TITLE: Coming Back 1/?

AUTHOR: Beamer

SPOILERS: Everything up to and including the great resouling scene in 'Grave', goes AU after that.

DISCLAIMER: I bow down in supplication before the great and merciful Joss, high upon his throne. I offer up praise and thanks in the form of this invocation and many libations for the gifts he has bestowed upon me.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Kes and Valerie give good beta. My roommate thinks I am insane for doing this, but has promised not to lock me up for it.

DISTRIBUTION: Ask, and ye shall receive.

FEEDBACK: This is one of those trick questions right? Like on forms where it says sex, and you go, yes please, only to realize what they really mean is gender. Okay, yes, feedback is nectar of the gods to fanfic writers.

And they're handing down my sentence now
And I know what I must do
Another mile of silence while I'm
Coming back to you

       -Leonard Cohen

       ~~~~~

It was around midnight, and there was a gentle breeze playing in the air. The first of the autumn leaves danced upon the ground. His eyes were down cast as he lumbered into town, looking like any other homeless man wandering aimlessly. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of the worn blue wool navy P coat he'd swiped from the body of a dead man. A dead man found that way in a boxcar of a freight train, thank you very much. The black jeans he wore were ripped at the knees, the fabric worn thin and frail by too many months of repeated wear, his boots covered in duct tape, holding the soles together. Pausing, he lifted his head just enough to see the sign, the glow of a streetlight glinting in his tired ice blue eyes. It wasn't only his eyes that looked tired; there was something about the way he carried him self that exuded exhaustion. He sighed, blowing a wayward platinum tipped curl out of his eyes.

Welcome To Sunnydale

Enjoy Your Stay

       "Home Sweet, Fucking Home," he sighed half heartedly, resisting the strong urge to give the sign a good hard kick before he continued on his way, looking over his shoulder to see if his companion was still following him.

As he passed the sign, Spike wondered briefly if she'd be out patrolling. He hoped she'd made an early night of it because he wasn't ready to see her yet. They'd come across each other sooner or later; he just prayed it was later. He knew he needed to see her, otherwise what was it all for? The tests, the soul? All for her just like everything he'd done for the last two years.

 There weren't many people out as he walked through town, and those who were stupid enough to be wandering around after dark were too busy heading home to pay him much attention. What was it about the people of this town, that they were so deep in denial that there was anything wrong in their fair city? A population so blind to what really went on around them that they willingly walked around like entrées on a menu. He shook his head at the thought. Denial, the name is Sunnydale; the people of Sunnydale simply could not be bothered to see anything they did not want to. This was why no one bothered him, avoiding eye contact when they did see him. Spike was not a pretty sight.  He hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, and the way his jeans hung told him he'd lost weight. There a rough beard growing on his chin, and hair that hadn't needed much maintenance before Africa was an uncontrollable mass of curls sweeping his collar. He knew if he didn't have it cut soon he'd have a head covered in dreadlocks with platinum white tips and wheat blonde roots. Maybe he wouldn't bleach it again, give Xander a few less names to call him.

Now there was a face he was not eager to see anytime soon. Xander would not hesitate to run a stake through his heart the second he laid eyes on him, and not even bother to ask questions later. He'd nearly done so already, and probably wouldn't have been successful if Buffy and Anya hadn't stopped him. It would have been for the best, really, if they hadn't stopped him. Then it wouldn't have happened and he wouldn't be feeling… No, he wasn't going to go there. Best to just avoid that train of thought all together, best to avoid brooding, and best to avoid anyone who was known to carry stakes on their person at all times. With that in mind, he stayed as far away as possible from the Bronze where he knew the risk of running into any of the Scoobies was very high.

"Wow."

Spike stopped at the sound of her voice. It took him by surprise; she'd been quiet for so long

When he looked up he saw that they were standing in front of the Magic Box.  The hand lettered sign in the window announced that they were closed indefinitely, but their website was still up and ready to accept orders. As he peered through the window into the empty shop it became clear to him that something big had happened. The structural damage was bad, the loft where they had kept the dark magic books had collapsed and there seemed to be a hole in the brick wall between the shop and the training room as well as in the ceiling. The walls were charred and the display cases demolished.

"Wow is right," he agreed. "Wonder what happened."

 Pulling back from the window he gave a startled cry as a gaunt face peered back at him through the glass.

"Bloody hell," he muttered as the momentary panic subsided. What a ponce, three months and the sight of his own reflection still gave him the wiggins.

"Wonder if I'll ever get used to that?" he asked, turning to her. Her only response was a wan smile; she was silent again. Watching her, Spike found himself wishing that someone else could see her the way she was now.

She was different; death had changed her. Made her more regal, if that was at all possible. Even dressed in the blue shirt and jeans she had died in, Tara was more stunning than Botticelli's Venus. Yet again, he found himself wondering what she was, why she was there. That she was some kind of spirit was obvious, but why she was haunting him he couldn't figure. She had been there ever since he woke up on the cavern floor. It was Tara that had kept him sane, soothed him when the guilt would threaten to consume him. During their trek back to Sunnydale, whenever they talked, it was about art or history, anything but Sunnydale. Gradually he had come to learn that they shared some kind of connection; that she could see into his head, and vice versa. She had laughed when she discovered the truth behind the moniker William the Bloody and he hadn't really minded, not after the initial pain and embarrassment had worn off. He simply countered with the intimate details of getting caught kissing Betty Jennings behind the ball shed during recess.

 She was a part of him now, as much as the demon was and he suddenly found himself wishing he'd gotten to know her better when she had been alive. But things had been different then. He would have never noticed her the way he did now. Would have never noticed how her face was kind, or how her eyes seemed to covey wisdom beyond her years. And if he closed his eyes, he could swear that he could still smell the jasmine and cinnamon that had hung in the air whenever she had been around. But that was just a memory, right? Because spirits, or whatever it was that she was now didn't emit an odor, right?

 She gave him a soft smile when she caught him looking at her

"Home?" she asked him.

"Lay on MacDuff." He gestured grandly, indicating he would follow.

They continued on in silence and he wished she'd say something, anything just so his mind wouldn't be drawn the bench where he and Dru had drained a homeless man, because once his mind got going on that, there would be no stopping the agonizing flood of regret and self loathing. What's done was done. No sense in dwelling on it, of wallowing in guilt for everything he'd ever done, because he couldn't change it. Could issue a thousand apologies every day for the rest of his existence, however long that would be, and it still wouldn't change a damn thing about what he had done. No regret, no guilt and absolutely no brooding. He'd be fucked ten ways to Sunday if he was going to allow this soul turn him into Angel.

~~~

       As they walked, Spike thought fondly of the money he'd stashed away from his disastrous turn as the egg man, money that had been set-aside for Buffy. He'd told her he could get money, that he couldn't stand to see her wasting away in that putrid, foul smelling grease trap. That was the only reason he'd taken that job from the Suvolte demon.  He'd even sold the DeSoto, cleaned it up first of course. Stashed everything away while he figured out a way to give it to her without her knowing whom it was from. She would have never taken it from him then and she certainly wouldn't take it now. Not after…

I know you felt it... When I was inside you...

He shuddered, pushing the thought from his mind and ignoring the wave of nausea that came with the memory, and instead focused his mind on the cash, nearly eleven thousand dollars; enough to keep him in smokes and bourbon for many years. Unless of course he found a way to get Buffy to accept it anyway, after all, it really was her money. She wouldn't mind if he used a little bit, just some to get a bite to eat, a haircut and a shave. Get a room in some hotel, someplace that had a shower and a bed.

       He'd been so wrapped up in the idea of finally being clean and not hungry that he was unaware that Tara had stopped. Had she been solid, Spike would have run into her, instead he passed right through her.

       "Gyahah!" he shuddered, shaken by the experience. "What gives? Bloody hell, you know I hate it when that happens."

Spike's breath caught as he saw what she was staring at. The tombstone was a new one, placed next to Joyce's. His heart skipped a beat as he dropped to his knees. Unable to bring himself to read the inscription in the smooth granite, he fumbled through his coat pocket; looking for the cigarettes he'd lifted with the jacket. He knew he was just wasting time, that there was no way he was going to be able to leave this site without looking at the grave, reading whose name was on the marker and discovering just which one of them he had failed. He drew a crumpled cigarette from an equally crumpled pack, and held it between his teeth as he fumbled with a book of matches to light it, his lighter having run out of fluid three months and several countries ago.

        He inhaled, feeling the smoke slide down his throat, burning into his lungs. Suddenly, almost violently, he gagged. He coughed loudly, his lungs wracked with spasms at the caustic intrusion.

       "Bollocks," he mumbled, gasping for breath after the attack had subsided.

       "You know that's not good for you," she said softly, not even turning to look his way. He looked up sharply, sneering. Once again he put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled sharply, quickly exhaling the smoke in her direction, watching it curl around her head. Much to his chagrin, she didn't even flinch. Grumbling, he took another drag, followed by another round of coughing.

       "I have smoked for over one hundred and twenty years," he muttered as he ground the half smoked cigarette out in the grass beside him, "and never once did I cough." 

       "Never in that whole time did you have to breathe," she replied, turning to look down upon her companion, a sad smile playing on her lips. "Besides, it's not who you think it is." She motioned to the grave, and Spike took his first good look at it. He sighed a heavy sigh of relief when he read that it was not a Summers girl buried there after all. Sadness filled him nonetheless. He'd known she was dead, but reading her name on the marker cemented it.

Tara McClay

November 1980

May 2002

       "They buried you next to Joyce," he breathed. Joyce had been a good woman. Never given him grief, always welcomed him with a cup of tea or hot cocoa. She was kind. In her, Spike had seen what Buffy would have become if death and resurrection had not made her hard and the slayer gig had not made morally superior.  It was only fitting Tara be buried next to Joyce.

       "Must have been Dawnie's idea," Tara smiled. There had been a bond between the witch and the bit. Not strange in the least, especially when compared to the bond between the bit and Spike. Not even Spike could explain it, other than to say that there was something about all three Summers women that sucked him in. "Besides the plot was paid for. No one was using it anymore."

       While true, Spike knew this wasn't the only reason she had been buried in what had been the Summers' family plot. Tara was family. That's what Buffy had said when Tara's father had shown up to carry her back to her abusive roots.

He stood slowly as Tara moved closer, stepping back, wanting to give her space. Spike knew what it was like to look at your own grave, read your own tombstone, but it was different for her. He'd gone on to live - or un-live as the case may be - a normal happy existence, as far as vampires went. Tara on the other hand would never again know the feeling of the sun on her face, or the touch of her lover's hand. All that had ended for her when the bullet ripped into her.

       Spike had seen and inflicted many heinous deaths in his hundred plus years of existence but none compared to the shock of watching Red's clean white shirt become a Jackson Pollock painting done up in crimsons, hearing the bewilderment in his voice as he said 'your shirt' before he collapsed boneless to the floor. Shuddering as he relived the experience he had not born witness to, he wondered how she did it. How she made him feel and see everything as she sank to the floor in her lover's arms.

She slowly turned and walked away calling over her shoulder, "You coming?"

       Spike took one last look at the grave, thankful that it hadn't turned out to be his worst nightmare. He once again searched his pockets for his cigarettes. Finding them, he tapped the pack once, raised it to his lips and pulled one of them out. He lit it, and inhaled sharply, sucking air in through his clenched teeth. He let out a slight cough, nothing like the fits he had had earlier. Might be getting the hang of this after all, he though wistfully.

       "You really shouldn't do that," Tara told him as they walked.

       "My body. My lungs, pet."

       Tara stopped and turned to him. "If you're going to insist upon continuing to smoke, could you at least consider switching to lights?"

       Spike scoffed, then snorted; his nostrils flaring as smoke escaped them. They stood immobile, staring at each other in silence. He looked into her eyes and knew she would never back down. He groaned heavily, sucking on his teeth, "Fine, I'll switch to lights."

       "Thank you," she said as she resumed walking, confident that he would follow her. "After all, it may be your body, but it does seem as if we have to share it."

       Spike did follow, pausing only slightly to snuff out his cigarette with the toe of his boot.

       They were almost to his crypt when the scream pierced the air. He should have ignored it, and just gone into the crypt and pretended he never heard it. Let the vampire, demon, mugger - whatever it was enjoy them selves, but he couldn't. His faced screwed up into a grimace that was almost comical.

       "Oh bloody hell."

       He took off running in the direction of the scream, ending up back where he had just came from. The vampire was standing at the foot of Joyce's grave, looking very Bela Lugosi in a black suit with his unconscious victim draped in his arms. Spike would have laughed at the cliché under any other circumstances, but he was angry that he'd had to put off his shower.

       "Hope I'm not interrupting?" he asked

"Spike," the demon hissed. "Heard you left town."

"Went on a walkabout," Spike said with a shrug, as he bounced on the balls off his feet, readying himself for the upcoming attack. As his old eagerness for a spot of violence came back, Spike's anger waned. He hadn't had a decent fight since before he left Sunnydale. Sure, he'd dusted a couple vamps on his cross-country trek, but not many vamps hop rides in boxcars of freight trains.

"Should have stayed gone," Bela snarled, dropping his victim to the ground.

"Should'a, would'a, could'a, didn't," Spike sang, eagerly bouncing back and forth, a wicked grin played upon his lips as he slipped into game face.

 "It's good to be back," he said, as he launched an assault on the vampire.

 At the moment his left fist connected with the bridge of the vamp's nose, shattering it under the blow, Spike wondered if he had ever felt anything more truly divine than the of crushing bone under his own hand. Yes, he thought with a smile; infinitely more divine was the feeling of Buffy beneath him, being inside her...

You're going to let me inside you...I'll make you feel it

 The wave of guilt and self-loathing crashed into him and he faltered, staggering backwards his face slipping into its human mask. Dazed, Spike doubled over as the Bela punched him in the gut.

"How the mighty do fall, William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe, Slayer of Slayers - or should I say - The Layer of Slayers?" Bela laughed, taunting Spike. "It's all around town you know? You're a laughing stock, Spike. And I'm gonna love being the one that dusts you. So, what are you going to do now?"

Spike closed his eyes, if he just stood there, and did nothing he could end it all. The vamp would kill him, and these feelings would end. Just as he felt the fingers closing around his throat, he caught sight of Tara standing by the unconscious girl. If he let this monster end his suffering, the girl would die too, and everything he'd done would have been in vain

Snarling, Spike retaliated, delivering a head-butt to the vampire's chin. The vampire staggered, and Spike spun; his boot finding purchase on the vamps chest.

"I'm going to go to Disneyland," Spike stated, assuming a defensive position, waiting for the counter strike. It didn't come. Spike once again began to bounce back and forth from one foot to the other but the vampire just sat splayed where the kick had landed him, staring at Spike in shock. "Oh, come on. I haven't had me a decent fight in ages, you're beginning to disappoint."

He wanted a fight, but he knew he wasn't going to get it because the look on this vampire's face told Spike his secret had been discovered. He knew the vamp could smell it. Knew the vamp had felt the pulse in his neck.

"You're not Spike," Bela gasped.

"Oh, but I am," Spike declared, catching the vampire off guard with another kick. "Just new and improved is all."

"It's not possible," Bela spat as Spike's boot met with his face. His eyes widened in horror, the demon visage slipping away, revealing his frightened human face. "It's just not possible, it can't be."

"Hard to believe, innit?"

"What the hell happened to you?"

 Spike he reached down, grabbed either side of the vampire's head, and gave a vicious twist.

"Fell in love with a girl," he said just before the vamp dusted.