TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
As he and the girl walked to the house of the Slayer, he remembered the man.
The man who had been.
Not William the Bloody, not the monster who rammed railroad spikes into the heads of those who had criticized his poetry, not the demon who had drank the blood of women who had in life refused him, not even Spike, who had loved Druscilla and Angelus and Darla and the Sex Pistols too and who had eaten that flower child at Woodstock and who saw people as happy meals on legs. No, not him.
But William.
Shy, passionate William. William who had been good, who had fantasized foolishly about wooing a lovely maiden, who had dreamed up stories about standing beside her, about defending her honor, about being a fine, gentlemanly husband to her, who fantasized about writing her beautiful poetry and making gentle love to her.
William.
William who was still inside him, somewhere. Dead, yes, but still there. In the memories, in the desires. You didn't need a soul for that.
Did Nibblet have a soul?
She wasn't human, of course. Not that one. A ball of light, of energy, a key to a lock that was no more. Her memories were less real than the William who lurked around inside of him. A fiction, they were, all of them.
Even his of her.
Is anything real anymore?
Do I love the Slayer?
Or is it William?
Is William why I keep helping these bloody people?
This damn ball of key glowing light?
I don't know.
But Spike did know that he liked Nibblet, even apart from whatever it was he felt for the Slayer. There was a certain innocence to her that didn't exist in other little girls, and he saw more of her mother in her than in her sister. The Slayer was hard, callused, but Nibblet still had that emotion, that feeling, that he had once sensed in Joyce.
Joyce. Now she had been a fine lady. Even when she had cold-cocked him on the head with an axe Spike had been able to see that. A fine lady, true and true. Always courteous, but strong, too. Strong as steel.
Summers women, real or not, had something about them you didn't see all that often.
Something you had to like even when you hated them.
#
So when Nibblet had come to him and had asked for his help, he had said yes right away. He was glad it was her and not Buffy, because with Buffy he would have had to say something sarcastic, would have had to keep up the wall that protected him from her. Nibblet was simpler.
"We've found her. We want your help in case there's trouble."
"Trouble with the witch?" he had asked.
Nibblet nodded.
"Glad to help, though I can't see why you need it. The witch is a big girl."
"We think she needs help."
"Maybe a chance to do some damage?"
Nibblet nodded again.
"Then I'm in. Lead the way."
* * *
As he and the girl walked to the house of the Slayer, he remembered the man.
The man who had been.
Not William the Bloody, not the monster who rammed railroad spikes into the heads of those who had criticized his poetry, not the demon who had drank the blood of women who had in life refused him, not even Spike, who had loved Druscilla and Angelus and Darla and the Sex Pistols too and who had eaten that flower child at Woodstock and who saw people as happy meals on legs. No, not him.
But William.
Shy, passionate William. William who had been good, who had fantasized foolishly about wooing a lovely maiden, who had dreamed up stories about standing beside her, about defending her honor, about being a fine, gentlemanly husband to her, who fantasized about writing her beautiful poetry and making gentle love to her.
William.
William who was still inside him, somewhere. Dead, yes, but still there. In the memories, in the desires. You didn't need a soul for that.
Did Nibblet have a soul?
She wasn't human, of course. Not that one. A ball of light, of energy, a key to a lock that was no more. Her memories were less real than the William who lurked around inside of him. A fiction, they were, all of them.
Even his of her.
Is anything real anymore?
Do I love the Slayer?
Or is it William?
Is William why I keep helping these bloody people?
This damn ball of key glowing light?
I don't know.
But Spike did know that he liked Nibblet, even apart from whatever it was he felt for the Slayer. There was a certain innocence to her that didn't exist in other little girls, and he saw more of her mother in her than in her sister. The Slayer was hard, callused, but Nibblet still had that emotion, that feeling, that he had once sensed in Joyce.
Joyce. Now she had been a fine lady. Even when she had cold-cocked him on the head with an axe Spike had been able to see that. A fine lady, true and true. Always courteous, but strong, too. Strong as steel.
Summers women, real or not, had something about them you didn't see all that often.
Something you had to like even when you hated them.
#
So when Nibblet had come to him and had asked for his help, he had said yes right away. He was glad it was her and not Buffy, because with Buffy he would have had to say something sarcastic, would have had to keep up the wall that protected him from her. Nibblet was simpler.
"We've found her. We want your help in case there's trouble."
"Trouble with the witch?" he had asked.
Nibblet nodded.
"Glad to help, though I can't see why you need it. The witch is a big girl."
"We think she needs help."
"Maybe a chance to do some damage?"
Nibblet nodded again.
"Then I'm in. Lead the way."
