He was on the porch, smoking. Of course he was; it was where he went when he was angry. And if Spike's reaction had been anything like her own, he must be livid.

She couldn't believe Giles. Giles, who she'd trusted above all, who had been more of a parent to her than her own father. To go behind her back like this…

Wood's actions, though, she understood. So it had been Spike who killed his mother, the slayer Nikki Wood. A year ago she would have been filled with revulsion, for Spike and for herself. But now, well, she'd meant it when she said that the person who'd killed Nikki―the Spike who'd obsessed over her, loved her, and tried to rape her―was gone. Probably, if she'd been in Wood's shoes, it wouldn't have mattered. But Buffy had loved Angel and survived Angelus, and she knew what a soul was worth.

"Hey," she said, sitting down beside him.

"Hey," said Spike, snuffing out his cigarette, and staring at his shoes.

"You okay?" Spike's cheek was burnt, and he looked bruised and battered. Maybe it was a stupid question.

"Yeah," said Spike, slowly. "I suppose I'm in for a lecture on Nikki Wood."

"No," Buffy said, softly. "It wasn't you, at least not the same you. It wasn't your fault."

Spike smiled ruefully, still not meeting her eyes.

"You really believe that?" he asked.

"I do," said Buffy. "Without a soul, you don't have a conscience. It wasn't you, it was the demon."

"Right," laughed Spike without mirth, "it was all him, every bloody time. No conscience. Except―God, I knew it was wrong, Buffy. The second I saw your face, I knew it was bloody wrong."

Buffy looked at her hands. She didn't know what to say, didn't want to be in this conversation. But at the same time, she knew that she'd been needing it for a long while.

"For so long, I thought I could be good for you. Or at least, good to you. Didn't give a piss about right or wrong, or anyone else save the L'il Bit. But I didn't think it that loving you was enough.

"But I still hurt you. I tried to do something unthinkable, and I didn't even realize what I was doing until I saw the horror on your face."

Buffy said nothing; what was there to say?

"But it was me, Buffy. Not all of me. There was no right or wrong, no guilt, no love that wasn't some level of selfish. But it wasn't someone else. I don't care what Angel says, it's not a different person inside you. It's an incomplete you, a selfish you, but it's you all the bloody same."

"Would you do it?"

"What?"

"Would you do it?" Buffy repeated, "try to rape me?"

"No." Spike sounded taken aback. "Never."

"Well," said Buffy, "I guess it's not all the same."

Spike cocked his head and stared at her for a minute. "Yeah," he said, "maybe."

They were silent for a while, not meeting each other's eyes, not touching. Then, partly out of curiosity and partly to fill the void, Buffy asked, "Why was your mother's song your trigger?"

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Spike smiled unhappily. "Thought you might ask."

Buffy's thoughts went to Angel, who had killed his whole family after he'd been turned. Maybe this hadn't been a good question to ask. "Sorry," she said quickly, "You don't have to tell me."

"Nah," said Spike, "reckon I owe it to you. It's just...not sure I want you to know what I was like back then."

"I have it on good authority that you've always been bad."

"What? Oh," laughed Spike, "God I'm a prick. Nah, that's not quite true. Believe it or not, I used to be quite the nancy boy."

"You?"

"Yeah. Reckoned myself a poet." Buffy stared. That was unexpected.

"Bloody miserable at it too, but that's besides the point. I lived with my mum―don't smirk, that was normal in those days―and we were, you know, close. And she was sick. Consumption―or, tuberculosis I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered.

"Yeah. Thanks. After Drusilla turned me, I―I turned her. My mum."

"You turned your mother into a vampire?" asked Buffy, shocked. "Why?"

Spike smiled wistfully. "I didn't want her to die. I wanted us to be together, forever."

For a moment, neither said a word. Buffy broke the silence. "You loved her, even after you became a vampire?"

"Well yeah," said Spike, "she was my mum. But it was a stupid thing to do. She―she came on to me. Said some horrible things, attacked me―and I staked her."

It was a horrible story. Terrible, twisted, and yet somehow, reassuring.

"I killed her twice. So that was the trigger. Guilt, and the things that she said―that she'd never loved me at all."

"It wasn't her, though," said Buffy.

"No. It wasn't her."

"And it wasn't you, either. But you still loved her."

"Yeah."

"And you loved me. And Dawn. And Drusilla. There was always a part of you that was still...the poet."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, maybe. A bit."

"And I guess that's pretty different, for a vampire. But it still wasn't you."

Spike met her eyes then. "You reckon?"

Buffy nodded. "The man you used to be did terrible things. I don't think I could forgive him. But I can forgive you. And I'm going to need you by my side."

Spike didn't look away. The old Spike might have leaned in, tried to grab her hand or kiss her; but now, all he did was nod. "Till the end of the world," he whispered.