CRADLE

Disclaimer, etc. as on first chapter.

A/N: I'm getting into this now. Turns out that Buffyfic isn't as tricky as I thought; mind you, I probably won't be saying that when I get to the Spuffy… And thanks to kmoody for her (or his?) nice comments. One day I'll log in, check my statistics, and NOT start squealing… Anyhoo, chapter 3 here for your reading pleasure. Feedback appreciated, as always.

Cradle

Chapter Three

Magic Box, three days later…

It was a drab, drizzly, and thoroughly unpleasant morning; definitely not the sort of weather one would want to be out in for any extended period of time. That is, unless one was feeling equally unpleasant. Sitting on a bench outside the remains of the Magic Box, a recently re-powered vengeance demon certainly wasn't in the mood for sunshine. Normally, she didn't like the rain; today, she honestly couldn't care less. The drizzle slowly turned into a downpour.

Anyanka, as she supposed she ought to be known now, slouched on the bench, hands jammed into the pockets of her coat, and hair beginning to curl from the rain. She gazed solemnly at what had used to be her shop, wondering if it would ever look the same again. It looked far more inviting when it had walls and a roof. She stared blankly at the debris Willow had left in her wake. Directly in front of her, the door hung forlornly from its frame, which, for some reason, was still standing despite the lack of bricks to support it. It was, however, buried to approximately knee-height in rubble, which probably accounted for this. Beyond that, supplies and books (still blank books, she noted, which meant that the Dark Magic was still floating around somewhere of its own free will) lay strewn on the floor amongst the plaster, bricks, wood and cement. Slightly off to the left were the remains of Buffy's training room, the weapons and equipment well and truly buried. There was also a significant amount of dried blood throughout the place – hers, Giles', Buffy's, even Willow's, she suspected.

Anya sighed heavily. This wasn't fair. First, Xander dumps her at the altar; then, the whole thing with Spike, which was something she'd sooner forget (at this point, she also noticed with an ironic smile that the study table, although upturned, was about the only thing left intact); finally, her store gets smashed up by a rampaging and furious witch. A witch, on reflection, whom Anya had considered a friend. She didn't think friends went around destroying other friends' possessions. This was obviously another of those Human things she had yet to understand.

She was so lost to her thoughts that she didn't hear the other person approach until he was hovering in front of her, umbrella in hand. "You know," he said, sympathetically, "staring at it isn't going to help. And I don't think rubble grows with the rain, either."

Anya looked up. "Hello, Xander," she said, shortly. While it was true that misery loved company, Xander was not the sort of company she wanted. Xander meant all sorts of problems that she didn't want to think about at this moment in time. Unfortunately, he'd obviously come here for a reason, so she'd have to at least pretend to be able to talk to him.

He sat down next to her on the bench and held the umbrella over them both, for what it was worth. "So…" he started, then realised he hadn't decided how to end the sentence.

"So…" repeated Anya. There only seemed to be one topic of conversation worth talking about. "I hear you saved the world."

"Uh… yeah. Xand-man saves the day once again."

"I want you to know that it's appreciated. I've heard that apocalypses aren't particularly pleasant for anybody involved."

"Thanks."

"However," she continued, not looking at him. "I only wish you'd managed to save the world a little faster, then my shop might still be intact."

Xander frowned. Nothing he did ever seemed good enough. "Well, y'know, I would have. But I was kinda doing the whole trying-not-to-get-everybody-killed-in-the-process thing." Getting angry with Anya, as he'd discovered before, was never productive. Sighing, he changed the subject. "Come on, An. You're going to get pneumonia or something out here," he said, getting up again and holding out a hand to help her up.

She looked from the outstretched hand to him, and blinked. "You want me to go with you?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I'll take you home."

She blinked again. "You'll take me home. To the apartment we used to share." Xander wasn't sure where this was leading, but it didn't sound good, judging by her sceptical tone. "We will get to the apartment and you'll ask to come in, and I, being naïve and ultimately weak around you, will let you in. Then we will end up talking, and with talking comes kissing, and I'll end up forgiving you for leaving me at my wedding." Returning her gaze to the ruined shop, she finished with, "No, thank you, Xander. I'd rather stay here."

Xander shook his head exasperatedly. "Actually, I was only going to walk you home. It's getting dark and I don't want you getting hurt." Anya didn't answer him; he realised it was a lost cause. "Fine. Go home at midnight through the cemetery for all I care…"

With that, he stalked off back the way he'd come. Walking away from Anya in the pouring rain seemed to be a common occurrence these days. What he hadn't remembered, or didn't know, was that she could teleport herself wherever she wanted, and his chivalry had not only fallen on deaf ears, but was also utterly pointless.

Meanwhile, in Africa…

It had been a week and a half since Spike had regained his soul. So far, he wasn't enjoying the experience. He knew he'd killed a lot of people – as a matter of fact, he'd stopped counting after a hundred, and that was before he'd even reached the twentieth century – and he knew that having a soul meant feeling remorse for it. God knows, he'd complained about Angel's brooding enough, and now he was about to face the same fate. Years… decades… maybe even centuries… just brooding. Therefore, he was more or less prepared for this; soul or no soul, he refused to brood, because the Big Bad didn't do that. At least, not in public...

What he wasn't prepared for was exactly how bad it would be. Angel, he realised, hadn't been exaggerating to gain a sympathy vote. Remorse bloody hurt. Every single one of his victims' faces came back to him systematically, just long enough for him to remember them, remember their screams or their freezing in terror right before the feed, before vanishing again and leaving him with an onslaught of emotion he had no idea how to handle. He'd been expecting a brief stab of conscience; instead, he'd ended up with the full-on mental torture.

His new soul had apparently decided to take a short break, giving him time to recuperate slightly. He'd spent the past three hours sitting in the mouth of the shaman's cave, head in his hands, trying not to scream. Now that his head had momentarily stopped pounding, he sat back and took deep, healthy (and ultimately pointless) breaths, attempting to recollect his somewhat frazzled sanity.

So far, approximately twenty of his victims had been recalled to his mind, which wasn't promising. He was in for a good few decades of this at least, and he could only hope, at this stage, that it got easier to ignore. And maybe, one day, he'd stop thinking about it so hard… every person he'd remembered, he'd thought about – maybe they had families, loved ones, dependents; maybe they could have changed the world, been revolutionaries; maybe, just maybe, one of them might have developed some medical marvel, a cure for cancer, or the numerous other diseases which still couldn't be defeated…

Spike wasn't ready to deal with this. He'd always assumed that being given a soul came with some kind of instruction manual. Apparently not. He was also getting quite perturbed by the fact that he was starving and there was nothing he could do about it – it was midday, and sleep was impossible; there was nobody around, and, to top that off, he still had his chip. He could only hope some kind of lizard came within his grasp.

His soul felt like an alarm clock about to go off; he could sense it ticking, waiting for the right time to hurl another barrage of previous victims at him. Just as he braced himself, something he hadn't been anticipating happened. Instead of the helpless, innocent people he'd been previously subjected to, the worst possible memory came back.

Buffy. Clutching a bathrobe around herself, glaring across the bathroom at him with a mixed expression of fear, disgust, and utter hatred, and beyond it, just the smallest hint of betrayal. The pre-soul guilt had been bad enough. This time it was unbearable. He didn't even have time to think beyond that moment, or contemplate how she might react to his current predicament – it was enough to send him over the edge. He gave in, and started moaning, curling into a little ball of self-loathing…

To be continued…

Oh, it's fun to torture Spike… and he's got another week to recover before he sees Buffy again. What fun! :D Reviews get Chapter 4 here faster. Or at least, I like to think they do. Whatever, just tell me what you think ;)