Chapter Eight

Sunnydale was exactly the way he remembered it. The manicured lawns, the tailored shrubbery, the well-kept buildings - and that was just the cemeteries. Spike walked the streets with unease. He didn't want to run into Buffy until he was ready, but there was something he had to do.

He had arrived in Sunnydale the previous night. It had taken him that twenty-four hour period to reorient himself and put himself to rights. The first thing he had done was bleach his hair. Then he had found himself some decent clothing. Living in the untamed wilds of Africa for more than two months had left him looking battered and demoralized. He had needed to change that, and fast. More than anything he needed to look the part of soulless, unrepentant Spike - for Buffy's sake. He didn't want her to know that anything had changed, that anything was wrong. It would just make everything easier if she never found out about the soul

Spike turned onto Revello drive, his stride somehow determined in spite of the panic rising in his chest. If she saw him, she would kill him. He knew it. He just wasn't ready to die. At least not yet.

He stopped. Right in front of her house. Everything was the same. The same familiar white façade, the same porch steps, the same windows glowing with a beckoning warmth. He wanted to go inside. To walk up those steps, open the door and walk right in, like he had so many times before. But he couldn't. He never would again.

Sensing movement near the window, he ducked behind the tree on the front lawn. His tree. The tree he had spent so many long nights standing under, watching Buffy. Waiting for her. This was the last time he'd ever see any of it. He just wanted one more chance. One last moment to bask in what had become so familiar to him. This was home. He had needed to see it, one last time, before he died.

Spike leaned his head back against the tree, and for the first time since he had gotten his soul back, wished he had a cigarette. He knew he didn't deserve to be here. Knew he didn't deserve even this one piece of bittersweet happiness. But here he was, trying to take it anyway. That's what he always did. He had always taken what he wanted, in spite of the consequences. And soon, it would finally catch up with him.

He heard laughter coming from the house. Xander passed by the window, then Dawn. They didn't notice him. Xander had a bowl in his arms. It was probably movie night for the Scoobies. Spike inhaled deeply and tried to prepare himself for a long night of feeling the outsider.

He remembered the first night he had been free in the world with his chip. How clearly he remembered looking in on the other vampires and wishing he could join them in their sport. His entire existence he had been an outsider looking in, but he had never felt it as acutely as he did tonight. Tonight, it made him want to die.

"So horror or romance?" he heard Dawn ask, as she plopped herself down on the couch, his ultra-sensitive vampire hearing finally proving useful.

"Horror!" two alarmed voices declared in unison. One of those voices was Xander's. The other one belonged to . . .

"Buffy. Please, what's a little romance going to hurt?"

"No." She finally entered his line of vision.

Spike sucked in a sharp, unneeded breath at the sight of her. God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her eyes so radiant, her skin glowing softly under the artificial light. Her hair was up in a haphazard knot, and she was dressed in casual, movie night attire. But it didn't matter. She was always beautiful to him. Always gleaming and glistening like the sun. Ready to save him. Ready to burn him.

Spike felt a stab of regret as she ducked down out of sight under the window, apparently joining Dawn on the couch.

"No, romance Dawn. It's totally off limits. When you stop hanging out with the perpetually brokenhearted, you can watch all the romance you want. But for now," Buffy's voice gained some buoyancy, "it's 'Night of the Living Dead,' or nothing."

The conversation continued, picking up a lighter tone as someone popped a tape in the VCR and the movie started to play. Spike barely heard a word that was spoken. Buffy was broken hearted? The thought swirled through his brain, a smoky haze.

He knew he had hurt her, but he couldn't imagine her being brokenhearted over him. She hated him. He knew that. She had to.

So, it must have been someone else. Someone else had broken Buffy's heart. But who?

Spike closed his eyes and tried to quell the guilt and anger that were threatening to overpower him. He had hurt Buffy unspeakably. Obviously, in her pain, she had turned to someone else. Someone else who had hurt her. Someone he had led her to. Would it ever stop? Would he ever stop hurting her, ruining her life?

Spike took one final look at the Summers house. He knew he would never see it again. A piece of his heart broke as he turned away and walked back out into the street. He would find her again. Just not here. Not now. He'd wait for her. Find the perfect moment to reveal himself, and offer his life as a willing sacrifice to Buffy's happiness.