Chapter Two

It was strange. Living that is. Mortality. Spike could not quite believe that this was simply because he had been immortal and was not anymore. No…there was something else, something in who he was, that made life—and the living of it—an alien thing. When he was William, it had been this way, which was why he had escaped so often into his books and his poetry. It was an escape into a world in which he could be a comfortable onlooker. There were no expectations of him there, no voices telling him why it was he did not fit in, could never fit in, with his mates. That horrible feeling of inadequacy that gnawed in the pit of his stomach as he lay awake at night….He had thought he had left it behind on the night he allowed Drusilla to spill his blood on the paving-stones of a London street. Now, a hundred and some twenty-odd years later, he found himself as unimportant and uncertain as ever.

He had never really fit in with your average, run-of-the-mill vampire to be sure. But this was only because he was on a higher plane than they were. He was more cunning than most, stronger, more easily adapted to new situations. He had killed two slayers, something no other vampire had ever done. No, maybe he did not fit in with other vampires…but he certainly held his own with them. Even when Riley and the Bland Brigade shoved the chip into his brain, he had held his own with them. They all feared him, knowing that although he could no longer harm humans, demons were an easy target for his wrath. He used them for his punching bags, a way to wind down after Buffy had hurt him. He must have killed hundreds of them in the two short years since the chip was put into place. Not that he couldn't do that still. By some quirk of fate—or perhaps just due to an over site of a certain African demon—he had regained his mortality while still retaining much of the physical dexterity he had possessed as a vampire. Not all of it, of course. He could no longer summon that weapon of choice, could not "vamp out" so to speak. He was not a vampire anymore. Nevertheless, he was no ordinary run-of-the-mill human being either. He was probably the only mortal creature on earth who felt confident he could hold in own in a fight with the slayer.

Not that he'd had the chance to test that theory. Since their encounter in the cemetery, Buffy had gone out of her way to avoid him. She had even changed her normal patrol routes to throw him off her trail. This, combined with the very depressing fact that he no long had the animal instincts to scent his pray, was making it exceedingly difficult to even catch a mere glimpse of her, let alone get close enough to attempt conversation. After several days of this, he was becoming resigned to the fact that she did not and would not, love him.

There was no way to make her love him. He was sure of it now. He had done everything, tried everything, been everything she wanted…and still she thought he was the scum of the earth. There was no way to change that. Part of him wanted to say fuck her, who cares, and move on. However, another, bigger, part would not let this happen. She lived in him. She lived in a part that no rage, hurt or self-abuse could touch. She wouldn't leave him…and now he understood why.

He would not let her leave.

Spike lay in his crypt at nightfall, morosely smoking. After his initial encounter with Willow in the cemetery, he had managed to maintain some hope. Maybe if Willow saw the change in him then eventually so would Buffy. But that had been four days ago, and he had not been permitted near the Summers' home since then. If it was not Buffy telling him to get lost—and lately it hadn't been—it was one of her cronies. Usually Xander.

Xander. Spike's newly alive flesh crawled at the very thought of him. The bastard. He was like an annoying little dog, fiercely loyal to his owner but harmless except in his ability as an alarm-barker. Yes, that was Xander all right. An alarm barker. He was too intimidated by Spike to do anything serious; he would just mouth of a series of meaningless threats. If Buffy started to come out to Spike, he would herd her back into the house, locking the door after both of them, leaving Spike alone.

Spike didn't hate all of the Scoobies, however. He still loved the Little Bit. And he was growing rather fond of Willow. After all, they had something in common now. They were the outcasts. Sure, maybe the Scoobies made play at being her friends, but Willow confided to him on the second night that she knew they felt uncomfortable around her now. They talked about her behind her back, watched her like a hawk. They feared her.

Fear. It was the Scoobies' drug of choice. They lived on it, wallowed in it, reeked of it. Was this why Spike had always loathed them? That stench of fear that hung over them like a garment, enraging the animal that was in him, driving the urge to kill. Buffy didn't have it, had never had it. The only slayer Spike had ever known that did not have it. The others dripped adrenaline from every pore; it was the well from which they drew their strength. Not Buffy. Her strength lay in the cunning of her mind, the sharpness of her lovely blue eyes, and the sheer joy in her heart at the kill.

Was it any wonder he had never been able to bring himself to kill her? Was it any wonder he had fallen madly in love with her? She was the only creature on earth who could match him in wits as well as physical dexterity. Even poor Dru had not been able to measure up, her poor broken mind baffled by—and baffling to—him. But Buffy was his equal…maybe even more than an equal. He had no choice but her love her.

He squirmed upon his bed, uncomfortable. It was a physical pain in his chest, this love. It ached and burned…and it wanted, incessantly wanted. There was no escaping it. The only thing he knew to cure it was for her to love him. That time—that very brief time—when she was in his bed every night, he had felt such incredible pleasure. Not only from the sex. The sex had been nice, of course, but it was not the only thing he wanted from her. It wasn't even the thing he enjoyed most. He loved that moment after she fell asleep when he could lie beside her, watching her face. Sometimes—if he was very careful—he could stroke her face, play with her hair. It was the only time he was allowed to show her any real affection. When she was awake, she liked his lust but shied away when he hinted at any real emotion. The only time she wanted him to say he loved her was the last. And maybe she wanted it only because it was the last.

Stabbing his cigarette against the stone wall to put it out, Spike drew a new one from the pack with his teeth. Something about the taste of the new cigarette cheered him slightly, and he felt renewed in his resolve. There must be some way to make her love him.

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"What about flowers?" Willow asked.

They were sitting at Tara's graveside. Willow came every night while the other Scoobies were out patrolling. At first, she had come to be alone, to sit, to weep, and to pay her respects to Tara. Now she came to meet Spike—which, she found, could be done while paying her respects to Tara. Usually all they did was talk, although some nights one or the other of them would bring take-out in a bag and they would eat silently, sitting side by side in the dirt. It was a strange arrangement, considering that just last summer Spike had thought Willow was a bitch and Willow thought Spike was the devil incarnate. Strange, but somehow in keeping with the direction in which both their lives were heading. Always at two opposite ends of the spectrum, it seemed they had traded places, at least temporarily, allowing each of them to understand the other. They could talk easily—she about her anger, her craving to destroy, he about his newfound soul and (God help him!) humanity.

Now as Willow spoke Spike contrived to shake himself out of his own private reverie and answered, "I don't think flowers would do it, Red. After all, I tried giving her candy once and she just threw that back in my face."

Willow looked at him with an affectionate sort of smirk. "I meant for Tara. Should I get her some flowers?"

He gazed at the grave without interest. Willow had adorned the simple monument with candles and Wiccan talismans, teddy bears and cards. She obviously did not understand that it did sometimes rain in California and that when it did her pretty tribute would be a sodden mess. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her this, but then that uncomfortable feeling he sometimes had—a strange craving to make her feel better—washed over him.

"I think flowers would be right lovely," he said. Silently he was cursing himself. Was Buffy worth all of this? Worth the pain and the guilt and all the endless work involved in being human? He had worked long and hard to build up a resistance between himself and humanity…and now in one fell swoop it seemed Buffy had torn it down. There seemed to him but a fine line remaining between the thing that he was and the man he had been. William seemed slowly creeping back in to claim his own. Spike could feel part of his very being oozing out of his body, and he fought against it mightily. As much as he wanted to please Buffy, the idea of reverting to his former human self was unbearable. At any rate, he doubted that William would please Buffy. She did not like normal, quiet, weak men. Her relationship with Riley proved this beyond a doubt. If Spike was to have her, he could not allow himself to be too human. The problem was that he was beginning to doubt whether he had any control over this at all.

Willow did not notice his inner turmoil; she was too busy smiling to herself and planning what flowers she would put on Tara's grave. A moment of silence passed between them and might have held had Spike managed to maintain some semblance of control over his own curiosity. He couldn't, of course.

"What does she say about me?"

"Who?" Willow was readjusting a stuffed sheep that had fallen over; she was barely listening to him.

"Who? For God's sake, Willow! Buffy!"

"Buffy doesn't say anything about you," Willow told him. "It kind of goes along with that whole hating you phase she's going through right now."

"That is no fucking fair!" he burst out, slamming one fist down onto the earth, making the candles at Tara's headstone jump. "I get carried away and make one mistake…and she won't let my sullied name pass her chaste lips. You try to destroy the whole fucking planet and she shrugs it off as a lapse in good judgment!"

She shot him a look but wisely decided not to comment. Anyway, he did kind of have a point. What he had done to Buffy was certainly no worse than what she herself had done, and yet everyone was treating her like an invalid and Spike like a criminal. It wasn't fair, but Willow knew she was the last person in a position to complain about the way Buffy was treating her friends. When you try to raise a satanic temple in order to annihilate all of humanity, you pretty much forfeit your right to criticize others.

Willow had just composed the words to comfort Spike without lying to him, when suddenly a piercing scream cut through the quiet night like a knife.

Spike leapt to his feet. "Bloody hell!"

"What's wrong?" Willow asked, bewildered by his reaction. After all, screams in the dark weren't exactly a rare occurrence in Sunnydale. Particularly in the graveyard.

"Don't you recognize that?" Spike snapped. "It's Dawn."

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The first few days Dawn had been allowed to go slaying with her sister, it had all been like an adventure. There was no real danger because Buffy was always right beside her; it was more a toy affair than anything else. She had enjoyed playing the part of a slayer without actually having to go through all the pains of actually being one. But tonight Xander had been ill and unable to come, and Willow was off to parts unknown, which left the two Summers girls on their own. Buffy couldn't very well be in more than one place at a time, so she had asked Dawn to patrol the north end of the graveyard for her, instructing her to yell if she needed any help. No sooner had her sister stepped out of earshot then Dawn stumbled across a group of vampires holed up in the storage shed where the lawn care equipment was kept. She had managed to slay two of them, but now there were four more rapidly advancing on her.

The novelty of being a Scooby was definitely beginning to wear off.

"H—hey, guys…" she stammered, slowly backing away from the four hungry looking vamps. "I don't know if you know this…but I am not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill blood bank."

The vampire nearest Dawn smirked, his lumpy face lighting up with as much amusement as an evil lumpy face could. "Do you think we don't know who you are?" he asked. He nodded to his friends, laughing, and then turned back to Dawn. "You are the sister of the Slayer."

"R—right," Dawn said, grappling behind her back for the stake in her book bag. "But I am not just the sister of the Slayer…I have my own claim to fame, you know."

"Yeah?" The vamp snickered to his friends. "And what would that be, Shortcake? Your ability to bore people to death?"

"No," Dawn retorted, tossing her hair. "I happen to be the Key, a very powerful mystical entity. Ever hear of it?"

"As a matter of fact…" The vampire's leg shot out, kicking Dawn's stake from her hand. He grabbed her neck and shoved her to the ground. "I haven't," he finished. He arched his back and leaned over her chest, baring his teeth to her throat.

The vampire's mouth was so close Dawn could feel the moisture of his hot breath on her skin; his fangs barely grazed her throat and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the pain she knew would come.

The pain never came. Instead, there was a sound—something guttural and deep—and then the weight on her chest was forcibly removed. Dawn opened her eyes just in time to see the vampire flying backwards off her, his mouth gaping with shock. She didn't wait to see what had happened, just scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could and reached for her book bag of supplies.

Meanwhile, Spike had retrieved the stake Dawn had dropped on the ground. He used it most effectively, dusting vamps one and two without so much as blinking an eye. Vamp three fled the moment he saw his comrades collapsing into dust. Vamp four meanwhile … he was something else altogether. The others in the group were fairly young, practically fledglings. They were slow, clumsy, and predictable. However, the vampire who had attacked Dawn was much older, probably the sire of the others. He had a quick mind and even quicker reflexes, and he used both to the best of his advantage.  In a way, he reminded Spike of himself in his younger days, ready to take on anything, especially a well-matched fight. Full of piss and vinegar. Of course, those were the days before he had raised the bar in well-matched fights. One could hardly remain so impetuous when one took it upon himself to kill a Slayer. Still, despite this vampire's obvious talent for his vocation, Spike felt he was doing remarkably well. He was human now, vulnerable, and yet he was still able to hold his own with an experienced demon. It was quite an accomplishment.

He couldn't help wondering, though, if perhaps this was a bad sign. He had realized that he retained the speed and balance of a vampire and attributed it to the fact that he was in superb physical shape from all the fighting he did—but being in good shape didn't account for this. He was human now, had only been human a week. Should he not be foundering under this attack? The blows of the vampire's fists and feet hurt him, but they were no more painful than they had been before his trip to Africa. Nor did he seem to be bruising or bleeding more freely than before. Did that not tell of something awry in the demon's spell? He was mortal now—his heartbeat was enough to tell him that. Couple that with the fact he was pissing for the first in over a century and he was pretty damn sure he was no longer a vampire. He was definitely mortal. But was he human?

The thought made him stop cold.

He was human. He had to be human. It was what he wanted, what he had worked so hard to achieve. Surely, fate (and the African demon) wouldn't be so cruel as to restore his mortality without giving him the rest of his humanity back. Would it?

Before he could answer this question, the young vampire had grown tired of fists-and-feet contact and had lunged at him, fangs bared for that fatal bite. It was his first and last mistake of the battle. Spike ducked and, grasping the vampire's right knee in his hand, he pushed upward as hard as he could. The vampire flew over Spike's head and struck the earth behind him with a muffled thud. Spike didn't give him time to recover from the fall. He spun around and with one fluid movement curved his body downward, driving the wooden stake into his enemy's chest. The defiant form held for just a second longer then fell to dust, vanishing in the grass without a sound.

Spike sank to his knees, trembling. How quick it had been! How easy! He wasn't even tired. His small wounds could be ticked off on one hand, not one of them being significant enough to require a band-aid. True, he was panting, and there was sweat streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes, but other than that…

Other than that, it was exactly the same as it had been when he was a vampire.

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Dawn stared at her unlikely savior with something akin to shock.

He didn't seem to notice. He was still on his knees, staring at his hands and frowning slightly, obviously deep in some unpleasant thought. Even when Dawn approached him—even when she said his name—he did not speak to her. When she spoke again, he merely looked at her, his blue-gray eyes fixing on hers morosely. A slight inclination of his head told her he did not hear what she had just said so she repeated herself, this time with a slight sense of irritation.

"I said, thanks, Spike. Thank you … for saving me."

"Yeah, well … couldn't just walk by and ignore you now could I?" he drawled, pulling himself to his feet with the air of someone on his way to the gallows. "Right then. Well, I guess I'll be one my way. Thanks for the thanks"

He started to turn but Dawn cried out, "Spike, wait!"

Spike paused. "Yeah?'

She chewed her lip. "I just want to say … I want to say I'm sorry, Spike. You know … about what I said the other night?"

"Yeah? And just why are you sorry for it, Nibblet?"

"Well, for one thing, I know it wasn't really any of my business to say anything. Buffy didn't even want me to know what happened between you two, Xander just let it slip. So I had no right to say anything about it. I just … I guess I just wanted to protect Buffy for once."

"You don't have to protect her from me," he said bitterly. "She laid fists on me every chance she got this year…I was her whipping boy, her punching bag." He gazed at her with an intensity that was almost frightening. "There's only so much a bloke can take, you know? There is only so much abuse he can stand before he snaps and does something crazy. I would have never hurt her in my right mind…but she drove me out of my mind!"

"I know," she told him softly. She bobbed on the balls of her feet a minute, worked up the courage, and added, "I understand why you did what you did. Buffy has been treating you like crap all year. I saw it even if neither of you said anything. I don't blame you for trying to give her a dose of her own medicine. In a way I guess she kind of deserved it."

He moved so quickly she didn't even see him do it. One minute he was standing ten feet away, gazing at her, and the next moment he had a rough grip on her arm, holding her to him. "Don't you ever say anything like that again!"

"What?" Dawn was bewildered by the anger in his tone. She had thought he would be pleased.

He clenched his teeth—the muscle in his jaw jumped ever so slightly—and Dawn's heart quickened. She would never adore him the way she had at fourteen, before she knew the extent of his feelings for Buffy. Yet there was something in her that could not help acknowledging his good looks. There had never been another pair of cheekbones like that created in the days of man.

Spike did not notice her admiring him. If he had, it would have made little difference; he was too angry to be flattered by the approbation of a child. He shook her roughly by the arm and reiterated his earlier statement. "Don't you ever say that again! She did not deserve that. No one deserves that."

"Then why did you do it?" Dawn demanded.

"Because I am not perfect! As you Summers women delight in telling me I am a worthless fuck who has no soul!" He pushed her away from him. "Jesus! What the hell kind of question is that, anyway? Why did I do it? Do you expect me to know why?"

"Because you were angry?" Dawn suggested meekly.

"I wanted her to love me." He said this softly, almost as though he was talking to himself. "I thought I could make her love me…It worked before and I thought…."

"What?" she asked.

Her question appeared to startle him. He shook his head slightly, and then gazed over at Dawn as though just seeing her. His lips parted and she braced herself for the confession. But when he spoke his tone was different, blander, and so were his words.

"Go home, Dawn. You've had enough excitement for one evening."

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"Dawn! Where have you been? We were supposed to meet back here twenty minutes ago!"

Never had the bossiness of her older sister so grated on Dawn's nerves. She tossed Buffy a look of annoyance that had less to do with her sister's words and more to do with the expression in Spike's eyes when Dawn left him.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered. "I meant to be here, but when a gang of vampires jumped me I kinda lost track of the time."

"A gang of vampires?" Buffy repeated. She grabbed her little sister's shoulders. "Dawn, are you okay? Did they—"

"I'm fine. I would've been toast, though, if Spike hadn't shown up when he did." Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn saw Buffy flush.

In tight sort of controlled voice Buffy asked, "Spike helped you?"

"Spike saved my life. I had a vampire at my throat when he came along and just dragged the guy off."

"Well, did he speak to you?" Buffy pressed. "What did he say?"

"Of course he spoke to me. He wanted to know if I was all right and I said I was and he turned to go. I thanked him for saving me but…"

"But what?"

Dawn finally met her sister's gaze directly, and when she did a flood of words sprang from her lips. "Buffy he looked so lonely, so sad! He's sorry for what he did to you, and he is trying to make up for it if you would just let him."

"Dawn what he did to me is called attempted rape! It isn't something you can just forget about so easily. He violated our home, our trust."

"Oh, like you haven't been violating him ever since you came back," Dawn retorted coldly.

Buffy paled at the words. "What?" she asked. "What did he tell you?"

Dawn shook her head in disbelief. "You must think I'm really stupid. I can see things without being told, Buffy, and I saw the way you treated him. Every chance you got you criticized him and belittled him—even when he was being good. You ran him down to all of us, kicked him around whenever you felt like it…and all the time you were sleeping with him behind our backs! How do you think it made him feel to have someone he cares about treat him like trash one minute and jump into his bed the next?"

"Don't you dare talk to me about how I treated him!" Buffy shouted. "You don't know anything about it! You're just a child and you shouldn't even be thinking about things like this, let alone going around saying them!"

Dawn opened her mouth to speak but Buffy cut her off. "No, don't say anything! I am going to tell you this now, Dawn, and I am only going to tell you once: my relationship with Spike is none of your business!"

"Fine," Dawn yelled back. "Treat him like dirt if you want to—but don't expect me to anymore, because I see who the real abuser is in that relationship and it isn't him!"

With that, she spun around and marched off toward home, leaving a startled Buffy in her wake.

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End of Chapter Two

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