Harm,

DON'T TOUCH THE FUCKING EQUIPMENT.

I mean it. Really. DO NOT touch ANYTHING.

Right now, as you're reading this, I'm on a table behind that screen a few feet from you. And I'm dead. Not like you, dead but still so full of life. I'm actually dead, full on sodding braindead. I'm sure that great poof Angel would say I'm not far off braindead usually, but he'll learn the difference soon enough.

See, I had this nightmare a few weeks back – Buffy was there, I was there, and we didn't kill each other. And then earlier, all that determination I had to finish her off once and for all, it drained away when I saw her crying. And I sat down and comforted her, and completely forgot about violence and the finer things in life.

Now, hold on a sec, you gotta understand. I don't want to feel this way. She's a Slayer. I wanna kill her and shag you over her broken body. Or rather, that's what I want to want to do. So before you get too angry and think about killing me for being such a bloody soft-hearted nancy boy, I can set your mind at rest – I beat you to it. I took that lovely shotgun, put it to my head and made an awful mess of the contents formerly found within (in response to your blank expression, I blew my brains out, you dumb bint). I somehow doubt I'm quite so blond by now.

I need you to do something for me, Harm. Call it a dying man's last request, if you will. I need you to stay here in the crypt for a couple of months, to make sure no one comes down here and finds me like this. By all means go out shopping or killing, but don't leave town, and don't let anyone else downstairs.

And then, Harm, I will rise again. Again. I'd love to tell you it'd only take three days, like in the book, but even vampire healing takes a bloody long time to rebuild half a brain. See, I've never been one for the suicide scene. Considered it once, who wouldn't in Xander's basement? But it's not really much of an evil master plan.

After I left Buffy earlier, I swung by Sunnydale Hospital. Wasn't easy, but I nicked a few pieces of expensive equipment (the spare bits I left in a pile upstairs, they should be worth a fair bit, go buy yourself something pretty. Eat something pretty, too, while you're at it. Watch out for the bloody Slayer though). Then I stopped off at the blood bank, picked up a lot of type O-negative, and drove off fast as I could.

The reason for all this being, I rigged myself up a drip. Right there, just behind the screen you're standing in front of. Should pump me full of the healthiest blood around, the amount I got will last for a good three months, more than enough. Then I lay down and shot myself, taking off the back of the head (fingers crossed I didn't screw up, or I'm now a lovely mound of dust). God it feels weird talking about shooting myself this way, it's like a post-mortem monologue. What does that mean? Never mind, pretty.

If I did it right, I blew that accursed fucking chip to kingdom come, and half my brain with it. But with the blood drip, over two months, that'll grow back. Without the chip. And then, pet, we'll go to Paris. We'll paint the whole bloody city red, and make the old days of the Scourge look like a picnic in the park.

And someday, we'll come back here, to home, sweet home, dear old Sunnydale, and kill everything.

'Til then, love, take care, and seriously, DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING.

Mine,

Spike