Mortal Allies Series

Episode 5

War and Roses

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 26: Rats

Okay, the time has come... you knew it was coming, they've been happy for WAAAYYY TOO LONG. Something was gonna happen eventually. Well, eventually has arrived. Warning for this chapter: ANGST.

Thanks to MissLuci for helping me SOOO MUCH with this chapter. I re-wrote this about three times, the final time on her suggestion, and she was right, it needed to change. Anyway, all my gratitude to her for that advice! You can thank her for helping to bring all the tears possible.

Also, I'm still behind on responding to comments. My plan to get caught up this weekend got derailed by RL stuff. I will do my best to get caught up this coming week. Can't wait to see your comments on THIS chapter.

-X-

Buffy woke from her dream with a gasp, jerking beneath the heavy weight that covered her.

Spike. He was the weight.

They were still wrapped up in each other, arms and legs entwined.

"Wha—" he muttered, tightening his hold on the sunshine in his arms.

Buffy felt her heart shatter in her chest—a million shards of regret and guilt, grief and misery stabbing into her, ripping her hope and love and happiness into bloody ribbons of despair. The realization that had escaped her in the dream fell on her now like a million heavy blades of agony. It was just like she'd originally feared—sleeping with Spike—sleeping with another vampire—wouldn't be tolerated. Another apocalypse was coming, another punishment from the Powers. She wasn't free; her Free Will had been taken from her when she'd been Called. She couldn't choose. The dream had been clear. She wouldn't be allowed to be with him, not without consequences of the worst kind. If she stayed, if she continued to give him her heart, he would die a horrible, painful death.

Oh, how she loved this man who held her so tenderly, who loved her so wholly, who mended her heart so completely, who fit her so perfectly. But the Powers wouldn't let her have this. They wouldn't let her be happy. They wouldn't allow her to love a vampire, to share her heart and body with him. There was a price for her happiness. There was always a price.

"Let me up, baby..." she croaked, her voice full of anguish, choked with tears, pulling his arms from around her and turning to the side to slide him off onto the mattress.

"Mmph..." he grunted, curling around a pillow as she slipped out of bed.

Buffy fled from the room, her heart and body revolting against the painful reality that whirled in her mind. She made it to the balcony, getting the door closed behind her just before she fell to her knees and her convulsing body expelled the contents of her stomach. She trembled and shook as tears and snot and bile poured from her, wrenching her heart in two with every anguished spasm.

'No, no, no, no... why, why? Please... he's good... I know he's done bad, but he's good. He loves me... he's changed... He's on my side now... he'll help me fight evil. Please... let me have him, please let me have this,' she prayed silently before another bout of dry heaves overtook her.

Buffy rolled away from the puddle of agony, her face covered in the physical manifestation of her shattered soul. She couldn't bring herself to care that the air was freezing against her bare skin or that she had vomit and snot running down her face, dripping onto her chest... it was all so inconsequential now. Because her life was over. She'd had a few weeks of joy, of beauty and love, and now it was all over. Snatched from her like Lucy snatched the football from Charlie Brown.

Joy was a thief. A liar. A fake, a fraudster. Joy drew you in like a grifter, only to steal your soul and leave a dark chasm of misery behind. Joy never ended well. Joy was the dirtiest word she knew.

Joy, like love and happiness and Spike, was all in her past now. She couldn't be with him... not and expect the world to keep spinning. How many apocalypses could the PTB throw at her before she couldn't stop them anymore? How many before the entire world ended and it was all her fault—the worst Slayer in the history of Slayers. The one who ended life as we know it.

And then there was her blood oath with Dru—her oath to keep Spike—both of them—safe and well. She would've done it anyway, but if she failed, not only would her heart shatter, but her soul would be cast into a hellscape of eternal despair.

Why couldn't she be more like Faith and simply not care? Not care what the PTB did, not particularly care about the world ending or evil marauding helter-skelter over the Earth? Why couldn't she be selfish and leave the world-saving to someone else?

But who?

Certainly not Faith.

Buffy sat shivering on the cold tile of the balcony, her back against the freezing glass barrier, knees drawn up to her chest, and sobbed. She knew what she had to do, she just didn't have the strength to do it. Not this minute. Not the next. But eventually the minute would come and she'd have to gather her meager strength and be The Slayer. The one girl in all the world. The Cursed One.

At least she didn't have to send her boyfriend to hell this time. Well, not literally. She just had to send him away... crush his heart, shred his trust, break her promises, rip her own heart out, and turn what was left of her soul to stone in the process.

And she couldn't even tell him why. Not the truth. He'd never have it; he'd never leave. He'd follow her and he'd dust. What had he said, he wasn't soppy milk, he didn't need protecting?

No, she'd have to reach in, rip out his heart, and grind it under her heel. She had to make him hate her, turn away from her. It was the only way to save him.

-X-

In the end, Buffy couldn't do it. Not face to face. Not like Angel. Crying silently, she set the note down on her pillow. It was full of hate, of vitriol, of wicked, horrible lies that she knew would cut him to the core. It made her feel disgusting; she was a nasty, evil person. She was the Slayer, and she loved him with every fiber of her being. One of them deserved to live, to have a chance at finding happiness one day. It had to be him. The Powers would never let it be her.

Buffy picked up the soft Rum Tum Tugger doll and hugged it to her chest, one hand absently settling on the sunstone necklace at her throat. She should give the necklace back to him, leave it with the note, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She wanted that small part of him with her always; it would be a small comfort to think of him and know that he was in the world somewhere, living, laughing, loving... like that kitschy sign her mom put up in the kitchen.

Buffy stood there, hugging her toy, tears streaming down her cheeks, dripping from her chin. She'd gotten dressed in the dark; nothing matched, she had on PJ bottoms and a sparkly dress shirt, and socks with cats on them, and she didn't care. She'd been up for hours agonizing, sobbing, writing draft after draft of that letter. The sun was up now, illuminating the room, lighting Spike's beautiful face, tracing gentle shadows over the angles of his body. Her heart pounded madly, and she was afraid he'd awaken, but she had to look one more time.

One last time.

She had to drink him into her soul so she could hold him there forever. She'd never get another chance; never have even one more glimpse of this handsome, sweet, shirty, strong, smartass, romantic, passionate man. She'd never feel his lips on hers again, never shiver beneath his touch, never swoon at his heartfelt words, never feel his stomach quiver beneath her fingertips, never sleep in his arms... never anything again.

Buffy felt another bout of nausea churn in her stomach, bile rising to the back of her throat. With a final, silent, 'I love you so much. Goodbye, William,' she fled the bedroom.

-X-

Spike felt oddly cold and alone as he swam up from dreams of Buffy. Without opening his eyes, he reached for the woman he had quickly become accustomed to waking up next to, but his hand met nothing but cool, empty sheets. He blinked, squinting against the bright sun that shone down on the magnificent views outside the huge windows, and lit the room with what must be mid-morning light. Where his love should be snuggled up, warm and soft, against him, he found instead a bit of paper, folded neatly on her pillow.

He pushed up on one elbow and unfolded it, rubbing sleep from his eyes, before reading. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but what he read wasn't it. He read it again, his mind racing and whirling, trying to find some context, some meaning for the insane words that stared back at him. Was it April Fool's Day? Opposite Day? Sick Bloody Joke Day?

He quickly scrambled out of bed, the ridiculous note still in his hand, desperate to understand the sodding joke... because that's what this had to be. "Buffy!"

The Slayer froze, one hand nearly to the doorknob, the other holding her packed bag. 'Fuck!' Ten more minutes and she'd have made her escape, down the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the sunny street, on her way out of Spike's life. She couldn't do this. She couldn't face him. Her heart couldn't bear it.

She thought she'd finally gotten her tears and nausea under control, but they choked her now as he emerged from the bedroom. She could feel him behind her, feel confusion billowing off him in waves, and knowing that confusion would soon morph into agony and eventually anger. But this pain was better than the pain of being torn to shreds by Hellmouth monsters, better than dusting. He could recover from this pain, he could move on. He'd moved on from loving Dru, he could move on from loving her, too. She just needed to hurt him badly enough—one quick, ruthless strike to his heart—and he would let her go and find someone else. Someone who would love him like he deserved; someone who wouldn't get him dusted.

She'd hoped to avoid this. She didn't think she could drive a sword into the heart of another man she loved, but the PTB were sick bastards. Of course they wouldn't let her off that 'easy'.

"Buffy?" His voice was very near now, and tinged with a slight tremble. "What's going on, luv?"

Buffy steeled herself, drawing on every ounce of Slayer strength, and turned around to face what would certainly be the hardest challenge of her life. She'd thought sending Angel to hell had been the pinnacle of pain, but this, sending Spike away, eclipsed that by a million.

She stood ramrod straight, schooling her face into cold, hard stone, as she faced him. She swallowed the emotion from her voice, pushing it down behind the old walls that had once held them so adeptly. Before Spike had freed them...

"What's it look like?" she answered coldly. Spike took another step toward her, the letter in his hand, his beautiful, bare body tense, yet still as graceful as a panther, hard muscles rippling beneath smooth, alabaster skin. Buffy focused her eyes on his, but that was even worse, they were so expressive, so full of uncertainty on the verge of anguish. She shifted her gaze just above those bottomless blue oceans, focusing on the scar above his left eye. That was better. She would not be the Slayer who finally dusted William the Bloody... the scar was a good reminder. She might leave him with a scar, but he would recover, he would live to love another day. He would go on to something better. Better than her. Better than this life she was stuck in... better than the pain and death that was the only thing she could offer him.

"Got no sodding idea, do I?" he retorted, searching her face for some clue but coming up with nothing. "What the hell is this?" He shook the note in his hand.

"Just what it says. Thought you understood Queen's English."

"Understand the words fine. Don't understand 'em being strung together like this. What's it supposed t' mean?"

"It means exactly what it says. It's over, Spike. You. Me. Done."

"What? No..." He shook his head as if trying to clear his ears or shoo away an annoying bug buzzing around them. "I... don't..." he stammered.

"It's simple, Spike," Buffy huffed sharply. "It's all the things you've been saying, about being not worthy... beneath me. I just finally realized you were right. I thought I could ignore what you are, what you've done, but I can't. You're a monster, not a man. You're bad; I'm good. It haunts me knowing all the lives you've taken, all the evil that lives inside you. I was desperate for affection, and you were there—you were convenient. I'm leaving. Don't follow me. Don't come back to Sunnydale. I mean it... I never want to see you again."

Something inside Spike cracked, splintered, began to bleed. His heart, no doubt. "Buffy—" he rasped, stepping forward, reaching for her. "You don't mean that."

Buffy couldn't stop the tears from welling in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She stuck a hand out, placing it flat on his chest, and stopped his advance. "Rats, Spike... Rats."

He stopped at the use of their 'safe word'... a word she'd not used at all since deciding on it. Her hand was warm, but hard as granite against his broken heart, not the gentle, loving caress he'd come to cherish.

"You... promised," he croaked, tears sliding down his cheeks as he searched her eyes for some hint at what was happening, of how his dreams had suddenly turned into a nightmare.

"I'm sorry. I... I can't keep that promise."

Spike fell to his knees, his legs giving way beneath him, and looked up at her, his eyes beseeching. His chest felt like it had been flayed open, his heart laying naked and shattered beneath her. "Begging you... Buffy, please don't..."

"I'm sorry, William," she whispered, before turning and leaving him slumped and bleeding on the clean, white marble.

The elevator opened immediately, as if it had been there waiting for her, and she stepped in, her back still as straight as an arrow. As the door slid closed, she heard footsteps pounding down the hallway and she held her breath. The elevator started moving down just an instant before the rattling clang of a fist against metal vibrated through the car. A moment later, a feral screech full of pain and fury knocked her to her knees.

"SLLAAYYERRRRR!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry..." she cried quietly as she descended with the elevator into the pits of her own tortured grief. It was the only thing to do... the only way to keep him alive and keep the world spinning. She had to give him a chance at love, at happiness, and to do that she had to let him go. She could only bring him pain and death—it was what she did—it was her Calling, her curse. She wouldn't curse him, too.

Buffy forced her walls back in place, swiping madly at her tear-stained cheeks as she pushed herself back to her feet. By the time the elevator came to a stop with a soft 'ding' and the doors slid open on the lobby, she was back in control, at least on the outside. She had a job to do, an apocalypse to avert, she could crumble into a mass of heartache and agony later.

-X-

Spike was going to explode. His mind, his heart, his body—everything was going burst. He ran after her and stabbed madly at the elevator button, willing it to open, to let him in. But then he heard it begin to move, the doors steadfastly closed against him. He slammed a fist into the gleaming metal, driving a deep dent into the obstruction as he screamed her name.

She was lying. She had to be lying. It couldn't be true! Even though he knew, deep down, he was beneath her. But... but she'd convinced him that... that he was worthy, that she loved him, and that he was deserving of her love. If he could just talk to her, reason with her... He turned for the stairs, only then remembering he was starkers. He hesitated a moment, then reached for the push-bar on the fire stairs. What did streaking through a five-star hotel lobby matter when the love of your life was leaving you? The note in his hand crumpled against the cold metal of the heavy door, and he stopped, looking down at it as if he'd never seen it before. He stood there in the hallway under the 'fire exit' sign and spread the paper out, his eyes jumping wildly from knife blade to dagger to sword, all stabbing relentlessly at his heart. She should've used a stake; it would've hurt so much less.

You were convenient.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't love.

Worst decision I ever made.

Monster, not a man.

You were right. You are beneath me.

It's over. We're over.

Don't follow me. Don't return to Sunnydale. I never want to see you again. Ever.

If you come back to Sunnydale, there will be no truce. I will stake you.

Stay away.

He turned away from the door in a trance and trudged back to their room, unable to tear his eyes from the words that cut so deep, reading it again and again, her flowery cursive slicing him to ribbons with every word, every letter. He thought he heard someone come out of one of the other rooms and say something, but he ignored them. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now.

When he got back to the room, the door had locked behind him and, of course, being completely naked, he'd not bothered to bring the keycard with him. "FUCK!" he bellowed, suddenly furious. He lifted his bare foot, and slammed it against the lock, splintering wood and twisting metal as the door flew open with a crash.

Spike roared into the room, his body trembling with fury and heartbreak, his mind whirling with confusion. What the fuck had happened in the last few hours? They'd been FINE. More than fine. Perfect. Happy. Joyful. In love!

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true! But why...

He picked up a lamp from the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. It exploded in a shower of pottery shards, the light bulb bursting, the shade falling, miserable and misshapen, to the carpet.

He yowled like a wounded animal. Screamed long enough and loud enough that security guards appeared at his door, but they backed off when he rushed them, demon to the fore. He shoved a chair beneath the broken doorhandle, wedging it closed, and whirled on the room, intent on destruction. Her words rampaged around his mind, trampling his heart into dust as he kicked and smashed and roared his way through everything remotely breakable in the room. His feet and hands were bruised and bloody, shards of plastic, glass, and metal embedded in his flesh by the time he was done. He fell to his knees in the destruction and began to sob, the letter crumpled in his fist, tattered, and soaked with blood.

"Why... why... why?" he repeated over and over again. His mind pin-balled between denial—she had to be lying—to despairing over the truth of her words. He was beneath her. He was a monster. Of course, she could never love him. He'd known that before he'd ever come to Sunnydale, hadn't he? He'd just been convenient. Someone to scratch an itch... nothing more.

"Did you really think she'd forgive you for this?"

Spike jerked and looked up, seeing Lisa from Fairplay, his last victim, bloody and bruised, her dead, green eyes boring into him like daggers.

"Go away! Get out!" he screamed at the apparition which hovered above him.

"She'll never love you! You're a monster! The darkness! You're not worthy of a life in her light!"

"She loves me!" he argued desperately. "She loves me... she promised."

"She doesn't! Beneath her, beneath her, beneath her..." the ghost chanted gaily, her long hair matted with blood and dirt as it swung over her mummified face.

"SOD OFF!" Spike roared to his feet, fury boiling up from the depths of his broken heart. He swept his hands through the vision of the dead girl, scattering her like smoke in the wind.

If you come back to Sunnydale, there will be no truce. I will stake you.

Spike clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders. Evil. A monster. No truce, eh? Stake me, will you? We'll just bloody well see who the fuck is the better warrior, won't we? Show you just how much of a fucking monster I am! 'Bout time we had it out, good and proper. Free fucking country, innit? And my bleedin' house is in Sunnydale! Not the sodding boss o' me, you stuck up bitch!

By the time the police arrived, Spike had dressed and gathered up his belongings, not noticing that while Buffy had left a good many of hers, she'd taken Rum Tum Tugger from their bed.

On his way out, he shoved his credit card at one of the hotel staff. "This'll cover the damage," he barked at them as he stalked away.

-X-

Giles jerked awake in his chair, straightened his glasses, and glanced at the clock. Someone banging on his front door in the middle of a quiet Sunday afternoon couldn't be good. He could feel the knocking reverberating through the floorboards as he set down the book he'd ostensibly been reading, stifling a yawn. He rose stiffly from his comfortable seat, his wounded leg complaining about the abrupt need for exertion. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

Buffy stood on his doorstep looking as if she'd been tossed from a moving car—hair a mass of tangles, her clothes a mismatched jumble of evening wear and bedclothes, her eyes... her eyes, red rimmed, sunk into shadows, haunted. "Buffy! My dear! What on Earth... I thought you were with Spike in—"

She pushed past him, her face a hard mask... a mask she was afraid would shatter at any moment. "When's the next solar eclipse?" she demanded, dropping her bag on the floor just inside the door.

"I... beg your pardon?"

"Eclipse. Sun. Moon. When?"

Giles looked out into the afternoon sunlight. "Is Spike with you?"

"No Spike. Come on—eclipse!"

"Buffy, what is—?"

"Will you answer the fucking question already?!" she growled.

The sleepy man blinked and closed the door, then made his way over to his desk. He switched on the Tiffany lamp and began to rummage through stacks of books and papers before he pulled out a calendar. "T-There's one on Tuesday," he told her, looking up again. "Just what is—"

"Apocalypse. Tuesday. You remember that thing that came out of the Hellmouth when I dusted the Master? Well... it's back and bigger than ever. I drew some pictures of the demons I think are doing the opening," she told him, handing over several American Airlines cocktail napkins with sketches of demons on them. "I only got a glimpse of them, but I think these are pretty close to what they look like. Chanty, kind of greyish, red eyes, pointy Dumbo ears, three or four little horns over each eye, fangy teeth, long hair that could really use some time at the salon."

"Buffy... could you slow down a moment and tell me what—"

"Dream. Dire warning. Blah, blah, blah. Are you gonna call the gang and get working on finding these guys or not?"

"Buffy, where is Spike?"

Her stone façade cracked for just a moment, pain and heartache flitting across her face, then solidified again. "He's not coming back. Ever. It's over."

"Over? But..."

"Drop it. Not important." She tapped the drawing in Giles' hand. "Research. I'm gonna go see what I can beat out of Willy. Meet you at the library in an hour. Get Angel and Faith too, if they're sober... if they're not, get them anyway."

Buffy grabbed her bag and swept from the room, the door slamming with a thud behind her. She made it out of the courtyard before she broke down, doubling over, holding her stomach, desperately fighting the knife twisting in her gut and the wrenching of her heart. Spike's not coming back. Ever. She'd said everything she could think of to make sure that was true. Well, almost everything. She could've said she realized she loved Angel instead, that she was going back to him, but couldn't quite bring herself to open that old wound. It had to be enough to keep Spike away. It had to be... he had to stay away. She was doomed; he didn't have to be. He could go out into the world and find someone to love. Someone who didn't bring death and destruction down on him, down on the world. Someone he deserved.

Her heart clenched and writhed in her chest at the thought of Spike with someone else, loving someone else, making love to someone else, looking at someone else with those earnest eyes, touching them with his beautiful hands, holding them in his strong arms, laughing with them, making breakfast for them, painting their nails, dancing with them, making mix tapes for them...

"Oh, God..." she cried, a sob rocking her like an earthquake, making her stagger and lean on a parked car lest she fall to her knees. "Why can't I have him? Why?"

"Hey! What are you doing? Get away from my car!" a large man shouted at her as he came out of the apartment building. "I'm calling the police!"

Buffy would've laughed if she'd had even a glimmer of laughter left in her soul. But there wasn't even a chuckle hiding in her cold dungeon of misery. She pushed off the car, leaving smudges on the gleaming finish, and stumbled away, taking in deep breaths as she headed down the street, fervently rebuilding her walls of stone.

-X-

Buffy was glad to see her mom's Jeep wasn't in the drive when she got home. She needed to change into something less street urchin-y and grab more weapons before going to beat up Willy, and she sooo didn't want to try and explain everything to her mom. Not yet, anyway. Later. Later it would be easier. It will never be easier. Later she'd be able to do it without breaking down. Another lie.

She opened the door and stepped into the warm comfort of her home. It smelled of lemon polish and pine cleaner and her mom's perfume, with musky undertone that announced a big dog lived there. It wasn't bad, really, it just never went away, no matter how much they cleaned—it was part of them now; family.

And it smelled like Spike, her vampire, her heart. The scent of his pomade, along with traces of tobacco and whisky and the tang of blood filled Buffy's senses. All his stuff was here. Upstairs. Waiting for him to return. But he never would and she would never be the same. Her heart would never quicken at the sound of his voice, her lips would never taste the tobacco, whisky sweetness of his kisses, her body would never again feel his calloused hands touching her with tenderness, never feel his strong arms wrapped around her, never rest her head against his chest as he stroked her hair. She felt herself begin to crumble at the finality of the word…

Never.

"Whoof!" A typhoon of fur bounded down the stairs straight for her. Her dog's eyes were full of joy, his entire body sang with the delight of seeing her, his tail thumping madly from side to side, threatening the banister in its exuberant ferocity.

It was too much. How could such joy exist in the world when her heart was shredded and bleeding, when once again, her Calling had taken her future from her?

"Oh, God," she moaned, wrapping her arms around the black chasm of pain in her chest as she doubled over and dropped to her knees.

Spike's vivacious cheer was undeterred as he licked and nuzzled her face and neck, bouncing around like a kid on Christmas morning, chuffing and snuffling out happy greetings, excited to see his hooman. She'd been gone for SO LONG. Nearly an eternity! His wagging tail stirred up a breeze as he pranced around, circling her, slobbering on her, waiting for her to reach out and hug him hard as she laughed and called for the Lysol and bleach. It was one of his favorite things.

The hug came, but not the laughter.

"Oh, Spike, baby..." she blubbered into his thick fur, burying her face in his soft mane as she wrapped her arms around him. "What have I done? I'm a horrible person... I hurt him. After I promised not to break his heart... I hurt him so much," she explained between sobs. "Have to keep him safe... have to keep you safe. Couldn't bear it if... if... Oh, Spike," she repeated as she choked on the emptiness that was spreading from her heart, threatening to consume her, tears falling in a cascade of agony down her cheeks, soaking into his long hair.

Spike licked her consolingly, as he looked out the open front door, his expression concerned and confused. He chuffed out a questioning whine and pulled from her grasp, going out onto the front porch and peering around the yard, looking for the familiar moving metal house and the White Rabbit.

"He's not coming back," Buffy bawled, wrapping her bereft arms around her stomach again as her tears dripped from her chin onto the shiny hardwood. "He's never coming back. Oh, Spike... he's never coming back... oh, God..."

Spike whined and returned to her side, nearly knocking her over as he leaned into her, inviting her arms to encircle him again. He burrowed his nose against her neck and softly licked the salt from her skin as she cried. His own mournful whines joined her hiccupping sobs as the two warriors grieved, giving and receiving comfort from each other.

-X-

Spike was nearly out of dosh and not nearly drunk enough by the time he arrived in Sunnydale hours later. He cursed himself for leaving the credit card at the hotel, cursed himself for even offering to pay for the damage. He was a sodding vampire! Big Bad! He didn't pay for fucking damage!

Buffy wouldn't approve.

Sod that bitch!

He pushed the remote on the garage door opener on his visor, squinting through the haze of alcohol and shoe polish that covered his windows as he waited for it to rise. When he heard the overhead motor stop, he pulled in, misjudging as the walls wavered in his vision, but only grazing the passenger side mirror slightly in the process.

He stumbled out of the car, spilling empty whiskey bottles beneath his feet as he went. He slammed his palm down on the button by the door going into the house, and the big metal door began to lower again, blocking out the harsh rays of late afternoon sunlight that streamed past.

Inside the house, wallpaper was piled in colorful drifts of confetti in the center of the family room. The walls were all bare of it... the kiddies had finished. A dustbin and broom sat abandoned near the piles, as if they'd been called away suddenly. Spike began opening cabinets in the kitchen, finally finding what he desperately needed—more Jack. He twisted the lid off and took a long guzzle of the burning liquid. It slid down into his belly like fire—but it wasn't the right kind of fire. It wasn't the perfect burn of his Slayer. It could never intoxicate him like she had. Never make his heart stutter in his chest as if brought back to life.

"BUGGER IT ALL TO FUCK!" he screamed, hurling the half-full bottle against one of the plain plaster walls, watching it burst, shatter, explode, just like his heart. He watched the amber liquid roll down and uselessly settle into a puddle on the floor. "Balls..." he groaned, reaching down into his cache, and retrieving another.

Another long swig made ghosts appear around him. Buffy laughing with her friends as she scraped at the infernal wallpaper. Buffy in her sparkly scarf, her face dusted with smudges of dirt, her bright eyes sparkling with mirth. Buffy screaming and whirling like a dervish, trying to climb him to escape the wave of rats. Buffy snogging him, melting into him, searing him with her heat... her love.

I could never love you.

"BOLLOCKS!" he shouted again, drawing his arm back to smash the second bottle against another wall, but thinking better of it at the last moment. He took another draw of the elixir, closing his eyes to block out the ghosts of love that surrounded him, but they just danced on the dark palette of his eyelids.

"You bloody bitch! What have you done to me?" he demanded, swinging his fist out to fight them off, but they just keep giggling and looking at him with those loving green eyes and promising him forever.

Why did he think he could come back here? There was nothing here but torment and empty promises. He fished the plastic Bic out of his pocket—not only had he lost Buffy, he'd lost his sodding Zippo as well. Had to nick this one from the gift store in the lobby of the hotel on his way out. It was green... green like her eyes. Like those eyes that used to look at him with so much love; like those eyes that had glinted like hard, cold granite just before she'd walked away. He lit it, watching the flame dance near his finger. He used to be able to touch the flame—her flame. Now all he had was ice, cold and cruel.

"You kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire," Spike murmured, quoting Dickens, then bent and touched the flame to the swelling waves of wallpaper. It crackled, smoldered, then caught, the small flame growing, leaping from one bit of scrap to the next, turning each into ash. The sound was like dried roses being crushed in an iron fist, working its way toward the floorboards, basting in Tennessee sour mash.

He took another guzzle of whiskey and looked back down. The quivering blaze was nearly to the accelerant. When it touched the whiskey, the floor and the wall above it would erupt in an inferno, engulfing the old timbers in moments. The flames would wash the ghost from this place—this place that should have been theirs, their home, their refuge, their happiness—turn her to ashes, her green eyes to grey, her golden hair to mud, her traitorous heart to coal. He'd be free of her. Burn it down. Burn her down. Cleanse him with the conflagration, burn her from his mind, from his heart, from his very bones.

Free. He'd be free of her then. Free.

And alone...

Spike began frantically stomping on the fire, sending sparks of half-burned paper flying into the air. He swatted them from his hair, his shoulders, darting around the room to make sure they were all squashed before he stopped, panting, the bottle of whiskey still in his hand.

Even a ghost of her was better than nothing at all.

"Why... why?" he whimpered, collapsing into one of the drifts of unburned wallpaper confetti. "Why don't you love me... what did I do?" he cried, melting onto his side and curling into a ball around the bottle of Jack, unable to stop the onslaught of memories that tortured him more painfully than anything Angelus ever conceived.

-X-

Chapter End Notes:

I hope you feel bad for BOTH Buffy and Spike and aren't too mad at Buffy.

There was a solar eclipse on February 16, 1999. The full eclipse was visible in the southern Indian Ocean including the Prince Edward Islands, South Africa, and Australia. The timeline (exact dates) of this story and canon have gotten a bit off, so I'm going with this as the day the Sisterhood of Jhe do their Hellmouth opening spell, since it seems like it would be the perfect time to do something like that, powering it with some planetary event like a solar eclipse.

The Sisterhood of the Jhe were supposed to be this huge apocalypse-bringing cult, and yet, after this one time, we never hear from the again in canon. It would seem, if there were no other factors involved (like needing an eclipse or something to help power it and needing some sort of rare artifact as well), that they would be sending Sisters every few days to try and do their spells, and yet... never heard of again. Anyway, I just thought it was cool to have the eclipse from RL and perhaps a reason for them to not show up again.

Quote from Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities:

" And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire."