Most of All

by LadyTenebrion

Spike died in an honourable way, and received commendation in the afterlife because of it. One problem; Spike doesn't want to stay dead. But, when a hay-wire spell is executed, he finds he's got a lot more on his plate then he bargained for.

2. 2

Most Of All

:: CHAPTER TWO ::

Spike sat in a circle of blue light. He was cross-legged with his hands on his knees. Crelt sat outside of the circle, reading from a large book.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Asked Spike, nervously looking about at the dancing speckles of purple that began to float about his head.

"Of course. You don't spend seven-hundred and forty-three years stuck in the land of We All Wear White without picking up a few things about supernatural powers." Crelt nodded as he perused the papers.

Spike coughed and blinked, tiredly. "How come you're still here, then?" Crelt looked up. "Just sayin', it makes no sense. If you're so bad and powerful, how come you're here?"

Crelt glared at him before speaking. He sighed and said; "I cured a village from the pox back in 1234. Gave me a Get Out Of Jail Free card."

Spike nodded for as reasonable an amount of time there could be before he could ask his next question. "What's with all the slang? You talk like..." he faded off. "Were you turned, too?"

Crelt tipped his head back and laughed. "Yeah - right!" He grinned and returned his head to an upright position. "What do you think the dead do all day? Smile? Hell, no!" He laughed again whilst Spike growled at him. One of the flying sparks flew into his face, singeing him momentarily. He flinched automatically, but felt no pain. "We watch the living. Especially in the shower...phwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" He grinned and winked at Spike, who sat there waiting for him to move on. "Fine, whatever." He said. "All you need to do is think of the living; a memory. Then, you can shift your arse coz I've got polo at six."

A thought, Spike thought. Any thought.

No, not just any thought. A memory.

A memory of...life?

His life?

England. London. Poetry. William and his Bloody Awful Poetry. Spike shut his eyes and took a deep breath. No, not that memory.

Darla...

Dru...

Angel...

Buffy. He snapped his eyes open. Not Buffy. He looked around. He was alone in a white room with a wooden table and three chairs, and clock. Buffy?

Buffy kicking me. Buffy punching me. Buffy kissing me... Buffy!