Chapter Four

"What is this, some bloody loop?" he fumed after her abrupt departure. As soon as she was near, he'd foolishly remind her that he was the only one there for her... And then she'd run. (Of course, he doesn't think to change anything... Why would he? He hasn't done anything wrong--right?) If he hadn't seen Warren killed and the other two nerds locked up the previous Spring, he'd have sworn the nerds were pulling the Buffy-loop act again. Didn't seem too likely now, however.

All Spike wanted was to hear her admit her need for him. Not sexually (although always a welcome admittance), but mentally; emotionally. The desire for her to finally realize it was consuming him, driving him insane. But he knew in his shriveled, still heart that she was scared to let him in.

That's what had driven out Captain America, wasn't it? Her inability to let someone that close? Spike had rarely seen his Slayer scared--wouldn't have thought her the type--but he was sure that was it.

But if the Big Boy Scout, Mr. Cardboard Cut-out Boyfriend himself couldn't get her to open up, how was he expected to?

I'm evil, he sneered to himself. To say it now was an open mockery of what he had become. In truth, he hadn't been completely evil since she changed him.

Love. There it was again. That small, four-lettered word that spelled his destruction and downfall. His reason for keeping on keeping on. It was what had tied him to this hell-hole even after her death should have severed the fetters.

Did evil things even love?

No. Whatever vampires called love amongst themselves was not love. Hell, it was as far from love as carrots are from kerosine. It was some twisted, darker half of the emotion, mutilated by the creatures self-imposed inability to love. It was not real.

But what Spike had now was pure. For once, it wasn't about death and reveling in its dark delights--it was about becoming a better person because the person he loved deserved it.

Every moment around her, every breath which he did not take around her, made him feel a step closer to the man who lurked behind the monster. In the old days, it was easy to distinguish the two; one was a lovesick sap and the other a powerful death-machine, the Scourge of Europe. Polar opposites. However, when around Buffy he felt the halves creeping closer to each other, taking on the other's qualities. Spike didn't know what would happen when the two finally merged, but he wondered who would be the stronger half. He also found it an unlikely possibility to "grow" a soul, but if anyone could incite such a crazy, it would be the Slayer.

Gradually, his bloodlust had begun to dim to a dull ache which he would idly remember when by his fridge. It was no longer the all-consuming need as it once was... Now she was his need. For pity's sake, he hadn't attacked the blood-delivering van at the hospital in ages! There was something sickening about the dying people inside...and then the fact that he cared... which made him shudder. No sir, just safe, butcher shop's pig blood for him. Oooh, and on occasion some rare, specialty animal, but it always cost extra.

So this is what he had become--less a demon than any demon, less a man than any man. Involuntarily, Spike recalled Buffy's cutting remark that first night...

"Poor Spikey. Can't be a vampire, can't be a human. Where the hell do you fit in?"

It never bothered him before. To Spike, it was what gave him the upper hand in both worlds. But after that, he knew it was the reason Buffy could never love him in return.

"She thinks I'm dead inside!" he fumed at nobody.

"Don't have a heart, don't have a soul, don't have feelings! How the bloody hell would she know? Might require her to take the attention off herself for one. bleeding. minute! Couldn't stand for that, now could we?" His rant illustrated itself with the smashing of what few possessions he owned (not the television of course, we're talking about Passions!) against the stone wall.

He stopped his pacing suddenly, heading for the cabinet usually kept locked. Not bothering with the key, he smashed his fist through the wood, pulling out an assortment of hard drinks.

"Don't have a heart. Don't need a liver!" he muttered, taking a straight shot of the fiery liquid.

His plan: To get completely and utterly smashed.

* * *

Buffy desperately needed to hear a calming and distinctly non-British voice. Her nerves felt frazzled and her mind was a snare of tangled thoughts and feelings, all which she needed to suss out.

Instead of confronting her inner demons (which always seem to be more difficult than the tangible ones for her), she called the one person she knew would come to her. When she heard the knock on the front door, she rushed to open it and greet the face of her comforter.

"Angel."