Stage Three: Apathy

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Spike stands in the center of the cave, blinking.

There's no demon here. Based on the blank rock walls, and the lack of skeletal remains, the shadow demon has yet to make this place home.

Fuck. Bloody, buggering fuck.

He turns, slowly, lamp lifted high. Nothing.

"Well, that's it, mate." His voice echoes back at him. "It's over."

Over over over...

He could go on indefinitely, hunting the demon down, but then what? Even if he does manage to find him, this William body has limitations, and Spike knows getting the demon to take it all back is going to involve more than a pretty please.

Never mind the fact that his funds are not unlimited, and that as William once more, he has obligations to his mother. He's left her in Bath, with the instructions to get plenty of garlic and sun and fresh air in the hopes that these will curtail her coming illness (he may have watched the telly specials on TB with more than a passing interest in his past - er - future - former - incarnation).

Spike surveys the empty cavern once more. Nothing.

He's always been proud to say he follows his blood, not his brains, even though his philosophy makes him a bit of a slow learner. But eventually the lessons sink in.

All it had taken was one session in the electrotherapy chair for Spike to decide he'd had enough of that. His preternatural tolerance for pain hasn't survived his return to his former human self, and while the actual pain was minimal, the mere thought of enduring more had set his insides skittering. After a brief, shame-filled wallow over how pathetic he'd once been, and how pathetic he'd become once more, Spike had realized he would never get out of the asylum if he didn't snap out of it. Never get back to the shadow demon.

Never get back to his real self, or to Buffy.

So he'd pulled himself together. It had been easy to batten down his rage and hide it behind a carefully crafted mask. He'd had plenty of experience with repression, after all: William had been a Victorian gentleman, and one who had bought into the ideals of the time on top of it.

Once his upbringing had reasserted itself, the doctor had written off Mr. Pratt's eccentric behavior as a passing malaise, and wholeheartedly endorsed William's notion to travel abroad and take in the sights as a curative.

After that, it had been a simple matter of closing up the London house and securing the necessary funds. It's true he's temporarily human again, but that doesn't mean Spike's forgotten how or where to quickly procure cash when needed.

But all for naught.

Spike considers smashing his lantern against the rocky wall in a fit of pique - it sounds mildly therapeutic - but what good will it do? Nothing. There's no point. He turns and trudges his way back towards the entrance of the cavern.

Game over. It's time to return home to England.

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The servants side-eye William when he returns, sun-baked and melancholic. Despite his extended absence, they have undoubtedly not yet forgotten the unfortunate event with Bessie. Bessie herself has long since gone to serve at a small household in the country.

Now, he throws himself into running the household with joyless efficiency. He remains cool and distant with the servants, but not unkind, and the staff seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief at his proper stiff-upper-lip reserve. This, they understand and respect.

From time to time, William wishes he hadn't been born a gentleman, but rather the type of street thug he'd styled himself after as a vampire. There is little with which to occupy his time, and the old pursuits no longer amuse. Poetry fails to hold his interest, he's never been much for the theater, gambling and drinking have lost their allure, and the radio has yet to be invented, never mind the telly.

For William, it is one long day after another, each one to be endured. He finds himself frequently in the garden, helping out their aged gardener, taking small comfort in the mindless tasks of pruning and weeding and heavy lifting.

The guilt he'd expected from the soul has mostly faded. It is too paradoxical to repent atrocities that have not yet been committed, and requires more energy than he has to give.

Miss Cecily Underwood soon enters the London social scene. William avoids parties, for much the same reason he once did: he can't stand the simpering fools who attend such things. His life experience is vast and incomprehensible to their tiny, fettered minds. He has no idea how to converse with twittering idiots.

And besides, he still remembers the taste of their blood in his mouth. Makes being in their presence more than a bit discomfiting, at least on his end.

However, when his mother requests he escort her to a dinner party, he cannot refuse. The one small pleasure William has is seeing his mother in good health. She coughs, but rarely. Not as frequently as the first time he'd lived this life. She even, on occasion, dances.

Miss Underwood is in attendance, and introductions are made. When William is introduced, he says, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance… Halfrek," with a spark of his old zest for stirring the pot.

Halfrek-slash-Cecily cocks her head, eyes narrowed in assessment, and returns his pleasantries with far more interest than she once had. Catching the tension in the air, William's mother glances between the two of them, her pale blue eyes filled with delighted hope.

William almost finds it amusing, especially when Miss Underwood's gaze frequently drifts his way throughout the dinner.

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Miss Underwood comes to call, two afternoons per week. William typically finds an excuse to be absent during these visits, but today his mother has compelled his presence. He knows she hopes there will be a match. It's not often a young lady shows interest in her only son.

Anne leaves the drawing room on a pretense, abandoning William to Miss Underwood.

"Mr. Pratt," she says now, batting her eyelashes. "I have so been looking forward to a moment alone with you. You are a quite the difficult man to pin down. It rather adds to your mystery."

William's smile is forced. Even were she not a demon, Miss Underwood's charms hold little appeal for him.

"I was curious as to how you know of my… alias…" she says. "So I did some investigating. Although I haven't been able to dig up all the details, what I did learn is quite interesting, I must say. Altered realities are a hobby of mine, as you surely know." She leans forward, dark eyes alight with curiosity. "Tell me, are you quite satisfied with the results?"

He shrugs. "It's certainly not what I was expecting."

"Would you undo it, if you could?" Her tone suggests she hopes his answer is in the affirmative. Vengeance demon, after all. What's a wish gone awry if there's no pain and suffering involved?

If Halfrek's hoping for regret and despair, she's out of luck. He'd asked the demon to give Buffy what she deserves - and what she deserves is to not have ever had to deal with Spike. Ever. In this new reality, she won't. William sees now that the shadow demon knew exactly what he was doing.

What's more, he agrees with him.

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