DISCLAIMER: JOSS owns all rights regarding all Buffy characters. Sara McLachlan owns all rights regarding Possession and its lyrics. I own nothing but an overactive imagination and an undeniable need to share my crazy thoughts with others.

The night is my companion and solitude my guide, Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?

Even in death he could not escape her. The light had burned him through, searing his body, changing him from flesh into ash. And the pain had been blinding, it's bitter fire coursing through every part of him until the parts were gone, turned to dust. In that final moment, the agony had been unbearable, but as his scream gurgled into smoke, the pain vanished, and a new force emerged. A power, raw and pure pulled something in him through the ashes, through the light and fire.

After that, there had only been the silence. Emptiness surrounded him in great black waves, pulsing against his fading memories, lulling him to sleep. And oh, how he wished to sleep. There was no more pain, no more hunger, no more guilt, no more of anything. It was all gone. Vanished in the light, swept away with the powdery remains of his body.

Peace called to him, but some small spark within him hesitated, longing for his flesh, longing for form. Spark. Something he had left behind. Someone. No spark. Yes, he had said that once. Said that to her.

Her.

In a rush, his thoughts became stronger, and they searched for her. She lived. He somehow knew that. He could feel it in the bones he no longer had. Her image returned to him in a blur of gold. He remembered. Somewhere she breathed and walked and brushed her soft hair. He could still feel the silken strands of that golden hair against him. He could still imagine his body, cool and firm around the soft warmth of her.

Rest seemed futile now. Peace was nothing but a lie. This place held no perfection for him. It held no rest. She was the one who brought him peace. She was his redemption. Only with her. Only with Buffy.

Buffy. Her name flooded through his mind. He would have spoken it if he had a body, if he had even a voice. Instead his thoughts circled the name, repeating it over and over. It was a mantra, a mantra of who he had once been. What he couldn't let go of.

"Rest," a soundless voice urged, "Sleep......rest....forget"

But he didn't want rest now. Who was that speaking into his mind? There was no sound here. No sight, no taste, no touch. It was death. Still and black it lapped around his memories. But still the voice had come, silently creeping into his thoughts, covering her name with its suggestion.

The urge to drift lazily into the darkness was strong. It pulled at him like the smell of blood once had. But relenting had never been his specialty. So, he fought with the only weapon he had left, his mind.

He conjured the image of her face again. So gorgeous. He could see the shifting specks of green in her eyes and the uncertainty in her lips when she would smile at him.

"Sleep...." the silence pleaded, blurring the edges of her image.

Spike roared against it, his mind darting like a nervous, angry thing. No peace! No rest! Fury swelled within him. The fists of his consciousness pounded against the soft boundaries of this place, clawing for escape, clawing for chaos. Chaos was better. Hell was better. Anything was better. With her. Always with her.

A sliver of displeasure appeared in the blackness, responding to his own anger. He felt the uncertainty, the irritation like a current in the air. His thoughts could almost taste it and it made him feel powerful.

"Rest," the voice murmured again, but this time less patiently. It was more command, less invitation, pushing powerfully against him.

A smirk curved in the eye of his mind as he fought with all his might, all his soul. He thought of agony, of rebellion. His consciousness kicked against the calm and against his instincts to relent. Spike sent anxiety, fury and insanity billowing through the ripples of emptiness. If only he had feet to kick and fangs to bite. But there would be no use. He could only use the power of his thought, the feelings burning like fires in his soul.

Vaguely, he remembered time. It meant nothing here and even there had meant little to him. But for her it was a powerful force, ruling her steps and marking her days. And he somehow knew it was slipping past him, though he could not imagine how quickly. His raging accelerated to frenzy.

"No rest for the wicked!" his thoughts screamed though he wasn't really sure if he was wicked anymore. He wasn't sure of much of anything. Except Buffy.

Around him, the displeasure grew, pulsing and churning into anger. It twitched and sizzled, and each new level of its strength only fortified his resolve. Her face was brighter now in his mind, and it made him fight all the harder. It wasn't difficult anymore. His instincts were fading, and she was taking over.

"No peace, no calm, no rest," his thoughts pounded relentlessly as he struggled to regain the scattered pieces of his memory. His Sire. Chains in a bathtub. Sunnydale. Red. The Magic Box. Cards on a table. The Watcher. Dru's insanity. Cigarettes. England. A stake in his fist. The thoughts raced together clicking into their respective places. But they were all punctuated with her. Her eyes. Her laugh. Her voice. Her strength. Her hands. Over and over she came to him.

His frenetic efforts were an endless loop of energy, until suddenly the loop was broken. The atmosphere around him slowly chilled and the dark serene womb ripped open to expose him to the stark terror of death. There was a sudden rushing all around him. A bitter hitch of rejection sliced through the air. Rebellion. But not his rebellion. Something else. The voice again.

"Leave this place," the voice said bitterly.

When he at last felt the sharp sting of pain, he was strangely grateful. His soul curled around the sensation, holding onto the world he had left behind. Holding on to her. And then at once, it all came back. Air rushing through his hair, stinging his eyes. Yes, eyes! His suddenly reformed body was hurtling downward. Every part of him screamed in agony and the sound of the pain escaped his lips in a strangled bloody cry. But it was lost in the wind, and still Spike fell.

He drifted in and out of consciousness before waking to realize he was no longer falling. He felt the earth, solid and wet beneath his naked flesh. He smelled blood, oozing from a thousand cuts and scrapes that covered his skin. Above him a stinging rain sprayed his back in cold rattling bullets. His body's needs returned to their rightful throne and he felt all the needs of hunger and comfort at once, blinding him with their demands, their intensity. Spike tasted fear and remnants of his own death and both were bitter on his tongue.

After long minutes of reeling, he lifted his head until his blue eyes pierced just above the mud pooling beneath him. His vision was blurred by the flurry of images around him. His ears rung from the assault of noise in the air. Everything overwhelmed his weak body. Weak, indeed, but it was a body again. The same as it was before. And with his agonized body, he recognized a now familiar sting beneath his ribs. Mud dripped over his cheeks as a smirk curved his lips.

He had cheated his second death. And he still had his soul.

TBC