5.

Bloody nothing on TV.

Why didn't that surprise him? He tossed the controls on the bed, made with the Doritos, dipped one. Mmmm, salsa. Why hadn't anyone ever mentioned salsa to him? He double-dipped. Or guacamole? Maybe they were sparing him. Scarfed both flavours with a satisfied grunt.

If they'd had stuff like this in 1800s London... well, let's just say Dru's offer wouldn't have seemed half as appealing. He leaned to the night stand, cracked another bottle of imported beer on the edge, took a pull. Ah, frosty nectar. Now that was something he had never stopped appreciating, even with the under active taste-buds, but the difference, the multi-layered flavour now, gave him a head rush. Wondered what other things he'd forgotten, what else might improve with the addition of a pulse.

The thing was he'd tasted so little of life before that night, could barely remember it, although he was fairly sure that micro-brew and savoury snacks hadn't played a major role. He remembered his Mother's face, grey, pouchy, always so disappointed in him. Sitting down to Sunday Lunch in the parlour, always such a drab affair with the muslin doilies and the woefully overcooked veg. The grandfather clock it had been his duty to wind, twice daily. Remembered the choking smell of London in the mornings, the sound of hooves on cobbles outside his basement bedroom window. None of that seemed real now, like a dream he'd had. His years since that, on the other hand, were all too vivid. He chugged beer, wiped his mouth. But he wasn't about to go all dark and tortured on anyone. Start moussing his hair. He'd model himself on Anya. What was done was done. The creature that had inhabited his body, that was responsible for his actions and it was gone now. All that was left was him, the person he'd built around the demon, despite it, and he wasn't a bad man. He turned the bag of chips upside down. He was just really hungry.

A knock at the door and he cursed his depleted sense of hearing. Before, he'd have sensed someone at the end of the hall, now anyone equipped with sneakers, a hatchet and a need for retribution was free to take a swing. He killed the sound, looked around for a weapon, settled on a wine bottle. Moved up against the door, eye to peephole.

Oh.

Giles.

Bollocks.

He cursed silently, what did he want? Buffy must have told him. Buffy. Just thinking about her made him break out in a familiar cold sweat. He composed himself. Swung the door wide, greeted him with a not all together unfriendly smile.

"Rupert!"

God, and it was almost worth the whole trip back just to see the look on the old sod's face. His face stretched wider with a wicked grin of delight.

"Come on in. Make yourself at home. Have a beer. Sit down."

Glad to have been given some instructions Giles found the feeling in his legs, found his way to a chair, stared at him with burgeoning horror.

"My God, it is true. You're alive."

Spike cracked another beer, handed it to him. A second passed, while his eyes took it all in, the chips, the overflowing fridge, the empty mini bar and then, more slowly, him. The hair, the face, the radical change of style,

"Have you put on weight?"

He choked, suddenly self-conscious, drew himself upright.

"Couple of pounds."

Giles snorted,

"Try a stone."

"Easy Dad! You're looking a little more...comfortable yourself."

He saw him bridle, find a retort and then falter, feel the shift of attitude between them. No one knew how to take him anymore. It wasn't so much the change of outward appearances, he knew Giles felt the subtle absence, the lack of real bile. But he could still snipe it out with the best of them, of that he had no doubt. The row he'd had with the manager? Just yesterday? When the guy had tried to saddle him with a room without a view? He slumped, sighed, looked at his feet. Who was he kidding? He was a bloody pussy cat. And just as he was thinking that, who should appear in the doorway? If he was a pussy cat, what did that make her? Catnip?

No smile between them, just a look, but one that obviously made Giles feel out of place. Her ex-watcher had been thankfully completely unaware of their relationship, only learning the most skeletal details from an over- descriptive Dawn during one telephone conversation, but knew that it was supposed to be over. Buffy moved into the room, closed the door, perched on a dresser at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Giles had never been a student of body language but something was being pretty definitely spelt out to him now.

Go to the bar.

He rose to his feet, knocked back the rest of the beer,

"Sorry, I'm just going to go and...er...get something a little stronger. Won't be long"

So now what? He found himself wanting to go after Giles, anywhere he wouldn't have to deal with this. With her. With emotions. His undiminished sense of self-preservation took over and he leaned back on the bed, tres casual, cranked the sound up on 'I Love Lucy'. A moment passed and he could feel her watching him, measuring him up. Felt his gaze being inextricably drawn back to hers.

"What do you want me to say?"

And here it came. The lead in to the all too familiar Summer's tirade. He closed his eyes, tried to let it wash over him, like always. But this time it was different. There was a note in her voice that he didn't recognise. Anguish. He looked at her. She really didn't know.

"What I want and what you feel are two different things. As we both know."

He couldn't stop the desperation from creeping in, hated the sound of it and he didn't want to go there again. He sighed softly, turned off the TV.

"I told you last night. I didn't come back for...this. What happened to me out there, it wasn't my choice, it wasn't what I asked for. But I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry it turned out this way. I realised something a while ago, but I couldn't admit it, not to myself. Becoming a vampire, it was a cop-out for me. Real life... was just too hard. All the pain and the...it was all so complicated so when I was offered a way out, a way to rise above it all, I took it. And then I didn't have to worry about anything any more. I was free of it. Free of life."

he took a long pull on his beer,

"All these years, pretending I was someone I'm not, making out like I was the Big Bad? It was all just fake. I was just too scared to be the real me."

Her eyes were cast down now, not in disbelief but because she was listening to him. He could see her lean towards him slightly, her hands move to rest on her knees. God, he wanted to hold her so much, it was like a physical pain. It was everything he could do to stop himself from getting up, taking her hands, brushing her hair away from her eyes. He swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

and for the first time he felt it, really felt it in his gut and his heart, worse than any regret he'd known. That pain on the night he'd left, after he's hurt her so badly? The time she'd told him finally "it's over"? That was nothing compared to this. He felt sick with it, realised for the first time that this was the real difference, the change he'd made in himself. He'd wanted it to hurt, wanted to suffer, because then he could start to heal, to, how had she put it? Move on. Like Willow was doing right now. But to come here, to drag her back into it? He didn't want that. He'd never wanted her pain, only his own. He stood, went for the door but she raised her face, stopped him with a look. So sad and tired, her eyes rimmed with red.

"What for? What is it you're sorry for?"

Her voice was calm but he could hear the tremor she hid so skilfully beneath and it cut him deep. There had been a time when nothing was hidden between them and he had treasured that. Their bond, although her affection was always absent, had been so very close. She had let him in, into her arms, her life, her bed, into her and he had found something there that, until then, he didn't think could exist. He loved her, before with his mind and his body, now with all his heart and he could barely look at her now, the guilt making him shake. Thinking it's my fault. I'm hurting her just by being here. So sorry Buffy. So selfish of me and before he could stop it his hand went out, cupped her cheek gently, stroked, soothed her.

"Everything,"

Fuck, it was in his voice too now,

"I swear I never meant..."

"I know. I know you didn't. I'm sorry too."

She blinked, closed her eyes, rested against his palm for a second and he leaned in, breathed the scent of her hair.

Have to go, have to go now. Feet move please, because now she was taking his hand, soft, small fingers pressed into his palm, holding his wrist, gentle, pressing the palm to her lips. He felt his breath catch in his throat as she turned her face up to him. Feet move. Please feet. Now would be a good time.

"How about this? We start over."

That was another thing he was going to have to start getting used to. Swallow. Remember to swallow. What had she just said?

"I mean you being a...new man and all? Willow being on her way to recovery, Xander and Anya with the...new life bringing. I mean, this feels like fresh start material. Don't you think?"

He could nod, he knew he could do that. So do it! Nodded.

"Good. That's good. Then that's...what we'll do."

And there it was, just a flash, but it was something, enough. That look in her eyes as she gently let go his hand. Just a trace of...was that reluctance Buffy? He sensed she'd noticed him noticing, the stir of self- conscious surprise and suddenly she was on her feet too, chin up, slayer- cool restored.

"So hey, I'll just go back out now and then...."she motioned into the corridor, "I'll, you know, come back in again."

and she did. Went out. Closed the door behind her.

He stood motionless. So, this was it? Is this what he wanted? A new start, a fresh start in good old Sunny-D? His head told him no, shouted it. He needed more time, a long time alone, he needed to think and this wasn't thinking. This was doing. This was too much like Spike and he wasn't Spike any more, didn't want to be. Spike was hardness, coldness, hurt, pain and death and he was done with that. It tasted like ashes. So what? What did he want? Peace? That was a joke, if he'd wanted that he should have gone with Tara. A home? Did he want a home now, to find his place, take a number? Friends? Real life? Did he know anything, really want anything?

The door knocked and he opened it. She stood there, stuck a hand out, straight.

"William right? Hi there! Buffy Summers!"

He knew.