The Future Ain't What It Used to Be

by Queen Boadicea

Spike is given a peek at his future. What will he do to make it happen? Will he get the girl? And who gets that pesky Shanshu, anyway?

Title: The Future Ain't What It Used to Be

Author: Queen Boadicea

Email: Warning: Season five for AtS

Disclaimer: This belongs to Joss Whedon and the usual gang of idi...uh, geniuses.

Feedback: Do your worst—it can't compare to my worst ;)

Spike shrugged on his coat and counted the bills in his pocket. If he hurried, he would just have time to pick up his snacks and get back to the apartment before the game started. It's too bad he couldn't rustle up some decent beer. American beer was like piss compared to good old-fashioned English lager but he'd take what he could get.

All in all, life wasn't so bad. His flat was small and not furnished much beyond the basic necessities but it was better than a crypt any day of the week. The best thing he could say about it was that he didn't have to scrounge in the city dump in order to retrieve furniture and decorations. He had a telly and he had cable. All the comforts of home.

At least he didn't have to shack up at the law firm and run into the bleedin' poofster every single day. Sure, he'd liked needling Angel about his sleazy little affair with Buffy but, with neither of them seeing the Slayer, that wasn't as much fun as it had been.

Besides, now Spike was the true champion, the one on the streets fighting the good fight. Angel was stuck in that glittering nest of intrigue that was Wolfram & Hart working for clients who were definitely on the wrong side of the law. He was having to deal with shades of gray while Spike was firmly and definitely working on the side of good. Peaches was batting for the wrong team and sooner or later would screw up so badly the Powers would have no choice but to vote him off the island and give Spike the Shanshu.

He smirked at the idea that he would be the one to get the gift of humanity. It wasn't that he cared especially to rejoin the world of the living. Spike didn't give a rat's arse about any human being except one. Humanity would only be worth living if he could be with Buffy. Being with her, kissing her in daylight and making love to her at night would be absolute bliss. That would be the sweetest prize. Best of all, he could shove his happiness in Angel's face over and over again.

Spike grinned, savoring the fantasy of Angel's pain. That would be a sight worth all the suffering and grief he'd had to endure in the last two and a half years. Then he heard footsteps and detected a certain scent and gritted his teeth. Of course, there were drawbacks…

Doyle stomped down the stairs. Spike had changed the locks three times but somehow the little bastard always managed to get in. "Spike," he said. Spike pointedly ignored him as he strode to the door. Doyle crossed over and stood in his path. "Spike, listen to me. I've had another vision."

Spike scowled at him menacingly. "You want to shift your skinny arse? I've got somewhere to go."

"The scrawny little blond says I've got a skinny arse. Funny," Doyle sniped. "Look, I've had a vision…"

"Sod that. I told you I'm not gonna jump every time the Powers see fit to land you with another migraine, all right? Now you want to move out of the way before I trounce you, you little ponce," he growled.

The brunette with the shaggy hair moved slightly. Spike had a vicious temper and had smacked him around a few times when he got too impatient with Doyle. Not for the first time Doyle felt frustrated at dealing with the stubborn thug. "What is your problem? You move away from Wolfram & Hart, you decide to be a champion in your own right without laboring under Angel's shadow and then you refuse to help!"

"I'm not exactly getting a really good deal here, am I?" Spike locked the door and walked off, intent on his errand. "There's no pay involved and I assume the rent's gotta be paid on this flat eventually. Figure if I'm the one getting my arse kicked on a nightly basis without monetary compensation, I should be allowed the occasional night off."

"Monetary…? You want to work for money? The way Angel and his friends do? I thought you were above all that."

"Not above getting myself a little treat every now and then. It'd be nice to have summat extra in life besides smokes and beer. I'm not saying I want high-class customers like the big ponce has got. Just saying a little cash flow would go a long way towards sweetening the pot." Spike crossed the street and noted to his annoyance that Doyle was still following him. The little git just couldn't take a hint.

Doyle frowned at the vampire insolently strolling through the streets. "What about the Shanshu? That's supposed to be your reward and you're grousing because you're not getting a little kickback from the Powers?"

Spike snorted. "Oh, yeah. I'm supposed to haul my bloody arse out night after night to get whaled on by demons on the off chance I might be getting that reward in the distant future and in the end the prize might be handed off to the bloody poofster. Sod that, mate."

Doyle hovered indecisively. "Is that it, then? You won't help?"

Spike didn't deign to look at him. "That's my final answer, mate." He started jogging faster and after a moment Doyle left him alone.

Lindsey watched the retreating vampire, his lips set in a tight, thin line. Spike was a pure pain in the ass, no doubt about it. The Senior Partners weren't sure which of the two vampires with souls was the one written about in so many prophecies so they'd thought to hedge their bets by getting both of them on their leashes: Angel in bed with Wolfram & Hart after years of failure to turn him to the dark side and Spike as their man on the outside, unwittingly a pawn in the very same game.

Lindsey didn't really get visions. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with that kind of pain. No, he came to Spike with information specially filtered to him from the Senior Partners. He faked the twitches and then gasped out where people were going to be attacked—and all in the name of getting Spike the copycat to play ball.

There wasn't anything big, not right away. Spike couldn't be trusted enough to be thrown into really dangerous cases where one false move might wind up getting the wrong person killed. So at first Lindsey had sent him out to help with the typical damsel-in-distress scenario. As Spike had snidely pointed out, you couldn't throw a stone anywhere in this town without hitting one of those.

Those results had proven less than ideal. Spike was rude to the point of hostility with the women, not even bothering to comfort them or lend them a helping hand. The asshole couldn't even be bothered to pay for a cab to help the shaken women home. Either that or he hit on them, trying to coax already emotionally shaken females into one-night stands. He was crass, arrogant, boorish and spectacularly indifferent to human misery and suffering. All that should have made him the perfect pawn for the Senior Partners.

However, his sullen unwillingness to do more than what was strictly necessary or his refusal to help if he wasn't in the mood made him difficult to handle. Lindsey almost wished that he'd stayed on his path of redemption. But his lack of luck in getting his music career off the ground coupled with his terror of winding up poverty-stricken like his father had forced him onto the dark paths again. He had sold himself back to the Senior Partners and the magical runes they placed on his body made certain that he couldn't wriggle out again. With those marks, the Senior Partners could track him no matter where he went and if he tried to escape this time they would make him suffer. For better or worse, he was stuck with the dyed jerk as his "champion."

"Screw this. I'd be better off with Angel," he muttered.

Spike sauntered home, his grocery bag tucked into one hand. He'd managed to find a store that sold Weetabix, a rare bit of luck. Sometimes he made do with other stuff like Wheat Thins or Nabisco crackers but they weren't the same.

"Help me!" An old voice quavered into the night followed by faint scuffling noises.

He grunted and continued walking. "Sorry, gran. You're on your own."

"Won't someone please—" There was a meaty thud and the sound of someone dropping to the pavement. Harsh sobs drifted through the air to his sensitive vampire ears and he hesitated.

"That's just great." Heaving a sigh he didn't need, he stuck his bag into a nearby garbage can. Hopefully no one would filch it while he took care of business.

He trod silently along the sidewalk and peered down the alleyway. A man was crouched on the ground next to a crumpled figure that moved feebly. The vampire's preternaturally sharpened eyesight made out the hulking thug as he pawed furiously through the purse. The thief cursed and threw the bag on the pavement. "Fuck this, you old bitch! Is that all you got? Four bucks?"

"Please. That's all I have. Don't hurt me." The old woman moaned and Spike could hear the worn-out heartbeat and rasping breath as she tried to lift herself up. There was also a scent of blood; the bastard must have broken skin when he hit her.

"I don't believe this. I go to all this trouble and you ain't got shit. You're gonna pay for that, you old bag." This was a "snick" of metal and a switchblade flicked into the dim light. The old lady's eyes widened in terror and she tried to shuffle away from the threatening mugger.

"Now that's right pathetic, that is." The crook's head swiveled to see Spike leaning casually against the wall two feet away. How had this guy gotten so close without the man seeing him?

"Stay out of this, asshole, or you're next," he snarled.

"Ooh, watch me shake in terror. I'm not afraid of some berk who's such a weak-kneed prat he has to go beating up old birds to get some dosh."

The mugger didn't recognize the foreign slang but he wasn't going to take this shit from some teabag. "Huh? Somebody needs to go back to his own country and mind his own damned business. And I think I'll mail you back to the Queen—one little piece at a time." The mugger stood up and began tossing the knife from one hand to the other.

Spike grinned at the childish display. "Well, I don't think you'll be much of a challenge but I could use the exercise."

The fight was short. Spike let the guy get in a few swipes though none came close to touching him. Then one pale hand shot out, grabbed the mugger's knife hand and casually broke his wrist. The mugger let out a gurgling scream that was cut short as he let fly with a sharp right hook and knocked the man out cold, laying him flat on the sidewalk.

A sniffling noise reminded him of the old woman still slumped against the wall. Spike scooped up her purse along with the crumpled bills the mugger had rejected. He stomped over to her, stopping short when she cringed away. He struggled for a measure of gentleness as he tried to ease her obvious distress. "S'all right, gran. He won't hurt you again. I saw to that."

"T-thank you, young man." Grasping his outstretched hand with a remarkably firm grip, she allowed him to pull her upright. Seeing that she was still wobbly on her feet, he let her lean on him and helped her to the street. She grasped her purse in her shaking hands. "You're a lifesaver. A true hero. There's not many who would have done what you did."

He puffed out his chest. "That's me, all right. A real champion. If I had my business cards, I'd give you one." Spike didn't have any business cards. But he saw no reason to let her know that.

She chuckled slightly. "That's not necessary. It's not as if I could forget you after all." She peered into his face. "What's your name?"

"Spike."

The lady's expression was eloquent in its disbelief. "What? Spike? What kind of a name is that for a grown man?"

He scowled. "'Ere now. No making fun. Don't forget, you owe me your life, old woman." Walking past the garbage can he'd visited earlier, he retrieved his bag of groceries and held them under the other arm not wound around the elderly woman.

"Granted. But I find it hard to believe that your mother held you up, looked into your baby blue eyes and told your father, 'Oh darling! Isn't he precious? Let's call him Spike!' " She laughed again, the rich chuckles trailing off into a moan as she held one hand up to her head.

Clucking his tongue, Spike eased her onto a sidewalk bench. "Steady on. Have a seat, gran. That guy conked you one on the head and you're still bleeding. You want me to call 911 and get you to hospital."

"That's not necessary. This old head of mine's gotten lots worse than that in my day. Wait!" She held out her hand to forestall him. "Are you sure you don't want a reward?"

He waved in dismissive contempt. "What reward? All you've got is four dollars."

"Oh, not quite." She leaned back against the bench, her movements oddly sinuous and fluid for a woman of her apparent age. Her voice had gotten slightly deeper, too, rich and purring. She held her hand up to one eye and began rooting around in her eye socket.

Spike's mouth went a little dry and he backed away in distaste. He'd dealt out his share of torture in his time but his recent brush with dismemberment had made him a touch squeamish about seeing human body parts, even false ones. "'Ere now. None of that. I was planning on getting summat to eat and don't want to ruin my appetite."

Ignoring him, the lady pulled out her eyeball and rolled it around slightly in her palm. "Would you like to see how you're going to die?"

He gritted his teeth and swallowed the urge to puke on the sidewalk. The eye was a brilliant green matching the flesh one still in her head. She didn't seem at all put out, either by her gaping eye socket or his obvious revulsion. "All right. What is this, some sort of joke? 'Cause I ain't laughing. Now put your sparkly bit back in your head where it belongs and we'll call it—"

"I'm absolutely serious, William." Her voice had definitely changed. It was a smooth, whisky-laced tone, soothing and stimulating at once and Spike could feel a tingle going through his body at the sound of it. He licked his lips and stared at the woman still holding out the eye as if it were some kind of treasure.

"Wh—how did you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things. Now, would you like to know how you're going to die?"

He focused on her face, noting how the wrinkles so prominent moments ago seemed to waver and blur under the overhead streetlights. One second she looked positively ancient. The next, she looked no older than Faith—and far more seductive. "Who are you? You're not human, are you?" She didn't smell like a demon but you couldn't be sure these days.

She laughed, a silky, tinkling sound that rippled and bounced off the walls and trickled along his veins like wine. "Oh, I'm very human. Have no doubt about that. My name's Sybil, by the way. And William the Bloody, aka Spike, this is your death!"

A soft ray shout out of the eyeball…or it expanded and engulfed him. Spike was never sure later exactly hat happened next. But he found himself standing in a hospital room. He flinched from the bright lights and then his eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him.

He was staring down at his own body. The man in the hospital bed was older by about thirty years; Spike placed his age at about fifty or fifty-five. He was no longer the handsome devil he'd been in his youth. His face was weathered and worn. There was evidence of hard living about his eyes and mouth and a faint tracery of scars along one side of his face. The breathing mask placed over his face looked fairly ominous as well.

But it was the woman sitting in the chair by his bedside who caught his attention. She was older as well, the blonde hair now laced with gray, the hands rougher than he remembered them. But her hazel eyes were still as bright and he could see them mirrored in the tall brunette woman standing beside her. She was unfamiliar to him but in her heart-shaped face and slightly plump figure he could detect traces of Dawn and Joyce Summers. Buffy reached out one trembling hand to stroke his forehead and his eyes widened as he caught sight of the gold and platinum wedding band on her left ring finger.

The woman by her side spoke up. "Mom, the doctors are sure? There's no chance he'll pull through?"

Buffy shook her head and Spike could see the tears gathering in her eyes. "No, Celeste. The lung cancer's really far advanced. Everybody warned him those cigarettes were going to kill him but he didn't care. He was always too damned stubborn."

At her touch, the man on the bed opened his eyes and whispered, "Slayer? That you?"

Buffy's breath caught and she blinked as if to banish tears that might have offended him. "Spike."

The vision ended and Spike found himself back on the street. The sudden transition caused him to sway and he blinked his eyes to clear away the last vestiges of it. "Hey! What happened next? Hello?" He looked at the park bench. The old woman was gone and there was no sign of her anywhere. "Bloody hell. That's just great that is. Give you a taste and then leave you panting for more. Just like a woman."

Spike walked home slowly, absorbing the vision he'd been given. He was human in the future—human and married to Buffy. All right, the end wasn't what he would have wished but given his history with cigarettes it wasn't too surprising. But Buffy was his wife. They'd gotten married and had a daughter. He'd been the one to get the Shanshu, after all.

This was ripping good news. He grinned, opened up his apartment door and put down his groceries. He wasn't really in the mood to watch Manchester United now. What he really wanted was to celebrate by going out, maybe to a nightclub. Or maybe he could just call a certain stuck-up vampire and rub his nose in it. Then he halted and reconsidered.

Was it true? The vision had shown precious little, only how he was going to die and that was pretty awful. But knowing that he was going to pop off and in the Slayer's lifetime meant he was going to be human and that was what he wanted. Human and married to Buffy, his dream of the last year. But how did he know it was the truth? Maybe that old lady had been a set-up, a trick from the higher ups because he'd dragged his feet about his duties. He wouldn't put it past the Powers. Otherworldly beings could be tricky that way.

Still, he didn't have to take the vision seriously…just use it to take a sideswipe at this pathetic excuse for a grandsire. With that in mind, he picked up his phone and swiftly tapped out the receptionist's number for Wolfram & Hart. Even her chirping grating voice at the other end couldn't spoil his good mood. "Hello. You've reached Wolfram & Hart. How may we help you?"

"Hello, Harm. The great Peaches still perched on his throne?"

She missed the double entendre completely. "Hello? Who is this? We don't see peaches. This isn't a grocery store."

He scowled, the old annoyance at dealing with her rising up. "Cut the bollocks, Harm. You know bloody well who this is. Get the bloody poof on the phone."

"Oh, Spike, is that you? I was distracted." She moved her mouth from the phone and yelled into the background. "No, the Mozerath is in room 412 not room 421." There was a pause as she conferred with the unseen person. "Yes, I'm sure." There was another pause while the person in the background yelled in her direction. "What do you mean he's not there? I've got it clearly marked on my…" Her voice trailed off and when she spoke again, it was with an embarrassed giggle. "Oops. My mistake. It is in room 421. Better get in there before it starts eating the interns." She brought her mouth back to the phone. "Hello. Who is this again?"

He ground his teeth audibly and spoke slowly as if to a two-year-old child with diminished capacity. "Where-the-hell-is-Angel-Harm? I want to talk to him and I want to talk to him NOW."

"Well, somebody got out of the wrong side of his coffin," she sniffed. "As it so happens, Angel isn't here. So unless this is an emergency, you'll have to call back later. I can take a message, if you want."

"No, thanks. Knowing you, you'd probably lose it. Where is that big suffering prat anyways?"

"He's out taking care of some Mohair demons, I think."

"Mo-what?" Harmony was probably mispronouncing the name. Dumb bint.

Big dudes in armor. Apocalypse-spouting assassins. They go after champions of light, people like Angel…and Buffy." Harmony said the Slayer's name as if she were eating rancid butter.

"Folks who fight the good fight? Blokes like me?

He heard a slick smacking and then a "pop." He rolled his eyes and cursed his sensitive vampire hearing. Harmony was chewing gum and his ears could pick up every ugly little slushing sound her mouth made. "Oh, yeah. I guess. I'd forgotten about the soul thing-y."

"Well, where'd they go? These blokes got my number, I want to make sure they're taken care of," Spike said, a touch of heat in his voice. He was a champion, too. When were people going to realize that and give him the respect he deserved?

"Spike, why would they be after you? You left Wolfram & Hart, remember? You're on your own playing the lone vampire or some such thing. It's not like you're on anybody's radar much less their hit list." She punctuated her words with another loud pop from the bubblegum and he wished he could reach through the phone and bang her empty head on the desk until she bled.

"That's what you think. Lone vampire or not, I'm still head and shoulders above Angel. Now tell me where they are so I can see these Mohairs for myself."

The gum popped again. "Fine. But if they cut your hands off, don't come crying to me." She gave him an address and he hung up without thanking her.

Angel dodged another swing from a mailed fist and aimed again for the head. Mohra demons were fast, efficient, deadly killers. In spite of the armor and their huge size they moved with a lightning swiftness and he had already suffered several nicks and cuts from their blades.

With Gunn, Wesley, Fred and himself, they were holding their own but just barely. There were ten of these creatures and that worried him. A nest of Mohras was not a good sign. As assassins for the dark side, if this many were about, that meant that a lot of good people were the target. In fact now that he thought about it, he wondered who had sent to the Mohra that had attacked him over four years ago. Had that creature even been after him—or had he come for Buffy?

His thought was distracted as the Mohra he was fighting tried under his guard. He somersaulted to land a few feet away and heard clapping just behind him. "That was bloody brilliant, Peaches. Couldn't have seen better if I was at the circus."

"Spike?" Great, that was all he needed. "Go away. We don't need another demon in the mix."

"Not what I'm seeing. Looks like you could use my help." Spike whipped out his word, giving a loud yell and charged into the fray.

"Spike dammit! Get out of here!" Angel yelled. Just when he thought things couldn't get worse, Spike showed up. Was he destined to trip over his pesky grandchilde forever?

Ignoring Angel, Spike traded blow for blow with his chosen adversary. "Now this is my kind of party!" Something glinted in the Mohra's forehead and Spike called out, "Oi, nice bit of jewelry. Mind if I take it after I've finished killing you and your mates?"

The Mohra he was battling managed to get a blow to Spike's sternum, causing the vampire to grunt with the force of it. "Out of my way, insect. Only the souled vampire interests us."

Spike smirked at his ignorance. "You're in luck then, my little greened-skinned toad. Souled vamp, at your serve."

The creature stared at him, blank indifference on its face. "Who are you?"

Angel struggled to get rid of the last two Mohras. The others had been versed in how to dispatch the creatures but he could tell by the way Spike was contenting himself with stabbing his opponent repeatedly that the blonde vampire had no clue. "Spike, watch out! You have to—"

"Will you shut up and let me handle this? I've been fighting against demons for years now, Peaches. I don't need lessons from—oof!" The Mohra had managed to catch his sword arm and twisted it around to stab him in the leg. Spike groaned with the pain and rammed his elbow into the creature's stomach. The Mohra didn't so much as stagger as he pulled out a short blade and lifted it to decapitate the blond.

Bracing himself against the pain, Spike wrenched the sword out of his leg and ducked under the Mohra's descending blade. He shoved his sword into the demon's chest up to the hilt and watched the creatures eyes widen with disbelief. The Mohra swayed and dropped to the ground. "What do you think about that, you bloody ponce!" he sneered.

"Somebody get that guy," Angel cried out. Wesley walked around the Mohra eyeing it sharply to see that it didn't move, and swung back his axe.

Spike grimaced up at him. "What are you on about? You got problems with your eyesight? I already killed the thing."

Wesley ignored him and swung his axe full strength at the Mohra's head. The flat of the blade impacted with the red jewel in the demon's head. Before Spike's eyes there was a bright flare of light and the Mohra disappeared. Wesley looked down at the prone vampire and said mildly, "The Mohra wasn't really dead. Without smashing the jewel in its forehead, it would have risen again, bigger and stronger and considerably more ill tempered about being stabbed.

"Oh. Right then." Spike tried to cover his ignorance by attempting to stand. The pain in his leg was too much and he clapped his hand over the wound.

"Spike, are you all right?" The ex-Watcher sounded genuinely concerned. In spite of Spike's refusal to return to the fold, he respected the vampire's attempts to fight solo. Privately he didn't think it was such a good idea. Angel had tried the same thing and nearly lost himself in the attempt. You had to admire Spike's tenacity if not his common sense.

The vampire clutched the wound tighter and tried for a breezy tone. "Sure. Little bed rest, a case of beer and I'll be back to my nasty self in no—AAAAHHHH!" A new pain, not from his leg, took him by surprise and he fell back on the ground, his body spasming.

Angel stared at him, a sensation of dread choking him. "Spike?"

Fred raced over and threw herself on top of the writhing vampire. "Wesley, help me hold him down! He's having a fit."

But even as she struggled to keep Spike from hurting himself, the convulsions subsided. Spike panted and then spoke haltingly to the skinny brunette atop his body. "Fred? I think…I think I'm okay."

She peered down at him. "Really? A-are you sure I-I thought you were hurt."

"I think I'm all right, pet. But I'd be better able to check if you got off me. On second thought, stay right there. I could get used to this position." He grinned cheekily at her and saw her blush as she scrambled off his body. Spike sat up and stretched out his leg to check his wound. His eyes widened as he realized it was completely closed. That was downright weird. Even with vampiric healing, a gash that deep should have taken hours to heal. He stood up cautiously and bounced on his leg. Then he became aware of movement in his chest and he froze.

Touching his chest, he felt movement under his hand, movement that hadn't been there for over 120-odd years. "Bloody Jesus H. Christ. I'm alive."

The others stared at him. Wesley said, "W-what? You're alive? How can that be?"

"The Mohra blood," Angel replied. He spoke dully as if the shock had numbed him all sensations even wonder. "It has regenerative properties. That's why Mohras come back after major wounds unless you smash the jewels in their heads."

"Really? You didn't tell us that, Angel!" Fred exclaimed. It seem her boss had been privy to some pretty interesting information and hadn't share with the group. Why had Angel hidden this? And how exactly had he known about this.

"I didn't think it was important. I didn't know what, if anything, the Mohra demon's blood could do to humans so I decided not to worry any of you with idle speculation. And I was going to be sure to destroy the Mohras before he could affect me."

"So you knew you could go human from the blood in these things—and you avoiding it? Not sure that makes sense, Angel," Gunn observed.

"Hey, anybody recall me here? Me, the vamp with the humanity. And that means…I've got the Shanshu," Spike finished. He paused for dramatic effect and smirked in Angel's direction. "Tough break, poof. Guess that means I'm the true champion here."

"Was the champion, Spike. Now that you're human, you're no longer in the game," Angel snapped back.

Spike's sense of triumph slipped a notch. Then he flung back his shoulders. "Doesn't matter. Human or not I can still kick arse with the best of them." When Angel ignored him and strode to his car, Spike fell into step beside him. "Say, Peaches, how's 'bout giving me a lift back to my place? The least you could do, seeing how I helped out here."

Angel glared at him. "Spike, we were handling things just fine without you. Since you got injured and then became human, all you did was help yourself in the end. So I really don't think I owe you a ride or anything else. From now on, you're on your own."

Fred couldn't believe Angel was being so petty. "Angel, you're hardly being fair. Spike just showed up to help us…" Then her brows quirked and she looked at the blonde vampire—uh, former vampire. "By the way, how did you just show up here? How did you know where we were?"

"Harmony told me," Spike said offhandedly. He witnessed the growing storm on Angel's face and decided to twist the knife for all it was worth. "I rescued this old bird from this mugger tonight. She was so grateful she gave me a gift."

"A gift? What kind of gift? And what does that have to do with Harmony?" Wesley asked. They had reached the car by now and rested against as Spike launched into his tale.

"She pulled out her glass eye and used it like a crystal ball to show me my future. Was downright weird, it was, mate. I saw myself as human with Buffy as my wife and a bint called Celeste as my daughter." He didn't tell them the bit about dying in the hospital. That was depressing and not at all how he wanted them to think about his future. Let Angel think his future was all daisies and daffodils.

Fred's jaw dropped and then she squealed. "You and Buffy get married? Spike, that's wonderful!" She threw her arms around him, much to Gunn, Wesley and Angel's displeasure. Spike grinned in the face of their obvious anger and hugged Fred just a little longer than necessary.

When he released her, he continued, "So, after that I called Peaches to give him the good news only Harm tells me you're off fighting these armored blokes and I decided to pitch in and help. Didn't know about the blood in their veins, though. Bit of a shock, that. But now that I'm human, I've got things to do and places to be." When the car door was opened by the chauffeur, Spike nonchalantly slid into the back seat and pulled out a cigarette.

Fred wrinkled her nose. "Spike, would you mind not smoking in here? Being squashed in with two males all sweaty from fighting is bad enough without adding ashes to the mix."

"Hey, Spike's gonna sweat, too! Now that he's joined the ranks of the living, he's gonna be laying on the funk just like the rest of us," Gunn protested.

"Now that he's human, he won't be fighting any more, Gunn. Or will you?" Wesley turned to ex-demon. "If you still insist on keeping aloof from Wolfram & Hart, continuing to fight now that you're human is going to present you with grave difficulties."

"Yeah, well, I can sort all that out after I've seen Buffy." Angel was riding in the front seat with the divider drawn up but Spike was certain he could hear every word being said. "I've still my passport from when I took my overseas trip to Africa. I'll just toddle on over to Europe and pay the Slayer a call. I'm betting she'll be happy to see me. We've got a lot of catching up to do." He put just enough insinuation into his tone to make the others distinctly uncomfortable.

Wesley cleared his throat. "W-well, Spike. Good luck with your new life."

"Yeah, Spike. We wish you all the best," Fred chimed in.

As Spike continued to expound on his grand plans for the future, he couldn't help but be aware that Angel didn't contribute one word to the conversation. That was a little disappointing; he'd hoped for a little more in the way of fight from the brooding git. Well, soon he would have more important things to deal with—like the petite Slayer who'd been haunting his dreams for over two years.

Spike shuffled from one foot to the other on the doorstep. It had taken him longer than he'd anticipated to get to Europe. He had all the necessities. But every time he checked over his things, it seemed there were other items he needed: toothbrushes, deodorant, soap, mouthwash and better clothes. He'd forgotten how much maintenance, upkeep and care the human body required.

Surprisingly, Angel had gotten him the dosh he needed for travel, new clothes and luggage. As his plans to get to Europe expanded so did his wardrobe. And the great poofster had ponied up the dough for all of it. Spike had been suspicious of his generosity at first. He was going to find Buffy and shag her rotten. Angel surely knew this. But he wasn't making any effort to keep Spike back. He didn't hang out with the former vampire and was often in meetings if Spike showed up unexpectedly at W&H but he didn't make any overt attempts to stop Spike's plans. Spike chalked the generosity up to Angel's tiresome do-gooding and left it at that.

Now he stood on Buffy's doorstep. He'd agonized over his choice of wardrobe and finally decided to go with a red shirt and charcoal gray slacks. They were enough like his usual black-on-black attire to make him feel comfortable but different enough to signal to her that he had changed.

He looked over the large house and nodded approvingly. The Slayer had done well for herself. He had managed to come out on top even after losing everything in Sunnydale. Good for her. She was one hell of a woman, just as he'd said. While he was mentally rehearsing again what he would say to her, Dawn pulled open the door. She stared at the man standing in the sunlight and her eyes opened wide. "Spike?"

"Hello, Niblet." He didn't get out another word as Dawn threw her arms around him and squealed. What the hell was it about bints and their tendency to emit high-pitched whistling noises?

"Spike! I can't believe that you're here. Of course we heard from Angel's firm that you were there and a ghost and then somehow solid and fighting the good fight but now you're here….in broad daylight." She glanced at the sunlight falling in thick streams over the grass pathway and pulled back from Spike very slowly. "Spike…why are you standing in the sunlight?"

"I think you can guess, Niblet." He clasped her hands so she could feel their warmth and her eyes widened again as her mouth dropped open.

"Oh. My. GOD!" she screamed. "You're human!"

"That I am, pet."

She hugged him again and there was more squealing. Then she drew back and asked, "When? How did it happen? Is this that Shanshu thing-y Buffy told me about? Is it permanent? Of course it's permanent. Dumb Dawn. Humanity doesn't come with an expiration date except that it does and that's so not what I meant and are you going to tell me already or just let me run off at the lip here?"

"How did you get that all out in one breath, Niblet? You must have been taking lessons from Red in the art of babble."

She blushed a little. "Am not. I'm just excited to see you. And human, no less! Buffy is so gonna freak."

"Where is your sister, anyway, pet? I was hoping to see her before I returned to the hotel." Spike looked around the space as if willing Buffy to appear by sheer force of will.

"Oh, she's out at her new job. Turns out she had a real flair for being a guidance counselor. So she's taking her unique perspective about being a troubled kid and using it to help others. She's pulling down good money and we can afford the upkeep on this place. Neat, huh?"

He smiled, genuinely amused by her chatter. Yet he was impatient to see Buffy. "No idea where she is, then?"

"Sure she should have been finished with work about half an hour ago. She'll probably be strolling in the door any minute—"

"Dawn! I'm home! How was school today?" They could hear Buffy coming through the hallway. "Mind telling me why the front door was unlocked? Just because the demons are few here doesn't…" She swung open the living room door and froze at the tableau before her. Her sister Dawn flew up and ran to her, chattering a mile a minute about Spike and his humanity.

Buffy held up her hands at the onslaught. "Dawn, Dawn. Slow down. I'm getting maybe two words out of all this." She turned towards Spike and noted his attire as well as the sunlight streaming through the windows onto his body. "Is it true? You're human again?"

Spike stood, drinking in the sight of his beloved Slayer. Her hair was up, tied in a becoming chignon that rested low on her neck. The hazel eyes were as bright as ever, happiness and fulfillment deepening them to an iridescent green. She wore a plain gray, light cotton dress that flared out when she moved and then came to rest and hugged her curves. He grinned at her bemused expression and wondered when she was going to rush into his arms. "It's true, pet. I'm grade A, top choice human male. Want to take my temperature?" he added slyly.

Instead of answering she strode to him and rested a hand on his arm, taking in his warmth. "It is true." She removed her hand and cocked her head, studying him with a serious, thoughtful gaze. "So this must be that Shanshu I've heard tell about."

"So it is. The vamp with a soul gets his prize and I'm homo sapiens again." He hoped it would soon be homo erectus, too. But that could wait until later.

She folded her hands together and smiled softly. "That's wonderful, Spike. Glad to see you've jumped on the human bandwagon. Angel must be disappointed, though."

He shrugged, dismissing any possible heartache on Angel's part. "I suppose he is. But he took it like a man. I mean, vamp." He reached for Buffy's hands and then remembered Dawn was still in the room. "Say, Niblet. Mind giving me some alone time with your sister? Got summat I need to ask her."

"Huh? Oh, please. Why can't I stay? I don't see you in ages and you're already pushing me aside for Buffy," Dawn whined.

Buffy looked uneasy. "Spike, Dawn's right. Why do you need to see me alone?"

"'Cause I got summat I need to say, summat I want to ask you, and it's personal like. Please, Buffy?" his shining sapphire blue eyes pleaded with her and Buffy yielded although she had a feeling she was going to regret this.

But she was the Slayer. Not the only one any longer but still she had faced a lot worse things than Spike. She turned her head towards her sister and smile wanly. "Dawn, give us a few, will ya?"

Her sister rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "Okay. Fine. But Xander will be home soon. I hope you're not planning on hiding away in here with Spike." She ran out and closed the door with a solid thump behind her.

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Xander lives here?"

"Yeah, for some months now. He drops in between the times he's traveling to find and train new Slayers. Spike, before you say anything, there's something you should know."

"No, Buffy. There's summat I've got to get out—now, before I lose my nerve." He knelt at her feet, still holding her hand even though she tried to pull it out of his. "Buffy, I know I did this once before. But I was under a spell then and didn't know what the bleedin' hell I was saying. But my mind's clear as a bell now and I've got my humanity back." He took a deep breath and tried to quell the racing of his heart. "Buffy Summers, would you do me the honor—?"

"Spike, stop!" Buffy pulled her hand from his and abruptly stood up.

Spike was dismayed. Wouldn't she even let him get the words out? She had said she loved him less than a year ago. Was that a complete lie or had she changed her mind? "Buffy, luv, if you'll just let me finish…"

She shook her head. "No, you don't need to finish. I-I'm sorry, Spike." She held her hand up and now Spike saw what she was showing to him.

There was an engagement ring on her hand. It was only a thin gold ring with a single carat diamond but that's what it was. How had he not noticed it before now? "H-how?" His voice was a grating whisper and he cleared his throat, never moving his eyes from that hateful bit of jewelry. "W-who, Buffy?"

She sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Xander."

This time he did look at her as his voice shot up an octave. "Xander? XANDER?"

"It started after we left Sunnydale. He was so despondent over losing Anya and we started spending time together, crying on each other's shoulders and helping each other to heal."

"I'll fucking bet he helped," he growled. He shook his head in disbelief and denial. "I just don't believe it. Xander?" Then a flare of hope shot through him and he gazed into her eyes. "But it's just pity on your part, isn't it, pet? You don't really love that miserable whelp?"

Buffy's eyes turned to ice. "That miserable whelp is the man I love, Spike, and I'm going to marry him. You'd do well to remember that."

"B-but you said you loved me." God, he was whining. Whining over Buffy about Xander of all people.

Her answering look was sheepish, defiant and compassionate in equal measure. "I know, Spike. But you were dying and there was so much I wanted to say. How sorry I was for using you after coming back from heaven. How I was glad you were there for me even if it did all go to badness. How I was grateful that you came back to Sunnydale to help soul, no soul or me. But there wasn't time and the roof was caving in and all I could think of was 'I love you.' " She paused, ducking her head and muttering, "Honestly, if I'd known you were going to survive and hold me to it, I'd never have said anything."

It sounded almost funny when she said it like that. Only it so very wasn't. He sat down hard on the couch. "Marriage. To Xander. Buffy, you couldn't possibly—"

"But I am, Spike." Seeing his unhappy expression, she relented and sat next to him. "Xander was always there for me. He doesn't have a bit of super strength or wiccan magic or Gilesian knowledge. But he was the most heart of any man I've ever known. He's decent, brave, smart, funny, sweet, kind, good and, after spending time with him, I realized just how much I'd relied on him even when I didn't know it. I finally understood why Willow, Cordelia and Anya fell for him. He was never the silly, brainless goofball I took for granted for so many years. If he'd actually been like that, he would have been no better than Andrew. Xander Harris is a great and loving man—and I'm in love with him and I'm going to marry him."

"B-but the vision…" He stopped speaking as Buffy blinked, puzzled at his choice of words.

"Vision? What vision?" she was obviously perplexed and he realized that Buffy had no idea what he was talking about.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Just a silly dream of mind, is all." He heard the front door open and saw Buffy raise her head, delight spreading across her features.

"Honey, I'm hooooommmme!" The living room door opened to reveal one Alexander Harris. "Man, I never get tired of saying that." His eye fell on Spike and his happy expression slipped a little. "Deadboy Jr.? I heard you were alive, so to speak. How come you're here? I thought you were in L.A., living to pester the hell out of the Great Brooder."

"Good to see you, too, whelp. Heard you're getting together with the Slayer. Guess she's a step up from all the demon bints you used to go for."

Instead of being incensed by his words, Xander wore a look of deep contentment mingled with pride. "That she is, Spike." Xander smiled and drew Buffy close. As Buffy wound her arms around the Scooby's neck and pulled him close, Spike saw their lips meet in a passionate kiss.

There was nothing amateurish or awkward about this kiss. They went at it like confident adults, secure in the knowledge of their love and affection. This was the kind of kiss that drowned out one's surroundings and made the world disappear. He glimpsed Buffy's happiness in the melting outline of her body as she swayed in Xander's embrace. She'd never radiated such joy and contentment when she'd been banging hips with him, that's for sure.

He couldn't bear the sight of their mutual bliss one moment more. He stood up and dragged himself slowly past them and out the door. So wrapped up in each other were they, they didn't even notice his departure. Spike shut the front door behind him and stood swaying slightly on the doorstep.

He thought over that vision. He'd seen a wedding ring on Buffy's finger and assumed he was the lucky bloke. But she'd never said that in the vision, had she? She'd never called him husband and the dark-haired bint with her hadn't called him Father. They had spoken as they did out of politeness and a certain tenderness for an old friend of the family. But I had been nothing more. He'd deceived himself. It wouldn't be the first time.

The initial shock at Buffy's news had passed and now a curious numbness seemed to settle on him. He knew that would pass shortly and he would begin to rage and scream. Then he would go out and get good and pissed. Yeah, that sounded like a plan. Might as well get started. As he staggered down the walkway leading away from the house, he heard the door open. In spite of what he'd just seen, he couldn't help the wild hope that sprang up in his chest as Buffy reappeared behind him.

"Spike, wait!" She ran to him and he observed the high flush on her cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips. "Spike, I know this must be a shock for you…"

"No. Finding you'd shacked up with Red would be a shock. This is more like blasphemy." He ran his hand through his hair, still struggling to come to grips with what he'd been told. "This is beyond belief, Buffy. You can't blame me if I'm a little thrown by all this."

"I know. I'm not asking you to be of the accepting. Just understanding. I love him, Spike," she ended softly but firmly and he caught a glimpse of steel in her posture. She crossed her arms and waited for his answer.

Summoning every bit of willpower, he managed a tight smile. "I'm—happy for you, Buffy. Really."

Her expression softened and she threw her arms around him and pecked a small kiss on his cheek. "Goodbye, Spike. Now that you're human, I expect to see you at the wedding in June."

He scowled and pulled away from her embrace. "Not gonna happen, Slayer. I'm willing to bend a little. But that would just about break me. I wish you and the Donut Boy the best. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

He turned and walked away before she could add anything. Buffy debated asking for Spike to return. But what would be the good of that? It would only prolong his pain and, while she didn't love him, she recalled all the good he had done because of her and knew she didn't want to hurt him any more.

Giving a deep sigh, she turned from the sight of the blonde ex-bloodsucker. Xander stood in the doorway, observing her. "So he did become a real little boy. Gotta wonder what those mysterious Powers were thinking. Anyhoo, I'm pretty sure Captain Peroxide didn't show up here to sell bibles. What's the what, Buffy?"

She drew him inside and shut the door. "You might want to sit down for this, Xander."

Buffy invited him to the wedding. He did not attend in spite of her pleas and threats. He wasn't surprised when she became regnant in due course and the rumors told him the baby's name was Celeste. Heavenly. Of course.

Spike didn't want to go back to Los Angeles. There wasn't anything for him there. There wasn't anything for him anywhere, really. He'd wanted the humanity solely for Buffy's sake and without her it was all a meaningless sham. For many months he wandered back and forth across America, making a living stealing, picking pockets and hustling people at cards and pool.

Occasionally, he'd get into fights with demons. But that was no longer fun. In fact, after he wound up in the hospital with a broken leg and the side of his face clawed to shreds, he realized with stunning clarity how easily he could die from all this. With that came the true understanding of his mortality and, for the first time since the Shanshu, he experienced the fear of death.

So he returned to Los Angeles. Much as he hated to admit it, his grandsire would protect him from the worst of his demon enemies. Now that he no longer had super strength, he couldn't go out and fight demons any more. In fact, he had to stay away from them altogether seeing he was a member of mankind again. There were a lot of demons that he'd pummeled over the years that were still holding a grudge. Learning that he was human might be all the incentive they needed to hunt him down and beat him to a bloody pulp or worse.

With his knowledge of 120-odd years of history plus what he'd picked up in his life of wandering, Spike went to college and managed to wrangle a degree in Ancient Studies. He was by no means popular among the other teachers; his coarse manner of speaking prevented anybody from seeing him as a true academic even though no one could fault his knowledge. However, pure teaching bored the hell out of him. He'd spent too much time on the front lines slugging it out beside the Slayer to feel quite comfortable taking it easy as a teacher.

He would have lent his services to Angel at Wolfram & Hart if they'd asked him. But, with all the resources they had at their command, they didn't need him. And Harmony was sufficiently on her guard now so that she never again told Spike what the others were doing. He was isolated and alone.

Doyle had disappeared, as well. So there were no more visions to guide him. It seemed that, with his humanity, he'd been truly kicked out of the hero game. He had humanity but no purpose, no joy, no goal—and no Buffy. She came to Los Angeles over the years to visit a remarkably forgiving, understanding and caring Angel. The ponce seemed to take a weird kind of joy in the Slayer's brat that Spike didn't understand: an Angel mystery he couldn't be bothered to unravel. Spike tried to avoid her during these visits.

He had humanity and all the horrid drawbacks that went with it. In spite of Angel's willingness to haul Spike's arse out of trouble, he wound up more than once in the hospital as he couldn't resist taking a poke at humans and demons alike. Hangovers came to stay for hours and brought friends with them. He became subject to one illness after another as his heretofore-untried immune system struggled to adapt itself to the modern world.

Pneumonia came to visit. Then hepatitis. He suffered from soreness and muscle cramps when he overexerted himself with physical activity. There was the chronic fatigue brought on from an infection from a wound that hadn't healed properly. Then came the Sumatran flu, a terrible strain that visited the United States in 2006 and brought with it aches, fever, coughing and three shades of snot. Bloody hell.

He took up smoking again. Why should he bother to quit now? What difference could it make? Sure enough, in 2029, he was diagnosed with lung cancer, advanced and inoperable. Treatments started but he hated them almost as much as he hated the coughing and hacking from his ruined lungs.

He lay in the hospital, struggling to draw breath into lungs that were little better than lumps of coal. Some days were better than others. The drugs saw to that. Once he'd asked to be taken off the machines and brought home so he could die like a man. But one moment away from the machines and he'd gasped and gulped for air like a fish brought flopping to shore. The sensation had been too frightful for the experiment to be repeated.

Now he lay here waiting for death. Death and the Slayer. This was the last way he'd wanted to die but if it was going to happen then he wanted Buffy with him. He clung tenaciously to his life, digging into mortality by sheer force of will.

Finally the door to his room opened. Even without vampire senses, he knew who it was. He knew that scent of vanilla just as he knew the quick, light step that brought her close to him. Then the ever-present effort to breathe seized him. Concentrating on that, he missed the next few words she exchanged with her daughter.

"H-he looks awful, mom."

Buffy sighed. "Celeste."

"I-I know. I'm supposed to say things like 'he doesn't look so bad.' Or 'he's not as bad as they told us.' Or 'he's gonna pull out of this; I just know it.' " The woman's whisper stopped for a moment. "Mom, the doctors are sure? There's no chance he'll pull through?"

Buffy shook her head and the gathering tears stung her eyes. "No, Celeste. The lung cancer's really far advanced. Everybody warned him those cigarettes were going to kill him but he didn't care. He was always too damned stubborn." She reached out and stroked his forehead, tracing the wrinkles that had settled over his features.

At her touch, the man on the bed opened his eyes and whispered, "Slayer? That you?"

Buffy's breath caught and she blinked as if to banish tears that might have offended him. "Spike."

"Hey. Good…to see you."

"Good to see you, too." She gulped and took a shaking breath.

He noticed and spoke, his grating voice a mere shadow of his former husky baritone. "'Ere now. I always wanted to go out fighting. And I'm fighting this thing. Looks like I'm gonna lose. But I'm fighting anyways. Don't cry 'til I'm dead, Slayer. Red eyes and swollen noses only look good on demons—and rabbits."

"Don't tell me what to do, Spike." But the words had the desired effect of making her smile. Spike opened his mouth to speak and was seized with a violent coughing fit. Buffy sat by, helpless as she had been during all the other times. She grasped his hand and he squeezed back with a semblance of his former strength.

She waited for the fit to subside and it did finally. He gasped out, "We…had some times, didn't we, Slayer?"

"Uh huh. Do you remember our date on Valentine's Day?"

He flinched slightly. "No. The good times."

"Spike, that was one of our good times."

This sally made him smile. And then he recalled what he'd wanted to say to her. "Buffy, I want you to have…the duster."

"Spike, no."

"Sure. Don't…have much of value in the world. Don't have much…of anything, really. It's…a…little the worse…for wear. But it belonged to…a Slayer. Only fitting a Slayer…should have it."

Buffy didn't have the heart to point out the damned thing had been too big for Spike to wear. It would hang on her like a girl dressing up in one of her mommy's coats. She only nodded and squeezed his hand.

He panted harshly. There was a pressure building behind his eyes. He knew what it meant and hurried to speak, to tell her what lay in his heart. "If there's…one thing…ever been sure of…it's that you're…the one, the only. It's that…I loved you."

The fit that came this time was harsher, more vicious than any that had preceded it. His body shook and the machines began to beep alarmingly. Orderlies and doctors streamed into the room, forcing her aside as the wail of inhuman instruments filled the air…

The funeral was brief. There weren't many attendees. Many of the new Slayers hadn't known Spike and the few who remembered him from Sunnydale recalled his ugly "traitors" speech to them just a little too well. Only the Scabies and few people from W&H were there. The only stipulation that Spike had made was that he be cremated and his ashes sown into consecrated earth. He wasn't afraid one of the others would resurrect him. But there was always the chance some demon or other with a severe grudge might dig up his body and rip off some parts out of spite.

Buffy wiped away a tear as she left the grave with her husband and daughter flanking her on either side. "Do you think he's in heaven, Xander?"

The brunette raised his eyebrows. "Him? Nah. Don't think so."

Buffy pulled back to glare at him. "Why not? After all the good he did?"

Xander squeezed her shoulder. "Hang on there, Buff. I'm not saying he didn't deserve Heaven. I'm just thinking that given the sort of person he was, he'd find it boring as all get out. All that choir singing and praising to God. He'd make so much noise up there, they'd be forced to kick him out. Think they'd allow punk music inside the Pearly Gates?"

Celeste giggled in spite of herself and then struggled to school her face into a more acceptable expression. "What about reincarnation?"

Xander's eye widened in mock horror. "Oh god, no. Having him around once is all I could stand."

Buffy squeezed him and her daughter, mindful as always of her Slayer strength. "I love you guys, you know that?"

Celeste rolled her eyes but darted a kiss to her mother's cheek. "We know, Mom." The trio got into the long black car and it pulled away from the cemetery gates.

Spike's spirit stood unseen and watched them go. Then he heaved a sigh and squinted into the sun. Behind the fiery rays seemed to wait another, purer, light and it beckoned to him as if impatient for his company.

"Hang on. Don't get your knickers in a twist. You'll be having me around soon enough." He patted his pockets and grinned as felt a fresh pack of fags in the pockets. "Now that's more like it." Pulling one out and lighting it, he watched the puff dissipate into the air and called out, "I'm ready for you lot. Hope you're ready for me. Now bring on the Sex Pistols!"

As the faint sounds of Sid Vicious singing "My Way" wafted through the air, a single ray streamed down towards the earth. When it disappeared, the graveyard lay empty.

Finis