Ingredient two: Acceptance.
He slept for two days. The watcher would pop up every now and then, checking the vital signs of the sleeping undead. More people where brought in, autopsied and covered with a sheet. He had considered moving Spike into another room, aware that the growing smell would eventually disturb him. Watcher by nature, even though he had been relieved of his duties years ago, his separate quarters were full with books on demons, vampires and forces of never dying evil alike.
His name was Mathews, a typical Englishman who had been with the council for 23 years. He was young when brought in, his father insisting he do something productive with his life. Now Mathews wasn't sociable really, rather he kept company with stacks of books instead of people. He had stumbled upon a collection of books which had centered on the unknown evils of the world. Mathews wasn't entirely skeptical of the paranormal, and had over time acquired a taste and obsession for it.
He left his parents, took a difficult test and was admitted into the exclusive and secretive council. He was assigned a Slayer, and stayed by her side for 15 years. He kept her well informed, trained and aware of the world she was to live in. But with unfortunate timing, the Slayer had died. It broke him apart, and the council had no choice but to fire him.
So here he sat. Far away from that world, where he now tends to the vampires instead of having his Slayer kill them. Only the ones that had proven themselves, though. Like this one. He had in his lap a heavy leather bound book, the exterior ripped and aged. Inside the text was small, having the read to squint his eyes. Mathews had become overly used to this, flipping through the pages as eyes drifted through the sentences with much speed.
What exactly had the vampire done, that made him survive the three hideously dangerous trials? 500 years had the last immortal being survived the trials, but had committed suicide days later by walking into the sun. It was obvious enough that the vampire had gone crazy, not able to except that fact that killing was wrong. Mortality had stepped up to plate.
But, Spike, he had something different. His vital signs where different. He breathed at times, he noticed. In his sleep his chest would move. Un-intentionally, no doubt. But that's what worried him. Breathing is an involuntary movement. More pages flipped. Pictures of grotesque postured filled most halves of the pages.
Nothing. This was the part that could drive someone mad. Desperate for an answer. It has to be somewhere in this pages. Books where stacked in front of him. Century year old volumes. It had been nightfall before, through drowsy eyelids and six coffees later, had he found something.
The trials, three of them included strength, speed and endurance. Testing both the physical and mental. And the final being the granted wish. Now what had Spike wished for? A soul? How, when clearly he had been happy being a demon. He stopped, and reached over the book laden table to pick up another heavy tome that spoke of famous vampires throughout the centuries. Infamous Villains 101. Yes, there was William the Bloody along with his vampire lover, Drusilla. And the dramatic mob at Prague that nearly killed her. Perhaps it did.
There where too many questions. He placed the manuscript back on the table, rubbing his sore eyes a bit. He returned his view back to the book in his lap, the weight pressuring him to read on. The trials, the granted wish, the humanity. Humanity? Was that what this evil undead had wished for? Then there was a text below that, in small dialect and italicized:
'With this one Slayer, there will be a male one to be her counterpart. She, in her twenty two years of Slayerage, will be accompanied by the male sex, one who has proven worth after the trials and tribulations pushed henceforth in his way. Obstacles arisen and conquered by this male, will in fact be rewarded to the female slayer, given the male and his new state of being. Whether he be vampire, demon or mortal, he is the second chosen one.'
It clicked then. The clock had chimed its midnight chirp, making the very involved watcher jump. He closed the book slowly, laying it down next his empty mug. He had been broadly grinning and shaking at the same time. How could the council have overseen this? It was practically a milestone in the eons of their existence. He had made his way over to the phone, dialing the familiarized number as fast as he could.
The dreams where repetitive in their need for annoyance. He shifted wildly in his sleep, the covers falling from the bed. A few moans, brow furrowed and fist clenched.
The pain had made his body fall to the floor after his soul had been restored. His blood had formed pools around his collapsed body, the flashes of people he had killed, and the wrong things he did in his life slid in view before him. It was like a slide show, except the projected images hurt him inside. Like a knife. A bucket of Holy Water spilt inside of him. Make it stop.
He sprung up once again, this time waking to silence and darkness. His had to actually squint in the dimness set before him. It startled him for that brief moment, before he let his shaking posture rest once again in the sheets. He rolled his head to the side, seeing a few more cots, spotting the deceased before him. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing in and out slowly. Breathing?
It became almost a need. And he was desperate for answers. The faint sounds of clicking heels drifting into his room, as the woman he had seen days earlier had made her way in again. It was clear that she did not like anything remotely dead, leaving the contents of the room to be undiscovered. She briskly had washed her hands in the sink before him, trying her hands with a towel then taking a few unsure steps before him.
"Pet, you okay?"
She stopped dead in her tracks, her reflecting eyes showing fear. She nodded quickly, before taking quick steps next to him, taking the empty mug that had been drained days before, and practically ran from the room, holding on to the blood stained mug for dear life. He rolled his eyes, too tired to even chuckle. It should have made him laugh, the antics and pathetic doings of this women. But even that hurt, to think about adding to this woman's fear.
What the hell is wrong with me. I should be tearing out of here, soul or not and reeking some bad ass things on this town. Not laying here worrying about hurting some duck's feelings.
He sighed, supporting his head with crossed arms as he scrounged his eyes around the shadowed ceiling. This was worse then the nights he'd spend in his crypt, alone and laying spread-eagle on his stone sarcophagus. There was the telly across the room, bottles of liquor adoring the wall on the make-shift cabinet and blood in the fridge.
But no. He was in some quaint little morgue in the middle of bleedin' no where, drinking blood that tasted like shit in some mug care-handled by a scared little bint, and no sodding telly anywhere. He'd been missing passions for a month now. And now we realize that we're brooding once again.
There were footsteps once again, this time they where a bit heavier. Eyes closed, he knew the person had stopped at the door, waiting for any type of response.
"Humor me, mate."
Mathews took this as an invitation to venture further into the darkened room, flicking on a small oil lamp nearby and taking a chair next to the occupied cot.
"Well, I did some research earlier, on your status. I'm as much confused and intrigued as you are, I'm sure."
"Research, eh? Is that all you blokes do, by the way?"
"Spike, please, this could be something that could benefit you."
"Yeah, benefit me into putting my name into the Ginuess Book of Records for 'most pathetic undead'."
This bit was going no where. Spike didn't want to cooperate, and he was exhausted. Perhaps just coming out with it. It'd be a shock, and this one isn't exactly in the state to believe whatever he's told.
"Spike, you're becoming human, again."
He spoke it, and there was a moment of silence. Spike laid there, eyes searching the darkened face of the ex-Watcher. Muscles twitched dimly in his clenched jaw, as he bit down on his lip.
"Would explain a lot, that does."
He sat up, the sustaining cuts and bruise scattered along his back and torso still stinging. It would take double long for them to heal, being him all not undead and all. Mathews merely sat there, stunned to say the least. He shifted a bit awkwardly in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Spike.
"Well, you took that quite well.."
"I've had time too think."
"That you have. Well, I'll be leaving. We can discuss this further in the morning. Your returning mortality is only the half of it."
"Can't wait."
And with that Mathews left the room, sauntering slowly into his own quarters. Spike dug his head deep into his entwined arms, rubbing his hands against the back of his sore neck. He accepted it. He was going to get that second chance, to walk in the light, to eat and breath as a necessity and to go back to Sunnydale a changed man. But he'd get all that, and a bit more he hadn't bargained for.
He slept for two days. The watcher would pop up every now and then, checking the vital signs of the sleeping undead. More people where brought in, autopsied and covered with a sheet. He had considered moving Spike into another room, aware that the growing smell would eventually disturb him. Watcher by nature, even though he had been relieved of his duties years ago, his separate quarters were full with books on demons, vampires and forces of never dying evil alike.
His name was Mathews, a typical Englishman who had been with the council for 23 years. He was young when brought in, his father insisting he do something productive with his life. Now Mathews wasn't sociable really, rather he kept company with stacks of books instead of people. He had stumbled upon a collection of books which had centered on the unknown evils of the world. Mathews wasn't entirely skeptical of the paranormal, and had over time acquired a taste and obsession for it.
He left his parents, took a difficult test and was admitted into the exclusive and secretive council. He was assigned a Slayer, and stayed by her side for 15 years. He kept her well informed, trained and aware of the world she was to live in. But with unfortunate timing, the Slayer had died. It broke him apart, and the council had no choice but to fire him.
So here he sat. Far away from that world, where he now tends to the vampires instead of having his Slayer kill them. Only the ones that had proven themselves, though. Like this one. He had in his lap a heavy leather bound book, the exterior ripped and aged. Inside the text was small, having the read to squint his eyes. Mathews had become overly used to this, flipping through the pages as eyes drifted through the sentences with much speed.
What exactly had the vampire done, that made him survive the three hideously dangerous trials? 500 years had the last immortal being survived the trials, but had committed suicide days later by walking into the sun. It was obvious enough that the vampire had gone crazy, not able to except that fact that killing was wrong. Mortality had stepped up to plate.
But, Spike, he had something different. His vital signs where different. He breathed at times, he noticed. In his sleep his chest would move. Un-intentionally, no doubt. But that's what worried him. Breathing is an involuntary movement. More pages flipped. Pictures of grotesque postured filled most halves of the pages.
Nothing. This was the part that could drive someone mad. Desperate for an answer. It has to be somewhere in this pages. Books where stacked in front of him. Century year old volumes. It had been nightfall before, through drowsy eyelids and six coffees later, had he found something.
The trials, three of them included strength, speed and endurance. Testing both the physical and mental. And the final being the granted wish. Now what had Spike wished for? A soul? How, when clearly he had been happy being a demon. He stopped, and reached over the book laden table to pick up another heavy tome that spoke of famous vampires throughout the centuries. Infamous Villains 101. Yes, there was William the Bloody along with his vampire lover, Drusilla. And the dramatic mob at Prague that nearly killed her. Perhaps it did.
There where too many questions. He placed the manuscript back on the table, rubbing his sore eyes a bit. He returned his view back to the book in his lap, the weight pressuring him to read on. The trials, the granted wish, the humanity. Humanity? Was that what this evil undead had wished for? Then there was a text below that, in small dialect and italicized:
'With this one Slayer, there will be a male one to be her counterpart. She, in her twenty two years of Slayerage, will be accompanied by the male sex, one who has proven worth after the trials and tribulations pushed henceforth in his way. Obstacles arisen and conquered by this male, will in fact be rewarded to the female slayer, given the male and his new state of being. Whether he be vampire, demon or mortal, he is the second chosen one.'
It clicked then. The clock had chimed its midnight chirp, making the very involved watcher jump. He closed the book slowly, laying it down next his empty mug. He had been broadly grinning and shaking at the same time. How could the council have overseen this? It was practically a milestone in the eons of their existence. He had made his way over to the phone, dialing the familiarized number as fast as he could.
The dreams where repetitive in their need for annoyance. He shifted wildly in his sleep, the covers falling from the bed. A few moans, brow furrowed and fist clenched.
The pain had made his body fall to the floor after his soul had been restored. His blood had formed pools around his collapsed body, the flashes of people he had killed, and the wrong things he did in his life slid in view before him. It was like a slide show, except the projected images hurt him inside. Like a knife. A bucket of Holy Water spilt inside of him. Make it stop.
He sprung up once again, this time waking to silence and darkness. His had to actually squint in the dimness set before him. It startled him for that brief moment, before he let his shaking posture rest once again in the sheets. He rolled his head to the side, seeing a few more cots, spotting the deceased before him. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing in and out slowly. Breathing?
It became almost a need. And he was desperate for answers. The faint sounds of clicking heels drifting into his room, as the woman he had seen days earlier had made her way in again. It was clear that she did not like anything remotely dead, leaving the contents of the room to be undiscovered. She briskly had washed her hands in the sink before him, trying her hands with a towel then taking a few unsure steps before him.
"Pet, you okay?"
She stopped dead in her tracks, her reflecting eyes showing fear. She nodded quickly, before taking quick steps next to him, taking the empty mug that had been drained days before, and practically ran from the room, holding on to the blood stained mug for dear life. He rolled his eyes, too tired to even chuckle. It should have made him laugh, the antics and pathetic doings of this women. But even that hurt, to think about adding to this woman's fear.
What the hell is wrong with me. I should be tearing out of here, soul or not and reeking some bad ass things on this town. Not laying here worrying about hurting some duck's feelings.
He sighed, supporting his head with crossed arms as he scrounged his eyes around the shadowed ceiling. This was worse then the nights he'd spend in his crypt, alone and laying spread-eagle on his stone sarcophagus. There was the telly across the room, bottles of liquor adoring the wall on the make-shift cabinet and blood in the fridge.
But no. He was in some quaint little morgue in the middle of bleedin' no where, drinking blood that tasted like shit in some mug care-handled by a scared little bint, and no sodding telly anywhere. He'd been missing passions for a month now. And now we realize that we're brooding once again.
There were footsteps once again, this time they where a bit heavier. Eyes closed, he knew the person had stopped at the door, waiting for any type of response.
"Humor me, mate."
Mathews took this as an invitation to venture further into the darkened room, flicking on a small oil lamp nearby and taking a chair next to the occupied cot.
"Well, I did some research earlier, on your status. I'm as much confused and intrigued as you are, I'm sure."
"Research, eh? Is that all you blokes do, by the way?"
"Spike, please, this could be something that could benefit you."
"Yeah, benefit me into putting my name into the Ginuess Book of Records for 'most pathetic undead'."
This bit was going no where. Spike didn't want to cooperate, and he was exhausted. Perhaps just coming out with it. It'd be a shock, and this one isn't exactly in the state to believe whatever he's told.
"Spike, you're becoming human, again."
He spoke it, and there was a moment of silence. Spike laid there, eyes searching the darkened face of the ex-Watcher. Muscles twitched dimly in his clenched jaw, as he bit down on his lip.
"Would explain a lot, that does."
He sat up, the sustaining cuts and bruise scattered along his back and torso still stinging. It would take double long for them to heal, being him all not undead and all. Mathews merely sat there, stunned to say the least. He shifted a bit awkwardly in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Spike.
"Well, you took that quite well.."
"I've had time too think."
"That you have. Well, I'll be leaving. We can discuss this further in the morning. Your returning mortality is only the half of it."
"Can't wait."
And with that Mathews left the room, sauntering slowly into his own quarters. Spike dug his head deep into his entwined arms, rubbing his hands against the back of his sore neck. He accepted it. He was going to get that second chance, to walk in the light, to eat and breath as a necessity and to go back to Sunnydale a changed man. But he'd get all that, and a bit more he hadn't bargained for.