Climbing To Fall

I can be anything that you want me to be
A holy cross, some sympathy, oh
That reminds you not to bleed
I found the note down in your car
And you climbed up here to fall apart
Fall apart
'Made of Steel' by Our Lady Peace

Buffy sighed at the view around her changed again. She prepared to ignore the things she saw, to place them somewhere far away where she would deal with them later, or so she told herself. She'd been treated to so many images of Spike's killing that her head was reeling. Of course he'd had many years at it, and so their were many memories, but for a while she had almost hoped to see him as a different kind of Vampire. A nicer Vampire. No luck there though. There was no time more than this that she wished she'd killed him, and Drusilla, and even Angel. The horrors she had seen, and performed through a demon's eyes, were enough to drive anyone mad.

Which was why, she guessed, she was seeing the Vampire's memories and not her own. It was a sickening trick, a point which she would drive thoroughly through with this beast once she was free. Because it had miscalculated, if it thought it could send a Slayer crazy with images of death, then it really had no idea what a Slayer was. Perhaps it was trying to make her believe that she had done these things, but the creature that did them was nothing more than a that. A creature. A monster. As if she could ever become that. Or think she could become that. She didn't even understand it. So as the images changed before her and a new setting swum into view, she was fully prepared for yet another blood-bath.

It was surprising when instead of a dark alley, a well-lit room was her new habitat. She seemed to be sitting on a comfortable sofa near a fire. As far as she could tell their was no-one else around. A pen and paper were clutched in her hands. She concentrated and tried to push further into the memory, to find out what was happening, who was to die now, what Spike was thinking. What he was doing...

The young gentleman pressed his pen to the paper firmly as though he were about to write a brisk note and not a poem. A thing of beauty. As if the fates wanted to make this distinction between the two writing styles, and therefore the two personalities, the pen stayed immobile as if suddenly all thoughts had run from the young man's head. Ink pooled on the paper as the time stretched from seconds to minutes and the man tried to work out the perfect way to describe a vision.

A hand was placed upon his shoulder and instantly he was aware of someone watching. Indeed, had he not been so engrossed in thought then he would have noticed earlier. He took the briefest of moments to enjoy the soft weight on his shoulder before turning his head to see who it was that disturbed him, because it could only be her. Hair in ringlets, pinned atop her head, dark eyes, full lips... ready to say something. He waited for this apparition to speak.

What are you doing? was the playful inquiry.

he folded over the paper hastily,

Show me. she insisted, holding out a demanding hand.

I wouldn't bother, Dru, it'll just be more poetry from our dear William.

Drusilla made a noise of disappointment and immediately detached herself from her companion. Spike, keen to make amends, snorted and exclaimed,

I think not. Just because you draw those goddamn pictures still, does not mean that I--

He was cut short by the sheet of paper being snatched from his hand. Angelus took pains to unfold it slowly and smooth out the creases, then to clear his throat as if it needed to be clear.

Oh...There is nothing... Nothing but an ink blot, though to be truthful it does not differ from his usual work greatly.

Dru whined plaintively as Angelus threw the paper onto the fire lavishly. Spike was torn between going to her and hanging his head in shame. What kind of killer was he?

Oh do shut up, Drusilla.. snapped Darla, uncurling from the chaise in the shadowy part of the room, her dress and hair immaculate as always, but bloodspots from her latest kill slightly visible on her cheek. More visible was the solitary body that she left behind on the padding as she stood and shot the still-whining Drusilla a glare, This your fault, dear, if you hadn't insisted on picking such a weak one...

Spike shot up from where he was sitting, livid, as if finally breaking through the haze that had surrounded him as his poetry was attacked. He knew almost in an instant that his demon face had surged forward and he snarled menacingly at the small blond. She did not look in the least impressed, but Angelus clapped his hands twice,

See... Maybe he's not quite as spineless as we thought. Now them... Angelus directed the group's attention to the dance floor in the main part of the room where ladies were led about in a spirited waltz by men in fine apparel, They have potential... Shall we?

Yes, please, lets do... Darla said, still board from the tone of her voice, ...Make them scream, Angelus, show the fledgling how its done...

Angelus stalked over to Darla and captured her mouth in a fierce kiss before turning and leaving for the crowd. As soon as he left their dark recess, he seemed to blend in with the handsome youths, and had it not been for their blood bond, Spike would almost have guessed that the other Vampire had left entirely. Darla followed him shortly after, gaining interested glances the second she appeared in the light.

Spike wiped a hand over his forehead, and as if he was pushing back the demon face, felt it retreat under his touch until he looked just liked the normal man they all taunted him about. William the poet. William the bloody poet. In society he could not rid himself of that name, and now they bullied him with it again. Except now he was a killer, just like them, and he'd make them call him by his new name. Spike.

The Vampire was about to step out into the crowd before realising that they was missing the most vital part of the group. His beautiful Sire, Drusilla, was slumped up in the place that he had vacated a few moments before, her knees draws up above the floor and her feet tucked beneath her, dress riding up to reveal an improper amount of leg.

D-Drusilla, pet... are you coming?

she asked, as if he were not right in front of her. In fact she didn't even move her head as she inquired, her gaze fixed on a place in the fire that Spike could not see.

Yes, luv, its me... Spike... The others are going to have all the fun without us if we don't hurry...

Spike...I feel cold... she pouted, not as a petulant child, but more as an ageing woman.

Spike looked around instantly as if expecting to find some blankets strewn around this place as they were back home. Or at least where the Vampires were staying at the moment. His eyes flicked from the fire and back to Drusilla worriedly.

Have some blood, Dru, it'll warm you up quickly. Nice young blood.

Drusilla sprung to her feet in a split-second and lunged at the fire. Spike, in a panic, clutched for her, unsure of what she might do if she was in one of her states. They came on more regularly now. She did not, however, jump into the flames as he had been expecting her to do, instead she straightened after a second, brushing him away, and holding up a scrap of paper that the fire had not caught. She glared at him accusingly,

You were writing again! she snapped, a little loudly.

I... was... Spike admitted slowly, But it was for you... baby... it was for you.

She tossed the scrap back into the fire, doing a more competent job than Angelus as it quickly curled and blackened, Silly boy, she said, condescension dripping from her voice. Taking a step forward she slapped his face once, hard.

Silly, stupid, boy... she continued with a shake of the head, before sweeping past him and out into the crowd like the rest. Spike put a hand up to his face and tried to puzzle out what had vexed her. He would change everything he was to please her, to be with her.

Drusilla doesn't want a poet, boy... She wants a killer.

Spike turned and eyed the ever-stealthy Angelus, who was wiping at a spot of blood on his collar absently with a finger as he stared at the younger Vampire. Soon he abandoned his wardrobe and pulled back the curtain that separated Spike from the rest of the party, bowing slightly as he invited Spike into his world. Their world. Spike did not hesitate a second, instead he hurried forward and past into the dancing throngs. Ready to kill--

***

Buffy blinked and in an instant she was somewhere else. An alleyway as she had been expecting before, but in the daytime. The sun beat down onto the cobbled street and in the distance a horse-drawn carriage moved around a corner. Fashionable ladies walked along the streets which were lined with shops, parasols of every colour held delicately in their hands and spread above their heads even if the sky was clear.

As she was walking along the street, although dawdling might have been a fairer interpretation of what the body was doing, Buffy began to feel for the first time that she was actually in this memory. The sunlight felt so real, the scraping of the trouser-material against her knees as she walked, the splashes as her feet landed in small puddles. This memory felt different from the others. Its contrast from the previous one was of stepping from the cinema into the light on a summer day and suddenly feeling and seeing everything with painful clarity.

Buffy found her eyes being cast downwards and a book being opened by her hands. But they weren't her hands, they were Spike's hands, of course. Not that she expected Spike to be reading but... Spike in the daylight? This must be a human-Spike. Or rather the human that was their before the demon began to inhabit its body.

Buffy was interrupted from her exposition by a violent jolt. The book fell from her hand and she found a blush creeping to her cheeks. Or Spike's cheeks. Because he'd just walked into someone.

a female voice chastised, managing to reach that pitch that said exactly what as wrong with him. Everything.

William mumbled automatically, before adding, So sorry... Sorry.. he bent down, trying to pick up the book he had dropped unfortunately into a puddle, and to move out of the ladies way as they passed him with their noses high in the air.

William squeezed the book and watched dirty water drip from its pages. He only hoped, weakly, that none of the ink had been smudged. If it had been his own work it would not have been that much of a tragedy, but the work of any other author should not be mistreated so. It was his own fault, though, he should have waited until he had got home before opening it, but a new book was always so exciting. But now Mrs Ritchmond would glare at him for at least an entire week, and tell all of her friends to do the same.

William sighed and tucked the volume into an inside pocket, firmly promising to wait. He began to walk through the streets again, wishing that he had brought enough money to hire a Handsome, but accepting forgetfulness as another one of his failings. He was supposed to attend a coffee morning with Ms Brackens and her three nieces anyway, which was in this district. They were new money, and had only just moved into the neighbourhood, so it was only prudent to call and introduce oneself. And mother was getting too old to be doing such things. William would have much rather skip the whole meeting, but he knew that his mother would be disappointed if he did not show the common courtesy he had been taught.

The young gentleman turned abruptly and made his way down one of the richer streets of London. Simply the look of it told anyone who would walk upon it that they were among money. The sunlight had no trouble illuminating the streets as the tall houses were far enough apart not to produce any kind of shadowing overhang. William hurried past all of the rich-looking abodes, skipping over the deep gutter between road and pavement as almost an afterthought. He cast his eyes to the ground, feeling that surely someone would be looking out of a window and would have seen him walking along the road as if he did not travel in society at all.

Once he found the house he was looking for William trotted up the dozen-or-so steps to the front door and rang the bell timidly. He waited for an agonising minute, thinking of what an embarrassment it would be not to be admitted, before the door swung open to reveal a neatly-clad doorman. William blinked for a few seconds as the doorman simply looked at him expectantly, before he remembered his manners. He fumbled around in his pockets as the blush on his cheeks grew before finally pulling out a calling-card. The doorman bowed, his face betraying a little scornful amusement at the visitor, and welcomed William inside.

Please come through to the drawing room, a butler directed politely, opening a side door that could not be to one of the houses best rooms. Once he had caught William's eye the butler added Ms Brackens will be with you shortly, and then after a rather audible pause he nodded, , before ducking out of the room and closing the door firmly behind him.

William moved himself over to a comfortable looking chair. The room was small and could have easily been described as charming', decorated for the most part a light buttercup yellow. He had barely sat down before having to rise again, the door opening and a commanding looking woman walking inside. She would have been beautiful except for her harsh mouth, set with thin lips. William fixed on a polite smile,

three other women, each barely older than sixteen, swept into the room behind their aunt. William bit his tongue for a second before continuing with his greeting, Ms Brackens, Miss Annabelle, Miss Emma, Miss Elisabeth, what a pleasure it is to see you all, and looking so well.

Yes, you also Mr Michaels she said with insincerity, pausing to let her nieces seat themselves down in a neat row before adding herself to the end of the party, Please, sit down. she finished commandingly.

William did as he was told, folding his hands onto his lap and smiling pleasantly at each of the young girls. They returned his affections with as much emotion as society would allow someone such as himself.

So, what brings you here, Mr Michaels

I simply wished to introduce myself, and my family, to you Ms Brackens. My mother would ordinarily have made the journey, but she is of present not very well.

Yes. I had heard that. Ms Brackens sniffed, not showing the slightest bit of concern.

Mr Michaels? one of the nieces, a slim blond girl that many would probably find attractive, inquired shyly, Have I not heard that name before...?

William was not entirely sure that question was directed towards him. But the very idea of it made his stomach turn. Gossip about oneself was hardly ever a good sign. He wondered, though was afraid to ask, what this girl had heard about him. Luckily Ms Brackens was not so concerned.

Oh yes, Annabelle, I think I know what you mean... the woman turned to stare at William, Did you not propose to Miss Addams last week?

And she refused him! the youngest of the woman shrieked with delight, before pressing a hand to her mouth as each of the others shot her reproachful glances.

That will be enough, Elizabeth. Upon reflection I'm sure this is not a topic Mr Michaels wishes to discuss.

William bit his lower lip and decided not to correct them. The rumour that had spread around town of his refused proposal was less painful that what had actually happened. Miss Addams, Miss Cecily Addams, had refused his partnership in a dance, telling him that she wished to sit it out only to a moment later take the hand of another gentleman. How it had been blown out of proportion William did not know, but he was sure that it brought as much grief to Miss Addams as it did to him. Still he did not wish to correct the matter, because exposing his failure as a suitor was far less painful than exposing her mistake and forgetfulness. Yes, he was doing her a service by not saying a word. And perhaps she was grateful of it. Perhaps--

***

Suddenly Buffy wasn't breathing again. A heart wasn't thumping in her chest. Blood wasn't rushing through her veins. She waited for her body to cease up, to start shutting down, to die. Until she realised that, again, she was somewhere else. And she was a Vampire. Again. Or rather Spike was. She was still the Slayer, temporarily in a Vampire's memories. She wondered if Spike was viewing her memories, just as she was seeing his. But the thought was just too intrusive to ponder for too long. It didn't really matter, because he was dust as soon as he helped her kill this beast. Even if the last few memories had brought new dimensions to his personality, all she saw was still a cold blooded serial killer.

A small voice in the back of her head told her that she'd known all along what he was when she'd kissed him. Touched him. Expressed... attraction. But knowing was different from seeing.

So here she was again, in a darkened alley, waiting to kill something she'd guess. Or rather someone. As far as she could tell she was alone, peering into the blackness with Vampiric sight that was really scandalous compared to that of the Slayer. Did the Powers-That-Bewant her to lose? Then again it did show fledgling stupidity in a new light. Literally and metaphorically. The hearing as well was a surprise. In her own body she would have heard the cars splashing through puddles and the light spattering of rain on the ground. But now she could also hear the distant music pounding in the underground club next-door, and the heartbeats of three children as they slept in a building somewhere to her right. Or perhaps that wasn't hearing, perhaps it was more like sensing.

A group of drunken twenty-somethings stumbled from a side door, which had burst open a few seconds before, the lyrics I am an antichrist.. I am an anarchist..' blasting out for a second. Buffy watched as one of them sprawled onto the wet tarmac while his friends swore obscenities at the quickly closing door. They were all dressed in suitably ripped jeans, band T-shirts and docs. She found herself chucking at them, as they looked like a truly pathetic bunch.

She must have been louder than she'd intended as one-by-one the men turned and glared at the part of shadows she was hiding it. As it was useless to stay there any longer she stepped forward and glared at the four men who had suddenly grown silent.

Something funny? one demanded, his slurred voice revealing an English accent that Buffy couldn't place.

she found herself saying, You guys, getting thrown out of a place like this.. she indicated the club with a hand and saying with mocking sincerity, Isn't this one of them clubs?

The man she'd been talking to lunged forward only to be held back by two of his friends. Once the group had calmed they walked forward as one towards her, the anger radiating from them almost a scent. She found herself feeling oddly confident. And smug. Because she knew she could take them. She could... Spike could... They could.

Hey look, mate, I don't want any trouble.. she said unconvincingly, as that was exactly what she wanted.

Not our problem the closest man said before swinging a punch right at her face. Compared to demons they moved so slowly, and she easily dodged the punch, countering with two of her own to the second man's face. He went down and didn't get back up, sometimes she forgot how fragile humans were. Or Spike forgot. She wasn't exactly sure.

Of the remaining three men she chose the most healthy-looking one and immediately started pounding into the other two. Neither of them had a chance, disorientated and fighting a Slayer. A demon. She shot a foot out into one man's middle, reeling him back as she twisted the head of his friend. If the man had been about to scream no sound made it past his partially opened lips as she broke his neck and dropped his corpse onto the ground.

But it wasn't her, because she wasn't a killer. It was Spike, the Vampire. She shouldn't be enjoying this, or taking part, she should be ignoring this... She should be disgusted. What kind of person was she that enjoyed killing humans? People. Good people. People with souls. It was his memory, of course, the shame told her, his memory that was polluting her mind. But it would get better soon, because soon they would be free and safe.

Spike backhanded one of the remaining men fiercely, causing him to fall to the floor and his face to crunch into the tarmac painfully. He also would not be getting up anytime soon. The Vampire directed his attention to his chosen prey, the final man who now stunk of more than alcohol and cigarettes. He smelt of fear.

Not feeling so well, mate?

groaned the man.

S'alright. Come here. he commanded, his voice suddenly soft.

the man continued negatively.

No? That's not very polite is it? I'll come to you then. Spike walked forward slowly, in no hurry for this final kill. The man staggered on his feet, but did not turn away or try to run. In a way that saddened Spike, a nice sprint might have been exhilarating. Got the blood warm and just pumping. But the night was still young.

He took once careful step forward and in the streetlight, shook off his human mask. He felt the man's heart start beating faster as if it was his own. And fear was more of a stench on him now. In a split-second Spike darted forward and grabbed the man. He twisted him around so that they were chest-to-back, and tilted back the head of his victim. The man didn't make a sound as sharp teeth penetrated his neck, and tore at the flesh until two gouges were opened. Rich bittersweet blood flowed into the Vampire's mouth as he set it about the wounds and drank deeply. Drinking in life in that dingy alley as humans drink in water. No, more like air. A pleasurable necessity.

As soon as the body became a dead-weight in his arms, and there was no more blood to come from him, Spike dropped it to the floor amongst his friends. Two of them still lived, and for the moment he didn't feel like changing that. Leave them to some newly-risen fledglings who did not know how to hunt yet. He needed to get better blood than this to bring back to Dru--

***

Buffy pressed down on the wheels of her chair as she pulled it to a stop outside their door. She could hear noises inside. Noises she would rather not hear. From them. But they were muffled and her strangely calm brain told her to get closer, so that she could be sure. It was masochistic, but she did it, rolling the chair around until she could rest her head against the cool wooden door and so that the moans and grunts could be not mistaken from within for what they were. Angelus and Drusilla.

She supposed that she should be surprised they weren't doing it in plain view. Angelus liked to annoy her more than anything, and his flirtation with Dru, he had discovered, was the thing that caused her the most irritation.

In a flurry of movement that many thought her not capable of now, she gripped onto the wheels of her chair and rushed away, through passageways of the mansion, until she reached that very familiar room with the long hardwood table. Sitting upon that table was a half-full bottle of nondescript alcohol which she hurried to pick up and empty down her throat. The liquid burned briefly, but didn't take away the images that were forming in her brain of those two together.

Somewhere far away Buffy knew that it was not her in the chair. Not her drinking the alcohol. Not her wracked with fury over what she'd just overheard. It was him; Spike. But in the strangest way she could almost believe it was her. Because that was also her ex-lover in there, touching another woman. And so she let his feelings envelop her, so that she almost had an excuse to be so angry, so that she could say it was his memory that brought her such grief, his tears that caused her to cry.

Because tears were rolling down Spike's cheeks. Of anger, of shame, of jealousy but mostly of pain. Over a hundred years and she still went crawling back to her daddy as soon as he called for her. He should have known, he should have seen it coming. Should have stopped it. He should have...

Spike smashed his hand down onto the table, the glass bottle in it shattering. The shards cut and dug into his skin, but still he pounded his fist down onto the same spot, as if hoping that the physical pain would take away the mental. It didn't. And after a few agonising seconds he raised his shredded and bloodied hand to his face to force away the tears that kept coming. Buffy felt as if she was doing the same, even if her hand did not bleed, her tears did roll. And she felt the same way about them as Spike. Ashamed. Because she should not be weak. She was a hunter. A killer. She was a Champion. A knight. She was the Chosen One. Her chosen one. Slayer. Vampire. They should not cry--

(Author's Note: Hey everyone, so this was an extra-long chapter. I hope that's good in the 'more to read' sense, rather than bad. As some of you guessed it is the flip-side to the previous chapter. Thanks for all the support and reviews :-))