of tears down her cheek. Her wild eyes, we see, are innocent; She has no idea what these men are about to do to her. Perhaps she believes they are only after what little money she has on her person, but no matter what hope she has chosen to cling to, we instantly regret arriving before Spike, for we can do nothing except watch the scene that unfolds, and hope (with you) that it turns out well for this tender girl.
"That's what I thought," the man with the knife grins at his partner. "Though, I do love it when they struggle; makes it that much more fun, wouldn't you say, Gord?"
"Don't use my effing name, fuckhead," Gord replied angrily, his face flushing. "Just hurry up so I can have my turn before someone shows up."
"Don't rush me," the second man warns absently, running the tip of the blade down the girl's tear-stained cheek. He slides the tip down her chin, following the contours of her tender throat, and down, down, catching the edge on the scoopneck of her lycra shirt. With his free hand, he grips the top of the shirt, and slices slowly and carefully down through the fabric, his eyes eating up every square inch of forbidden flesh that comes into view. A black, lacy bra greets the night as the shirt is torn almost to her midriff. With the tip of the blade, the man hooks one half of the torn shirt and slides it away from the girl's covered breast. Her underdeveloped chest heaves with each scared breath she takes, and she tries to twist away from the point of the blade as it brushes over the cup of her bra, but Gord gives her arms a sharp twist upward, and she screams again into his greasy hand.
"I hate being rushed," the second man says between heavy breaths. "And I told you not to scream again, bitch." The knife rises up to press against her throat. "You yell again, and I'll slit your throat. You understand that, tramp?"
She nods into the hand covering her mouth, and her eyes squeeze shut as the man with the knife sets about removing her jeans, which her mother clearly mentioned were far too tight for a girl her age to be wearing.
"Beautiful," Gord whispers into her ear as her jeans are pulled roughly down her thighs.
"I always pick the hottest girls," says the second man. "Don't act so surprised."
The girl, Kari is her name, grimaces and bites down on her lower lip when she feels the cool blade of the knife press against her hip, sliding between her skin and her cotton panties. She hears fabric letting go fiber by fiber against the sharp edge, and then hears no more. She slips away from the world, and faints.
And thankfully, before the man with the knife can do more than lift a corner of the torn panties an inch away from her white skin, he is pulled viscously backward, and thrown against the wall of the alley, hitting with a sickening crash and landing, dazed, on a pile of garbage.
"Whathefu--" Gord is cut off by a steel-toed boot to the face, shattering his nose and sending him tumbling backward, leaving Kari's limp body to roll onto her side where it immediately curled into a fetal position.
"Bloody animals," Spike snarls, enraged. His demon face contorts, snarling, and he reaches for the man with the knife. He draws back his fist and slams it forward into the man's face, sending teeth and gouts of blood spraying in the narrow alley. He punches the man again and again, until the man's eyes go blank and body falls like a sack of fetid meat onto the floor of the alley. Perhaps not realizing that the man is now dead, or perhaps not caring either way, Spike lifts the body up by the throat, crushing it with a satisfying crackle of cartilage, and hefts it above his shoulders, then throws it as far as his prenatural strength will allow-- Which, in this case, is outside the alley itself.
Then, he turns to the second man, who has risen to his knees, holding his nose delicately between his palms. "Yob broke mah nobe," he mutters, incredulous. "Gonna fub yob ub now, fubber." He makes it to his feet before Spike pulls him into an embrace and sinks his fangs into Gord's fleshy neck. He does not drink long before holding Gord at arms length, then breaks his neck-- Nearly tears it right off his shoulders, in fact. We are aware that Gord was very much alive, though stunned, when his head was twisted around backward, and we feel no pity for the man.
Spike is instantly at Kari's side, kneeling over her, checking her pulse and for the source of all the blood on her arms and hip. Both were small cuts, neither life-threatening, he was glad to see.
"Look, Luv, you're safe now," he told her, his voice as comforting as he could make it. "Don't worry none. Ol' Spike's gonna get you to a hospital. Hang on to me." She does not respond, so he rolls her into his arms and gets back onto his feet. Then, moving in a hurried fashion, carries her out of the alley and looks around, unsure which direction the hospital lies in. He turns right, and starts off in that direction, hoping he has chosen correctly.

Kari heard the heavy, strained breathing in her ear first, and it was a moment before she remembered anything else. But then it all came back in a flash, and she struggled against the cold, iron grip that held her. "No!" She screamed. "Nooo!"
"Calm down, Luv, it's okay, remember? I'm taking you to the--" His words were cut off when her flailing fist caught him in the windpipe. He staggered, fell to one knee, and coughed roughly, but did not drop the young girl.
"Nooo!" She yelled again, the word almost lost against the scream itself. And again, she punched Spike in the throat, seemingly more aware of her aim than that last time.
And, this time Spike was helpless to drop her, though he did manage to cushion her fall by rolling her off his crooked knees. "Stop--" Cough. "Bloody--" Cough. "Hitting me!" Despite himself, his vampire face rose forth again, though he stopped himself from doing anything but to catch her fist in midswing. "I'm trying to help you, lil' one, I promise." He held onto her fist and pressured it back down to her side. His other hand went to her shoulder in what he hoped was both comforting and to signal to her that she no longer needed to struggle.
"Nooo," she said again, with less force and pitch. Her mouth worked to say it again, but no sound came out. She coughed.
"It's okay, Luv, really it is. The bad guys are gone, a-and you're on your way to the hospital. They'll help you, um, somehow. Shoot you up with some drugs, or something. Doesn't that sound like a good time to you?" He frowned at her, unsure what to say or do. He wasn't sure he dared to move her again, but likewise he knew that he couldn't leave her here for long. Her cuts weren't deep, but her struggling had opened them up again, and the blood was flowing thickly. And her clothes-- All torn and whatnot. Couldn't just leave her here, that was for sure.
Absently, he pulled the torn halves of her shirt back together over her bra, and tried to stretch the shirt down to cover her bottom half. It hadn't occurred to her to find her pants before leaving the alley.
Spike was about to try moving her again when he heard the scuff of sneakers on the concrete within the alley. He looked up, fangs bared in case it was another attacker, but was greeted instead with Buffy's eyes staring at him. In an instant, he saw fear, disbelief, and then rage in those baby blues. "Buffy?" He asked, thinking that she would surely know what to do. She was the Slayer, after all, and had plenty more experience at helping people.
"You twisted sonovabitch," she growled, and threw herself at him.
She spun in the air almost too fast for his eyes to track, and he saw the blur that was her foot shoot out, swinging in an arc toward his head. He only barely managed to get his hand up in time to slap it away. He rolled over sideways and came up on his feet, hoping that he hadn't kicked the young girl accidentally when he moved so suddenly.
"Damnit, Slayer, would you stop so I can bloody well explain?"
"How could you do this? How could you do it again, to someone else?"
"*I* didn't," he growled back, blocking a rapid-fire series of her punches and kicks. The last, a low kick to his abdomen, was too fast for him to avoid, and he stumbled backward, clutching his stomach. She followed up with a kick to his knee, and he dropped to the ground, grimacing.
"How could you?" She repeated, bringing her hand down in a tight arc, cutting open his cheek.
"I didn't," he repeated, losing his speech briefly as his head twisted painfully on his neck from the blow.
Buffy grabbed him by the back of the shirt and spun him to lean against the alley wall, then produced a stake from behind her back. "No more," she whispers.
His eyes open in shock, and he raises his hands to protest. In his mind, he is screaming in a sort of confused anger. How has she not seen the soul in his eyes? How can she think that what happened to the young girl had anything to do with him?
"Slay-- Buffy," he tries again, his voice brave and even. "I did not do this. You've got to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you."
"You used to lie to me all the time," she counters angrily, though has yet to plunge the stake into his heart.
"Well, yeah, I suppose I did," he nods sheepishly. "But not about this. Now, look, the 'lil one needs a doctor, and she needs it now. So why don't you put away the toothpick and bloody help me?"
"You shouldn't have come back," she says, still quite obviously weighing the decision in her mind.
"Yeah, but I missed these little chats of ours," he frowns sardonically. "Now either kill me and help the girl, or help me help the girl, Slayer. No more messing 'round."
In response, Buffy tenses her staking arm and pulls it back an inch, as if preparing to actually strike. Just then, however, the girl moaned and began to sob loudly. Buffy glanced toward her, face concerned, and Spike took the opportunity to get away. He pushed her as hard as he was able, then ducked under her fist (not the stake, we notice) and ran out of the alley into the night.
Buffy turns away from the mouth of the alley and slides the stake back into the leather holster Xander made for her as a gag birthday present and kneels beside the young girl. Spike was right, she notices, the girl does need a doctor. The Slayer strips off her light jacket and ties it around the girl's waist, covering her nakedness. The girl's eyes focus on Buffy, and for a moment look less glassy.
"H-Help?" She whispers weakly, still standing on the line between conscious and not.
"Yes," Buffy nods and forces a smile. "I'm going to help you."
The girl smiles, and Buffy wipes the girl's bangs away from her red face, and recognizes her. "You're Kari. Dawn's friend."
Kari nods slowly, and then her eyes flutter closed again and she hugs herself, tears running freely between her eyelids. "C-Cold. So c-cold."
"Let's get you somewhere safe," Buffy affirms, easily scooping up the young girl into her arms. "Then I'm gonna go find who did this to you."

Spike is hiding in the shadows across the street from the alley when Buffy emerges with the girl in her arms. He smiles.
"Good for you, Slayer. Knew I could count on you." He gingerly brushes his fingers over the swollen cut on his cheek and licks the blood from his fingers. "Now, I've got an appointment to keep," then he vanishes deeper into the night.

Scene IX
_______

Hours later, inside Spike's old crypt, Clem is sitting in the old, faded easychair, watching television with a bowl of popcorn in his lap. He yawns wearily and pops a kernel into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue before crushing it between his teeth.
A sudden crash at the bolted front door startles him. The bowl of popcorn crashes to the floor and rolls away on it's side. Another crash at the door, but the heavy bolt holds.
Clem stands up and reaches for the cracked baseball bat he keeps next to the chair. He holds it in front of him, looking quite unsure of himself, and waits.
Silence reigns for a moment. On the television, a laughtrack signals another joke has been told, and after a moment's hesitation, the live studio audience joins in, clapping and cheering. Clem takes a step forward on shaking legs. "H-Hello?" He asks quietly-- Too quietly, in fact, for anyone to realistically hear from outside.
Finally, there is a knock at the door. He hesitates, but moves to unlock the bolt and opens it a crack. Buffy stands in the dim light from the moon, her hands on her hips.
"Buffy?" Clem smiles widely and opens the door, gesturing for her to come inside. "What a surprise! Want a drink? I've got cherry Kool-Aid!"
Buffy steps inside and leans sideways to inspect the back of the door, noticing the bolt. "No Kool-Aid," she says. "Good lock."
"Oh, yeah," Clem nods proudly. "Installed it myself a few months ago-- Got tired of defending the place when I was trying to sleep. This is a prime piece of real estate, you know."
"So you mentioned," she nodded, doing a quick lap of the main area of the crypt. "Where's Spike?"
"S-Spike? Oh, he, uh, he doesn't live here anymore. Remember? He left town?"
"Clem," Buffy turned to face the bald demon. "I know he's back. I just want to know where he is. That's it."
"I-I'm not sure," he replies. This is not a lie, we understand, but can only hope that Buffy believes him. "H-He wouldn't tell me where he was staying."
She stares at him appraisingly, then nods.
"So, you just want to talk to him, or something?"
"Or something," Buffy nods, moving back to the door. "I'm going to kill him."
"Kill him? What-- Why?" Clem follows her up to the door.
"Look, Clem, I don't have time for twenty questions. Do you know where he hangs out now? I've checked all the old places, and nobody's seen him."
"I-I'm not sure, but Buffy--"
"Thanks anyway," Buffy steps out the door and starts away at a fast pace.
"Buffy, wait!" Clem hurries after her and moves to block her path. "What is it you think he did?"
"Does it matter?" She asked, but seeing the demon's expression, continued, "he raped a girl-- Or, would have if I hadn't shown up in time."
"What? Raped? Buffy, no. No, he couldn't have."
"Why? Because of the chip, you mean? Maybe he found someone to remove it, I don't know," she shrugged and tried to step around him, but he blocked her path again. "If you'd seen this girl, you wouldn't ask me to tell you more."
"Not the chip," Clem shook his head, making his ears flop around. "He's got his-- I mean, um, he couldn't have done anything to that girl, Buffy. Trust me on this. It's impossible."
She frowned, "what aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," he tried to smile, but guessed it looked as fake as it felt so he let it drop. "It's just that he's, um, not exactly the same guy he was when he left. That's all I'm saying. He's different now-- I've talked to him, Buffy. He couldn't-- would never do something like that."
"I wish I could believe you," she said, and sighed heavily. "But, I saw what I saw, Clem."
"No," Clem said in as serious a tone as we have heard from the man. "You didn't, Buffy. You couldn't have."
"If you see him before I do," Buffy said after a moment's thought. "Tell him to get out of town. Because if I find him, I will kill him." She stayed for a heartbeat, staring hard at Clem, emphasizing her point, then turned and stormed off.
"Oooh," Clem frowned. He rubbed his hands together, worried, and went back inside, bolting the door behind him. "This isn't good at all."

When Buffy returned home, forgoing continuing her search for Spike for reasons she cannot explain, she was greeted at the door by Willow.
"What're you still doing up?" Buffy asked, pleasantly surprised to see her friend. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled Willow into a hug.
Surprised herself, Willow returned the hug without hesitation. "I couldn't sleep-- Buffy, are you okay?"
"I saved a girl from getting raped tonight, Will," Buffy sighed and moved into the livingroom where she sprawled out on the couch, rubbing her eyes wearily.
"Is she okay?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, she's going to be fine, the doctor said. He didn't have time to do any permanent damage. She's just hurt and in shock."
"Who is she? Someone we know?"
"It was Spike," Buffy said through closed eyes.
"W-What? Spike? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I saw him. When I got there, he was kneeling over her-- God, Willow, her clothes were practically torn right off. I-If I'd been more than a minute later, it would have been too late, I think."
"My God," Willow whispered quietly. "I can't believe that guy. I-I mean, what about his chip?"
"Guess its passed warranty."
"Who was the girl?" Dawn, from the bottom of the stairs. Her arms were crossed over her chest stubbornly, putting an end to any argument that might begin as to her right to be there.
"Dawn, I don't think--"
"Buffy, who? Who did he hurt?"
"Dawnie," Buffy sighed and shook her head. "Please. . ."
Dawn set her jaw and glared at Buffy silently.
"It was Kari," Buffy said after a long breath.
"What? My friend Kari? That Kari? Are you sure?" Dawn took a step forward, her eyes wide in shock.
"I'm sure. I called her mother from the waiting room. She came right away. B-But they wanted to keep Kari for the night to run some tests-- To make sure that Spike hadn't. . ."
"Oh God, Buffy," Dawn began to cry, but her eyes remained hard and angry. "Why?"
"Because he's, I don't know, because he's Spike," Buffy shrugged helplessly.
"I used to hang out with him after school," Dawn whispered to herself. "I never told you-- What if he had. . . "
Buffy stood and moved to hug her sister tightly. "I would never let him hurt you. I'd stop him, you know I would."
"I-I know, Buffy, but what if. I mean, I've watched TV with him so many times, all alone with him-- Kari's only sixteen."
"He's sick," Buffy nodded, tucking Dawn's head deeper into her shoulder. "Did he ever t-try anything with you, Dawn? The truth."
"N-No, never," Dawn whispered into Buffy's neck. "But, there were so many times-- I can't believe. No, no he couldn't have. You're wrong." Dawn pulled away from Buffy and backed up against the railing. "You've gotta be wrong."
"I'm not, Dawn. At least, I don't see how I could be; I saw him holding her."
"B-But maybe he found her like that? M-Maybe he was trying to help her?"
Buffy smiled sadly and shook her head. "I don't think so, Dawn."
"No!" Her sister yelled shrilly. "I won't believe it. He was so good to everyone last year-- Even me. You're wrong."
"He tried to rape me, too, Dawn. Last year, just before he went away." Tears stood out in Buffy's eyes now as she admitted to what she had promised herself never to admit to her sister. "I-I stopped him, but he tried to do it."
"W-What?" Dawn slipped out around the banister and stepped up onto the stairs, putting the banister between herself and Buffy. "You didn't tell me," that last was so quiet Buffy almost missed it altogether.
"I couldn't," Buffy admitted, wiping away her tears with the palm of one hand. "I didn't want you to know."
"But he was so nice to--" She didn't finish her thought. Turning quickly, she hurried up the stairs and both Willow and Buffy heard a bedroom door slam, shaking the whole house, it seemed.
Buffy stood at the stairs for a minute, looking up at the hallway, unsure whether to follow or not. Deciding against it, she returned to the couch and sat down beside Willow. After a moment, she leaned into Willow's shoulder and began to cry helplessly.

Scene X
_______

Spike kicked open the door to his motel room and stepped inside, kicking it closed behind him. With his free hand, he dropped the keys onto the little table beside the door and set down the large paperbag of groceries he had bought down the street. Tossing his duster over the back of the chair, he unpacked the carton of cigarettes and the six-pack of beer, then dug to the bottom to produce four IV bags of blood he had purchased from the backroom of a veterinarian's office down the street.
He frowned at the labels on the bags. "Pig blood. Type AB negative," he read. Then, shrugged and tossed them into the luxury bar in the corner. "Better that than monkey, I'd wager."
A knock at the door startled him, and he dropped the beer onto the floor. One of the cans broke free of the plastic ring and rolled under the bed.
"Who is it?" He asked, frowning. "Clem, if that's you, there'll be trouble, mate." Moving to the peephole in the door, he looked through it for a moment, then pulled back, his frown deeper. He glanced around the room, giving it a quick inspection, and kicked the remaining beer under the bed with the other. Then, he opened the door to face Dawn, the Slayer's kid sister.
He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing here-- How she had found him, but was interrupted by the cross she held out at his face. He snarled and backed away, holding his hand up to shield himself.
"Hello, Spike," Dawn said, stepping into the room even as he stumbled backward. "Nice place."
She opened her mouth to perhaps say more, but Spike reached out and slapped the cross out of her hands, then pushed her into the chair by the door.
"Right," Spike smiled humorlessly at her. "Firstly, how'd you like it if I knocked on your door and started poking crosses in your face? Secondly, what're you doing here-- And how'd you find me, for that matter?" He paused, but found he could continue, "and thirdly, does your sister know where you are?"
"Why?" Dawn snapped at him, undaunted despite having lost the cross. "Are you gonna try to rape me, too?"
"What?" Spike sat down hard on the edge of the bed facing her. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you were going to rape me, too? You've got a thing for young girls, right?"
Spike ran a hand down over his face and groaned. "She told you, then? How much?"
"Everything," Dawn spat. "About Kari tonight, a-and about what you tried to do to Buffy last year."
"Kari?" Spike frowned for a moment, but then caught on. "That was her name? She's okay, is she?"
"Why, you want a second crack at her, or something? She's my friend, Spike-- She's only sixteen!"
Spike rolls his eyes and growls back at her, "do I have to go through this with you, too? Bloody wonderful. Look, I didn't touch the sodding girl. Found her getting attacked, and I bloody well tried to help. Fat lot of thanks I got for it, too."
"And Buffy?"
"T-That part is true, nib'," Spike admitted with a sigh. "Didn't know what I was doing, but I did that, yeah. But tonight, with this Kari, that was not me."
"Why should I believe you? Huh? All you do is lie, Spike. You've probably lied to me thousands of times by now. What's one more, right?"
"Because, Luv," Spike jumps from the bed and leans down over Dawn, putting his muscular arms on either side of the chair to keep her from moving. "If I was lying, I'd've already done something to you, right? Taken a piece, or maybe a drink? If I did do it tonight, what's one more, like you said?"
He held his position for a moment longer, wanting to be absolutely certain that Dawn knew he was being serious-- To give her something to think about before she started accusing him of starting the bloody revolution in France, or something. After he felt that enough time had passed, Spike pushed himself away from the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed, trying to find the beer. He found the one that had rolled away and he cracked it open, still facing away from Dawn, and drank deeply. Then, he stood and moved to lean against the bureau, still not looking over at Dawn, though he knew that she had not moved.
"We done now?" He asked, keeping his gaze focussed on the beer in his hand. "'Cus I've got better things to do than argue with the Slayer-in-Training all night. 'Sides, it's late, and shouldn't you have school--"
He stopped when he heard Dawn gasp. She had been staring at her feet, but looked up when he moved to lean against the bureau, and at the mirror screwed into the wall above it.
"Oh, bloody. . ." He pushed off the bureau and moved away from the mirror, standing in the corner instead.
"You've got a reflection," Dawn whispered, standing.
"Dawn, I'm serious, it's time to go now," he said, waving toward the door.
"You've got a reflection," she repeated. "Why do you have a reflection?"
"Look, its. . . A long story. One that I don't feel much like getting into just now, Luv. Night, night, then." He waved her toward the door again.
"You're human again," she frowned, her eyes travelling up and down his body.
"Not bloody likely!" He exclaimed. "Had enough of that the one time, thank you very much."
"A vampire with a reflection," Dawn nodded thoughtfully.
"Looks like," he nodded back.
"But, you can't have a reflection 'cus you've got no--" Her eyes grew wide. "You've got a soul?"
"What? No! Keep it down! Bloody hell, woman, you're going to have every demon 'round these parts lookin to put my head on their mantles if you keep talking like that."
"You do! But, no, wait, Angel has a soul but he still doesn't have a reflection."
"Probably on account of him being a flighty ponce, I expect. It's bad enough that we have to see him, much less him seeing himself. Captain Freedom'd never get anything done on account of trying to fix that hair of his all night." He chuckled at his own joke.
"Come on, seriously, Spike, what's going on?"
"His soul was through a curse-- Magic. I earned mine fair and square," Spike shrugged. "Don't understand it much myself beyond that, Luv."
"When?"
"After I left here-- After what happened with the Slayer," Spike sighed, resigned to explaining himself. "Went and found this bloke out in the middle of nowhere. Wasn't much of a people person, if you get my meaning."
"And he just gave you a soul?"
"Nooo, like I said, nib, I earned mine." Spike corrected her, moving to stand before the mirror again, checking himself out. "Proved myself worthy to the bloke."
"When Angel got his soul, he was all sad and depressed," Dawn said thoughtfully. "You don't look sad and depressed."
"Might have noticed that I'm not Angel, either, nib? Besides, the way I've got it figured, it wasn't me who did all the killing and torturing; it was the demon inside me. No sense in brooding about over it, I suspect."
"And Buffy doesn't know, does she."
"No," Spike turned away from the mirror and fixed Dawn with a serious eye. "And she can't. Got to prove it to her myself. Little skeptic wouldn't believe anyone if they told her, anyway. No, I've got to do it myself. Promise me you won't say anything." It was not a request.
Dawn huffed over this for a moment while Spike finished his beer and tossed the can into the garbage pail beside the luxury bar. "I promise."
"Right," he nodded and slid his duster over his muscled shoulders. "Now, let's get you home before big sis notices you're not tucked away safe and sound and turns homicidal."
Dawn allowed him to guide her by the shoulder out the door, and the two started off toward the Summers' home. They walked in silence most of the way, until Dawn's eyebrows furrowed with a question.
"Hey, the chip won't let you hurt anything with a soul, right? But, you've got a soul now. So, does that mean you can't even, like, pluck your eyebrows without it hurting?"
"I'm not in the habit of plucking my eyebrows, Luv," Spike replies with a small smile. "But, the chip doesn't work anymore, anyway."
"The demon thing you went and saw removed it?"
Spike shrugged. "Didn't see that on the bill, so I suspect it's still there. Just isn't working as of late, is all."
"Oh. So, you can pluck your eyebrows now?"
"My eyebrows are just fine the way they are, Luv."

Scene XI
_______

We come across Buffy, along with Willow and Xander, the following evening. As we arrive, the trio are slipping through the broken door of an old, abandoned warehouse just outside of town. Xander is carrying a double-edged axe that looks sharp enough to cut steel. This is no training exercise; Though it took hours, Buffy has finally managed to track the presence she has been feeling, and it lead her here. Fear nothing at our late arrival, for we missed nothing of importance-- Unless you count several experated groans and frustrated sighs as important, that is.
Xander heads up the rear, being the last to leave the natural light of the moon. He lets his eyes sweep over the landscape before backing into the warehouse after Willow and Buffy. We can see from many years experience that Xander is distracted; His heart is wholeheartedly supportive of helping Buffy and Willow-- Especially since it means getting to see Spike die finally (Willow explained everything earlier in the day), but his thoughts are on Anya. We apparently did not miss much after we left them the other night, friend, for soon after we slipped out the back window, Anya slipped out the front door, coat in hand and tears still running down her face, ruining her mascara.
Perhaps if Xander's mind had been on what he was doing, he would have noticed another delicate figure moving in the shadows. As he steps into the warehouse and rejoins his friends, Dawn slips out of a shadow and runs, at a crouch, the distance to the warehouse. She waits a count of thirty seconds before slipping into the broken door. We wait the same in case there are anymore latecomers to the warehouse tonight, but it appears as though everyone of importance is already inside. Pray follow us now, so we may find a good seat before the show begins. The curtain call is close now, so expect things to happen quickly.
"Do you see anything?" Willow asks Buffy, crouched beside her behind a row of boxes.
Buffy frowns and shakes her head, "not yet, but I know he's here. We all saw him come in."
To be sure, what they saw was a long black duster and a brief glimpse of yellow, vampire eyes in the shadows, and nothing more. But, that proved to be more than enough for the trio, for here they are now, weapons drawn and at the ready for whatever might spring from the darkness.
"We saw him," Xander nods from Buffy's other side. "Don't worry, Buffy, we'll find him."
"Xander, go over to the other side of that clearing," Buffy ordered with a nod in the appropriate direction. "Maybe we can box him in. Be careful."
"Careful is my middle name," he nods firmly, then starts to carefully weave his way between the old, abandoned equipment inside the building.
"Actually, it's Lavelle," Willow says secretly to Buffy.
Buffy smiles briefly, but her eyes are all business. "You go off on the right side. When I give the signal, start moving back toward me. Maybe we can cut him off before he can escape."
Willow nods at her friend then starts away. After only three short steps, however, she turns and comes back. "What's the signal?"
"You'll know it when you hear it," Buffy shrugged. "You were thinking birdcalls, or something?"
"No, but I can do a mean woodchuck?"
Buffy and Willow part, and the two head off in opposite directions through the warehouse, both taking extreme care to be as quiet as possible. Nestled in our perch in the rafters high above, we watch their progress away, and the glowing yellow eyes that wait near the center of the warehouse do not escape our notice, either. Buffy will be the first to reach the waiting demon, we note. And so we wait for what is to come, feeling both eager to see resolution, and fearful of it at the same time. Spike is wandering around in here also, you see, having also tracked the demon this far, though we have lost track of him at the present. We shudder to think what might happen if Buffy or one of her friends should spot him before he them.

Buffy is indeed the first to reach the demon's hiding place, but fails to sense it until it is too late. The demon lashes out with a clawed talon and knocks her off balance, slicing three perfectly straight, perfectly aligned cuts through the left arm of her shirt. She cries out and rolls to her right, out of it's range as another talon slices the air. She rolls to her feet in time to parry another blow from the advancing demon, and has to backstep to stay outside of it's powerful swipes.
"Hullo Slayer," it says in a mockery of Spike's accent. The demon's voice is deeper, and resonates as though echoing through a long chamber. It's yellow eyes grin wickedly at her as it throws out a steel-toed boot in a straight snap kick which cuts through the air where she stood only an instant before.
"S-Spike?" She breaths, blocking another blow before dodging another. "Is that you?"
"The real me," it laughs, throwing another talon strike, this one tearing at the stomach of her shirt but missing firm flesh. "The only part that ever mattered."
"Mattered to who?" Buffy snorted, throwing a punch of her own, the first she has had time for. "Never mattered much to me."
The demon laughed. "Seemed to be otherwise when you called my name while I had you in my bed."
"Yeah, well, what can I say? I've moved on."
"Not yet," it laughed again, cruelly, "but I'll see that you get the proper sendoff, Luv."
Inside, Buffy was beginning to get worried. This thing, whatever it claimed to be, did not fight like the Spike she knew. Spike usually had more style, more grace than this-- Whatever it was she fought now relied more on speed and raw force than anything else, and it had thrown Buffy off early, and would not let her get her footing.
She blocked, retreated a step, parried, retreated another step, threw a punch or kick of her own, retreated again. Sensing what the unmovable machinery bolted to the floor behind her, she realized that she was quickly running out of room to retreat.
Xander cried out from behind the demon and rushed forward, axe already swinging. The demon turned in surprise and nearly managed to avoid the axe-- It caught him high on the leg, slicing through leather and faded black jeans, but it only stumbled. Xander pulled the axe out of the gaping, bloodless wound and drew back for another attack, but the demon lashed out with one of its powerful talons, backhanding Xander across the face, stunning the young man. Then, it kicked out with its healthy leg, sending Xander flying impossibly far through the air to land hard on his stomach atop a pile of wooden boxes.
As Buffy straightened her stance and started swinging perfectly timed punches, she was dimly aware that Xander was not moving. Enraged, she fought harder, managing to gain a little ground, peppering the demon with punch after punch across his horned head and kicks to its solid abdomen. Dodging one of its swings, she chopped her open hand against the gash in its leg, and it howled with rage and pain, swinging a backhand that sliced across her upper chest, throwing her off her feet.
"Poor little Slayer," it frowned, limping over to where she lay, struggling to clear her swimming head. "When you woke up today, did you know you were going to die?"
"When I wake up, it's the first thing I ask myself," she said solemnly, meeting its eyes. She had only one chance left, and had to get things exactly correct.
The demon getting closer, she shifted as much of her weight backward onto her shoulders as she could without being obvious about it. Buffy waited until it was only four or five steps away from her before she raised her hands and planted them on the ground above her head, then pushed off with every ounce of strength she had, launching herself like a javelin toward the advancing creature. One of her feet was aimed at its throat, and the other at the equally sensitive area below its belt buckle. It had to work, just had to.
The demon knocked her feet off to the side with hardly an effort while its other talon arched downward in a curled fist that knocked the wind from her and forced her back onto her back. Her eyes clouded, but she forced herself to stay conscious. It started to reach down for her, the nails on each of the three fingers looking impossibly long and wickedly curved, when the tip of a sword burst through its chest, neatly slicing another hole into the duster above and to the right of its heart-- Assuming it has one, which we, dear friend, are not convinced that it does.
The demon blinked, and stumbled, but otherwise did not move for a moment. Buffy scrambled backward on her bottom, mentally thanking Willow for arriving in the nick of time. But, when the demon started to turn, the sword still firmly in place, it was not Willow who stood behind the creature, it was Dawn.
"No," Buffy heard herself say as though from a great distance away, and started to get up. But it was too late, for the demon had already extended its left talon and was swinging it parallel to Dawn's wide eyes. A blow like that would shred her face, Buffy knew.
Only an inch from piercing Dawn's right eyeball, the blow was stopped by an equally powerful arm. And now, Spike stood before Dawn, facing her. His left arm holding the demon's, Spike brought his right elbow backward and connected with the demon's chin, knocking it back a step.
"Run," Spike told Dawn, and turned to face the creature.
"Right," the demon said, backing away from both Spike and Buffy. "Exactly how many of your mates did you bring tonight, anyway? Bloody hell, Slayer, this is turning into a sodding party."
"Speaking of, mate, where's your invitation?" Spike interjected, cracking his knuckles as he advanced on the demon, his own demon face firmly in place.
"Must have left it me other pants," the demon grinned, patting himself down. "Maybe I'll just take yours for now, shall I?"
"Oh, I'd love to see you try, mate," Spike smiled. "I would absolutely love that, in fact."
Now on her feet, Buffy saw Willow crouched in the shadows, a look of indecision on her face. "Willow," Buffy called out to her friend, "check on Xander and then get Dawn out of here!"
Willow nodded quickly, then hurried around Spike, careful to keep clear of both him and the demon.
"Actually," the demon said, noticing suddenly that Buffy was back on her feet. "Think I might just run home and get my own invitation."
The demon turned and started to run, but Spike grabbed it by the tails of its duster.
"Don't let him get away," Buffy yelled, running up to join Spike.
"Wasn't planning on it, Blondie," Spike snarled.
The demon spun on his heel and lashed out faster than either Buffy or Spike would have thought possible. The blow sliced Spike's shirt into ribbons and the vampire fell sideways into Buffy with a cry of pain. Both Slayer and vampire tripped over each other's legs and fell to the ground. The demon, meanwhile, launched itself over a nearby pile of boxes and was lost to both them and us.
Spike was on his feet again first, and carefully examined the wounds on his person. "Bloody thing ruined my shirt. Ought to--"
He was cut off by Buffy who grabbed him by the collar and throw him back to the ground. "What are you doing here?" She demanded, producing a stake from the holster on her back.
"Oh, we're back to this then, are we?" Spike rolled his yellow eyes and groaned. "You've really got to work on thanking people properly for saving your ass, you know. Might look into sending a card rather than giving a public beating next time."
"What was that thing, and why did it talk and dress like you? What did you do this time, Spike? Magic?"
"What? What makes you think I had any idea this was going to happen? Stupid prat in the cave said there were three trials. Three, right? No mention of the demon coming out of me, or anything." He paused, catching himself.
"What are you talking about? Oh, nevermind, it's probably just another story to keep me from killing you, anyway, isn't it?"
"Buffy, don't do it!" Dawn's voice, and her footsteps following it, running toward them from somewhere inside the warehouse. She appears, out of breath, and continues, "you can't kill him, he's got a soul!"
"Dawn, get away from here before that thing comes back and-- What?" She frowns and looks down at Spike. "You've got a what?"
"A nothing," Spike shrugs. "I've got soul, she said. Bloody James Brown of the undead, alright? You know kids these days. Who knows what they're talking 'bout. Look, Slayer, just go ahead and kill me, then."
"What is she talking about? A soul?" Her frown deepens, but we can see something else in her eyes now. Is it hope, perhaps?
"Would you please hurry up and kill me before that thing comes back and finishes what it started with your shirt? Bloody hell, Slayer, have a little follow through on that mouth of yours, for once. All talk but no walk, you are."
She steps away, giving him room to stand. The stake in her hand slowly begins to lower. "You want me to kill you?"
"Better than having to see you everyday, yeah," Spike nods, prodding her. "Rather be a pile of dust, tell you the truth."
"That demon came out of you?" Buffy glances around, suddenly wary of the demon returning.
"Well, um, maybe," Spike shrugs, standing again. "What of it?"
"That's why it talks like you? That's why it said it was you?"
"Rot," he shakes his head. "Back to the staking, Luv? Don't get all distracted on me now."
"Don't do it, Buffy," Dawn yells again, dropping into a crouch when a plank drops somewhere inside the warehouse, echoing loudly.
"Would you please just sod off, nib?" Spike asks Dawn, irritated. "Don't listen to her, Slayer. You know you want to do it. That night in the bathroom, ever since then I'd wager that's all you've thought about."
"If you die, it'll die too, won't it," Buffy said slowly, piecing everything together. "You think that's the only way we can stop it."
"Not a blooming clue what you're prattling on about, Luv," Spike replied, growing angrier. Another crash echoes through the warehouse. "Would you mind hurrying it up, pet? Looking forward to getting back to Hell, and all."
Buffy, suddenly realizing the truth, drops the stake and takes a step backward, her eyes shocked. "You didn't rape that girl, and it wasn't you I saw on the rooftop, either, was it."
Spike didn't answer, only stared down at the stake on the ground.
"You've got a soul?"
Spike reaches down and picks the stake up from beside Buffy's feet, then deliberately puts it back into her hand and folds her fingers around it. He presses the point into one of the gashes across his chest.
"Buffy," he says seriously. "Just do it. Okay? Call it a bloody favor-- Call it a mercy slaying, if that floats your sodding boat, but do it quickly before that thing comes back. I-I can't live like this, knowing what I did to you, knowing what you feel for me now. Everything else I can handle, but this. . . I, I just can't do it, Luv."
Buffy stares into his eyes, and a growl rises from a nearby stack of boxes, growing closer. She looks down at the stake in her hand, pressed into his chest. Dawn watches from over Spike's shoulder, her eyes teary and wide.
The demon rises up from the shadows and flexes its claws before starting forward at an agonizingly slow pace, the duster billowing out behind it.
Buffy loosens her fingers and the stake again drops to the ground. "No," she says to his fearless, open eyes. "I won't do it, not like this. No, William."
He drops his eyes and she turns to face the approaching demon. She drops into a combat stance, and raises her fists, determined to face whatever it may throw at her. High above, breath we do not have becomes stuck in our throats as we wait and watch, unsure and nervous.
In its final steps toward Buffy, the demon begins to fade, turning translucent, and then invisible, and then it walks right through Buffy, for she feels the wave of heat ripple over her exposed skin.
"You have passed the final trial, vampire," a demonic voice says from behind them both.
Buffy spins toward the voice and Spike raises his head, eyes furious. The demon from the cave, cloaked in shadow despite standing in a pool of light, stands before them. Its green eyes glow earily, unblinking.
"This was a trial?" Spike asks, his voice almost shaking with rage. "A man is dead because of that thing, and how many more in London, and it was nothing but another bleeding trial?"
"With life comes death," the demon said, it's voice unaffected by Spike's anger. "You have proven yourself worthy by offering up your life in exchange for the lives of everyone else."
"I would have done that right from the start if I'd have known it would've worked," Spike said, a small smile almost rising on his human face.
"That is known," the demon replied. Then, after a brief pause, "I was curious what would happen, though."
"You gave him his soul back?"
"The vampire was given what he wanted most," the demon replied. "Congratulations, vampire. You are the first in a thousand generations who has survived the trials."
"Thanks," Spike replied evenly. "Now leave, before I bloody kill you."
"As you wish," it replied, and melted into the shadows beneath its feet.

Scene XII
_________

Looking as weary as he did the first night we met up with him at the graves of his parents, Spike silently turns away from Buffy and begins to walk away toward the door.
"Spike, wait."
Hesitantly, he turns and faces the Slayer. Her feet have not moved, but her eyes followed his progress.
"Why did you come back?"
He grunts and shrugs his shoulders grandly. "What do you want to hear, Luv? That I came here looking to kill that thing before it got anyone else? That I used it as an excuse to see you again? That I still love you and couldn't stand to think you could've been hurt by it? Just spin the sodding wheel and pick one, Buffy, 'cus they're all true enough."
Buffy nods slowly and her brows furrow in debate. Then, slowly, as we drift down from the rafters to hover near her, she walks up to Spike, gazes into his eyes for a moment, then kisses him. Her hands find his and guide them to her waist, then hers rise to his face as she pulls him deeper into the kiss.
"Love you," he breathes into her.
"Can you live with this, William?"
"Forever," he replies. Then, "call me Spike."

Willow and Xander step out of the shadows to stand behind Dawn.
"Just when I think I know what's going on," Xander shakes his head and grimaces. His fingertips caress his temples gently. "I go and get knocked out and everything up and changes on me."
"I knew what was going on," Dawn says smugly.
"He's got a soul like Angel?" Willow asks Dawn.
"Naw, Spike's came with a reflection, too."
"Deluxe package," Willow nods and smiles at the kiss they are witness to. "Cool."

And this, dear friend, is where we must again part company. We are needed elsewhere now, and time stops for no one forever, so we must be off again. However, if it suits you to do so, we will grant you the power to stay here as long as you like, for as long as the kiss lasts. We would suggest, knowing what these two feel better than they themselves do, that you get comfortable, for it is sure to be a while.