A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments are always welcome. (And, yes, this is the final chapter.)

Many thanks to my betas, Foxstarreh and miskit.

Some of the minor characters' names may sound familiar: Jenny and Bessie are in homage to Puddinhead's "Yours, William", while Charles Archer, Catherine, and David Havisham inhabit Unbridled Brunette's "Forward to Time Past".

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Stage Five: Resolution

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And so comes the moment of truth.

It is time for William to make his choice.

The London newspapers are filled with prurient speculation over the recent rash of disappearances. The night of the party of arrives, clear and crisp. William dresses with careful attention to detail. He wants to stick as close as possible to the original script, never mind that he is a wildly different man than once he was. The tight fit of his shirt and jacket across his shoulders is a reminder of that difference. If he remains William, he'll have to pay a visit to the tailor in the near future.

He considers bringing his writing implements, but discards the idea. There will be no derision of his words tonight, not in this reality. His peers almost respect him these days. Without mockery-fueled passionate tears, he'll have to find some other way to catch Drusilla's eye.

She's prescient. And not immune to vanity. William hopes meeting her gaze while focusing on their past and possible future together will do the trick.

Stakes and holy water substitute for pens and paper in his pockets. He's not yet sure which way this will go. Which choice he will make. Best to be prepared for anything. He also pockets his multitude of lists. Yes and no, for and against, pro and con. Walk into that dark alley, or stay in the light.

William… or Spike.

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"William!" Miss Underwood says upon seeing him. "I didn't expect you to honor us with your presence tonight. What a pleasant surprise!" The others around them titter, taking it for flirtation, but William can see the malicious glint in her too-bright eyes.

"And deny myself the pleasure of your company?" He offers her his arm. "I'd be a fool to limit my options, don't you agree?"

She takes his arm under the watchful eyes of the other guests. A few society matrons nod to themselves, certain a match is forthcoming. William leads Halfrek to a quiet corner, where once he'd declared his love for her. "A word of advice, pet," he says in low, dangerous voice. "Whether I'm in the picture or not these next one hundred years, when the time comes, you stay away from Buffy Summers."

"Why, William. I have no idea what you mean!"

His smile is tight. "Right now, I'd wager you don't. But someday you will… and you'd do well to remember this conversation, Cecily." William bows to Miss Underwood, and takes his leave.

"Well," she says, full of offended disbelief as he walks away. He enjoys turning the tables on her even if she doesn't remember the other version, the one where she tore his heart out and ripped into tiny little shreds. Probably had a good laugh over it later, too.

Bitch.

After that, it's merely a matter of marking time. William lurks quietly on the edges of the party, and waits for the conversation to turn to the day's news.

Soon, their host David Havisham, and his two companions, Miss Catherine Benfield and Charles Archer, begin to discuss the disappearances. "But wild animals would leave a trace of some kind. Tracks…" Miss Benfield says.

William recognizes his cue, and edges closer.

"Mangled bodies," Charles adds, with obvious relish.

"Charles! Don't be ghastly. I merely point out that it's something of a mystery. And the police should keep an open mind."

"Ah, William," says David, noticing him. "Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals, or thieves?"

All eyes turn to him, and he remembers the humiliations of his past. Perhaps well-deserved. What a pompous, ridiculous figure he'd been. Still, he can't resist repeating his lines. He's relived the shame of this moment often enough over the years that he remembers them word for word. "I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for." William looks to Cecily, who has turned to hear his response, and says, gallantly, "I prefer placing my energies into admiring things of beauty."

There is a brief pause, and then David cries, "Hear, hear! Well said!"

"Indeed, sir," says Miss Benfield, smiling between William and the now blushing Cecily, who has averted her gaze. For a moment, William admires how well Halfrek plays her part. "Your wisdom rescues us from a dreary topic."

He laughs. He can't help it. Miss Benfield reddens, suspecting she is being made fun of, but the conversation continues brightly along, William the center of attention.

It's ludicrous. Ludicrous, and wonderful, and surreal.

And also disappointing. How much easier it would be to make a choice if he'd been rejected once more.

The men slap him on the back, and the women smile at him, and William almost doesn't leave. His cheeks are flushed, his laughter loud, and he feels drunk with success. He still believes his newfound friends to be insufferable fools and vulgarians, but god. To be accepted. To be liked, if only for a moment. It's a glorious feeling.

If William knew nothing outside of this life, he would be content with this moment.

But he knows.

He knows of epic destinies.

He knows of Buffy Summers.

He knows of the beautiful, mad vampire with ebony hair, waiting to grant him eternal life.

And he cannot forget.

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William retraces his steps. Close now. So close. He sees them at the end of the street, coming towards him: Angelus, hulking and dark; Darla, glittering and cold; and Drusilla, lost and ethereal.

A hundred paces separate them. Fifty. Every argument for, every rebuttal against, every point and counterpoint ricochet through William's brain as the distance between them shrinks.

Twenty paces. His decision is upon him. His mouth turns to cotton.

Ten paces. William raises his head and stares directly into Drusilla's eyes. She cocks her head, curious. He smiles.

The sounds of the city fall away to leave nothing but the beating of his heart, a wild and erratic drum solo inside his head. My wicked princess, he thinks. My salvation. My destiny.

Drusilla's head swivels to stare after him as they pass each other on the dark, London street.

William's swivels with her. He fingers the stake in one pocket, his lists in the other.

It's time. His choice is made.

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Fin.