A/N:
This is a five-part story originally written for Seasonal Spuffy. Rated R for language only.
I have a novella up on Amazon that is free for Kindle readers this weekend (through May 10th). Details can be found on my Livejournal (user name spuffy_luvr).
Disclaimer: All Hail Joss Whedon
Distribution: This is MY story. Please don't archive somewhere else without my express permission, try to sell it, claim it as your own, or otherwise infringe. I used to think these warnings were unnecessary, but a few rotten apples have spoiled the fandom barrel...
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Stage One: Denial
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"So you'll give me what I want," Spike says, dredging up some final reserve of strength to push himself upright. There's anger in that strength, and resentment too, all folded in with a healthy heaping of self-loathing. "Make me what I was. So Buffy can get what she deserves."
They stare at each other, demon to demon, warrior to… wish granter.
"Very well."
Spike resists the urge to cringe backwards as the demon looms closer, towering over him, but it's more exhaustion than bravado that keeps him in place.
Reaching out to press a clawed hand to Spike's chest, the shadow demon says, "We will return… your soul."
The demon's touch burns, worse than anything Spike has ever endured. Head thrown back, he screams. And screams. And screams.
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When Spike comes to, he can't quite place where he is. It's dark. And quiet. But it's not a cave. Not cool enough, not echo-y enough. Not… hard enough.
He shifts one shoulder, then the other, perplexed by the lack of sharp rocks that should be pricking and sticking into his back. Come to think of it, the ground beneath him is rather soft, and comfortable. Bed-like.
The blankets on top of him confirm his suspicion.
Spike sits up and pushes the covers off, barely registering the lack of pain he feels despite the weakness of his limbs. Patting himself down, he discovers he's in old-fashioned nightwear. A long nightshirt and - bloody hell - a cap as well. His hands pause in their exploration, frozen upon the hair beneath the cap.
No.
No. It can't be. It isn't possible.
The change in location and the clothes are one thing - maybe he's been taken in by some kindly stranger with a fetish for the not-so-good-old days - but the hair is harder to explain away.
Could be he's been out for a long time. He pats his head again, tentatively. Make that a Rip Van Winkle amount of time. Hair grows slowly for vampires, and he's got a headful of wavy mane.
It's still alright, he tells himself. No need for panic. There's a bit of fear on Buffy's behalf - how long has he been gone? - is she even still alive? - but for himself, nothing.
Spike swings his feet out, and encounters slippers on the floor. He slips his feet into them. Still no panic. Logical place for his host to have put slippers, and thoughtful. His eyes are adjusting to the gloom now, and he blinks, and blinks again when the room remains muzzy.
Continuing the effort to blink away his blurred vision, he tugs off the ridiculous cap, wondering about this soul thing. From Angel's example, he'd expected to be in the grips of insanity about now, but maybe the mystery of his whereabouts and whenabouts has put that on hold. Soon as he solves the where and when, his mind will give him leave to go all bats in the belfry. Or maybe Angel, melodrama-loving git that he is, had played up the eternal torment factor. Either one is a possibility.
The room refuses to resolve itself, so Spike shifts into vampire visage for the slight advantage his demon senses give him.
Except he doesn't. Shift. No rearrangement of bones, no elongation of canines, no enhancement of vision. He frowns, and tries again. Nothing. He reaches up to examine the points of his canines - maybe he's already in demon face? - and feels nothing but blunt, human teeth.
"Balls," he whispers, a tendril of panic sneaking its way up his spine.
Could be he's drugged, and the drugs are preventing him from changing. The Initiative had tested something similar on him once or twice. Spike tells himself that's all this is, even as he stretches his arm out. And finds his spectacles. On his nightstand.
Panic no longer seems unreasonable.
Spike leaps to his feet, jamming spectacles to face with the sort of automatic muscle memory one doesn't expect to reassert itself after a hundred and twenty years. He's too busy striking a match and lighting the bedside candle - he refuses to think his bedside candle - to ponder that detail. Logical thinking has gone the way of Elvis.
The combination of light and lenses brings the room into sharp relief. Spike stands there, gawking stupidly at the contents of the room - his room - until wax drips from the tilted candle onto his hand. Hissing in pain, he drops it. The taper breaks and rolls under his bed, flame fluttering and dancing. He dives after it, knocking his head on the bed frame in the process.
Ow.
It hurts. Really hurts. Spike pulls a bloodied hand away from his forehead, and nearly faints at the sight of it.
If there was any doubt something wasn't right before, it's gone now. The sight of blood doesn't make Spike feel nauseated, it makes him feel alive. Hungry. Powerful. Hard.
Not faint.
Sodding hell. What is going on?
Crouched next to his bed, the newspaper on his nightstand catches his eye, the date in the corner seeming to grow larger and larger as he stares at it. 1878. Not possible. Not at all possible. It's a dream. A hallucination. Maybe another test. Whatever it is, he's not currently inhabiting the year 1878.
Spike manages to jam the candle taper back into the holder, and then he's out the bedroom door, running through his house, heart pounding and breath coming in gasps. It isn't real. He just has to find the exit.
None of the doors provides the portal he's looking for, only the usual view of the gardens, and the street. He's soon back on the second floor, pacing the hallway and muttering to himself.
His mother's door opens. "William?" she says, with genteel confusion. "Darling, are you quite all right?"
He stops in front of her, torn between sudden euphoria at the sight of her, alive and alive, and desperate denial. This isn't real. "I killed you," he snarls - or tries to snarl, but it comes out as more of a whisper. Wrong kind of vocal cords. "You're dead."
"Really, William," his mother says, taking an affronted step backwards. "What a thing to say!" She shakes off her shock, and returns to maternal. "You must be feverish."
Maybe he has to kill her again. Maybe that's the test, the way out. He shrinks from the thought. "I'm fine," he says, brushing away her hand. Good thing she hasn't noticed the bloodied forehead yet. "It was only a bad dream, Mother, please go back to bed."
His mother purses her lips, not buying his attempt at soothing. "Shall I send for the doctor?"
"Truly, Mother, I am fine. I'm sorry I gave you a fright." Spike needs her to leave. To be out of his sight. She cannot be a part of this hallucination, this test, this whatever this is. If she is, the demon has found the one task at which he is guaranteed to fail.
"Perhaps a cup of warm milk…"
"Yes, that is a capital idea." He moves to guide her back to bed, hand to her elbow, but pulls away. If he touches her, he will be lost.
That must be the key. The final ordeal is a test of his willpower, and if he loses, if he gives in to the lure of his mother, alive, he'll be stuck in this pleasant facsimile of his past. Possibly for all eternity. It's one way to grant a soul, Spike'll give the bugger that. But he wants the real deal.
Crisis averted, but now what? Maybe all he has to do is return to bed and sleep, as a symbolic rejection of this reality. Spike shakes his head. Too easy.
He's meant to believe he's William again. But he's not. Spike can feel the memories of the past century clamoring at him inside his head, the weight of his guilt ready to bury him the moment he allows it to. Soul's making an appearance, finally.
He's still Spike. He's still a vampire. Maybe he just has to prove it.
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Spike finds Bessie, the parlor maid, in the room she shares with Jenny in the servants' quarters. He drags her from her bed and into the hall, hand over her mouth to muffle her screams. Her struggles give him some trouble, but even with this counterfeit human weakness, he's still a man, and still stronger than her.
Besides, he's not actually weak. All he has to do is believe, truly believe, and he can shatter this illusion.
"Shh, Bessie, shhh," he says. "It'll be all right." Rather than exciting him, the girl's terror makes his own soul tremble in horror.
It isn't real, he reminds himself.
Spike ignores the roiling of his stomach, and banding his arm about Bessie to press her back tightly to his chest, sinks his teeth into her neck.
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