A/N: Okay, so this is my first fan fiction on here in three years! Whew, I didn't know I had it in me, but I think this came out okay. I wanted to do a Buffy fic because I've been watching a lot of the show lately, and I had an idea. I don't know how much of it I'll get done and when, especially since I'm trying to write a novel and get published *someday* and going to college (which starts up in a month,) but I think I like this chapter. Okay, sorry for the major run on sentence. I've read over this chapter a million times, and I'm pretty sure anything you'll want to call a mistake is on purpose. Read, enjoy, and please review! Thanks!

A/N 2: Before you read this, though, (I always like adding a bit of music into the mix,) listen to "Big White Room" from Jessie J. Usually I'll give you something Alternative or Hard Rock/Metal, but "Big White Room" is perfect for this chapter. Go take a listen on Youtube or Spotify or Veevo or whatever music player/site you like.

"Shite!" Spike punched the cement wall, feeling the bones inside his hand weep and crumble. They gave, but because of what he was, so did the wall. "Kitty whiskers and puppy dog tails are all that keep me here. If I was human would I be better suited for the slayer? Or would she even bother with me at all? My pretty little darling… could I kill? Would I not? Pretty poppet picks posies." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Miss Moppet munches meat… Buffy bucks before bones." He began to laugh – sly at first, then broader, his mouth opening wide as his face morphed from handsome normalcy to vampirism.

Blood…

Somebody else's blood…

PIG'S BLOOD –

pumped through his veins.

God, he was so hungry. Never had he felt so hungry. Okay, maybe once or twice. Maybe, maybe just once. Or, maybe he'd always been this hungry. Maybe he was just a hungry human being. But this hunger, this famished aching, grew until he could no longer stand staring at his own exposed arm without salivating. The saliva drenched his upper lip, drip – drip – dripping from his skin like blood should be. He needed it – wanted it.

Vampires were such intricate creatures, able to hide within themselves like humans – pretend they were real humans if they wanted to, but they didn't have to. They came out at night, just like teenagers and clubbers did. Otherwise they hid in sewers or in mausoleums.

Spike stared at his bare arm, unblinkingly.

He couldn't bear it anymore.

His bare arm glared at him saying, "Bite me! Eat me! Drink me!"

He couldn't bear it anymore.

A mouse scurried along the ledge on the window by his head. It stopped, sniffed the air.

"Vampire's little attention turned on the mouse…" Spike snatched the rodent, sinking his fangs into the soft fur, passing into the soft flesh, passing into the darkest place he'd ever known. Darker than when he was 'William the Bloody' because then at least the evil was in control. Controlled evil was always the harshest, and had he been harsh? An understatement – one slayers continuously made over him. "Mommy and Daddy punish William the Bloody… punish… punish… for all my sins. Punish… punish… William must punish Daddy for the hit. Mommy must punish Willy for punishing Daddy."

"Spike?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Dropping the mouse, the vampire squatted, shrinking into as tiny a ball as he could. "You're not real." His face was covered in rodent-blood.

Buffy stepped off the bottom of the stairs. Delicate hand still on the railing, she was radiant – hair set in a clip, red leather pants, spare make-up, crème-colored lace blouse. Beauty was her name – not Buffy, beauty.

"Last time I checked I was real." An indignant pout rested on her lips. Walking up to him, she raised her arm. "I'm pinch-able, so I'm real. If you try anything, the sock to your face will feel real, too."

He stared at her, unsure. He pinched her, still unsure. "Pretty poppet pulling posies put promptly in places." Quiet, near silence even, he looked away from her.

"I should've known better than to ask for your help." Her arm dropped.

Nothing made sense. Spike pulled his prized leather jacket tight around him, staring at the massacred mouse before smearing it into the cement with his combat boot. "Miss Moppet's mopey… Can Willy help Miss Moppet?" Through his headache and sheer confusion, he couldn't tell what her expression was. Was it hurt? Confounsion? Wait, no, that wasn't right. Confounsion wasn't a word. Confound-ness? Maybe that was better. She was trying to help him, that much he knew. Anything else strained his brain.

"Spike… Xander is getting you pig's blood. You're going to be okay. You don't have to drink rodents. We're going to take care of –"

"SPIKE." Another Buffy voice interrupted the first Buffy voice.

But wait, that wasn't right.

Tall boots came clomping down the stairs. "You were all talky." Buffy blinked at the bottom.

"Lemme alone," Spike slurred, hiding his face with his jacket.

"Who were you talking to?"

Spike laughed bitterly. "Curiosity killed the kitty, Buffy."

"I'm going to ask this one more time: who were you talking to?"

"Buffy." The answer was simple, but as Spike glanced toward her, he realized it had her mind in chaos.

She looked behind her. "But I was upstairs and stuff." Turning back around, she blinked. "It couldn't have been meant for me. Was it The First?"

Spike coiled his arms around his head, beginning to rock back and forth. "Gnugh… make it stop… make it stop… make it stop… Gnugh…"

He looked up. Grimaced. "Not now. Not never. Not never pretty pretty poppet picking posies… sea shells by the sea shore." He punched himself in his right temple.

"The First is pretending to be you. Should've seen it coming. Should've seen it coming. Stupid bloody William. Bloody William's no good at poetry… no good. Four and twenty naughty boys baked in a pie… when the pie was opened –" he chuckled "- the boys began to scream; wasn't that a dainty dish, to set before the…" His eyes turned yellow and his pupils became pinpricks. He'd turned. "Queen!"

Buffy squatted beside him, wiped some blood off his cheek with her thumb. "You hurt me… yet I can't help but be all feely for you. This feeliness is sorry. This sorriness is worry." She shook her head. "I feel sorry for you, Spike… after all you've done. You say you're all soul-filled now. Prove it. Fight The First; it doesn't have to be heady with you."

She stood, but Spike tugged her back down with his left hand, and wiped his mouth with his right, which was still chained to the wall. Face changing back to normal, he gazed at her longingly. "Spike wants to be William. Good… soul-filled. He won't do poetry… he's not a bloody poet and he bloody knows it. He'll fight. Promise. Pity, pity… please?"

"Fight it," was the last thing she said before she walked away, leaving Spike to the seemingly growing tumor that was his perplexity.