Buffy's lungs burned, nausea rose, and panic flourished, but she kept running, unwilling to accept failure. Every pounding of her foot against the pavement seemed to shout, Spike. As she turned the corner, she heard the loud voices before she saw the three figures standing in the shadows of the exterior of the Magic Box. A strangled scream echoed through the darkness and it surprised her to realize it was her own.

Squinting, she could make out Spike splayed out across the window of the store, Xander looming over him, and Anya next to them, gesturing wildly. Pulling up in front of them, she found Xander, eyes blazing, holding a stake up to Spike's chest as he gripped him around the neck with one hand. The vampire was not attempting to fight back.

"Xander-"

"Let me do it, Buffy. I can end this, finally, I-"

"But, you don't understand, he-"

It was Anya who broke Xander's hold on Spike when she thwacked him over the head with one of the old, large, and dusty textbooks that sat on the bookshelves in the shop.

"I tried to tell him to stop."

She shrugged but did not seem too sorry about it at all as she grabbed one of Spike's hands and helped him stand. Without another word, Anya walked back into the store and shut the door in their faces.

Buffy could not speak as she took in the sight of him. Part of her knew she should be attending to Xander, but seeing Spike now, with the bruises and gashes, and knowing what she did, the soul, she could not spare her friend a thought. Spike would not look at her. Instead, he faced towards the empty street, slumped over against the windowpane. All Buffy wanted was for him to speak, to explain, to mock or threaten, to tease or brag. She wanted the cocky, not this defeated ghost of the vampire she knew. But then, he couldn't be the same any longer.

After a long, silent moment, Buffy watched as Spike fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out his lighter and a cigarette. The movement, so standard, so Spike, shook her from her reverie.

"Spike, you- you're trembling. I-"

He looked at her then, so sudden and alarmed, almost panicky, and it sent a flare of fear through her.

"Do it, then, yeah? Bloody well know why you're here. I've been a bad man, did a bad thing. Do your job, Slayer."

"The chip-"

"It's gone, yeah. Found myself a doc and removed the blasted thing. Look at me, the Big Bad is back and-"

"Maybe I'd believe you if you could muster a little more energy." She attempted a smirk, but it died on her lips as she took in his expression. "I- well, we could see you and hear you. There was a video feed, cameras, Warren- It's why Xander came running, he thought- But he didn't hear- a soul?"

She couldn't get the words out fast enough. She wanted him to understand, to know that she knew and it was okay, but he seemed to shrink even further.

"Heard that then? Sunnydale's no place for a secret."

"Not in my town."

"Right then," Spike brushed himself off and stood up straight. "I'll be off."

Buffy was tempted to let him go, but then, she saw it, the formation of a new kind of mission. Maybe if she didn't have to focus so much on her own problems, if she could help him, then-

"Spike!"

He stopped, his shoulders sagging as he sighed deeply, before he whipped around and faced her. A familiar expression of exasperation gracing her that almost made her smile.

She tried again, less urgent this time.

"Spike-"

"Don't expect anything, Luv. Didn't do this to cause you any more problems. I just thought- But don't fret. 'Ol Spikey's just feeling a little down, sure you know what that feels like. Be back to myself soon. Can be your punching bag, good as new."

"But-"

"Take the Whelp back home. Demon-Girl can pack a punch."

"Where will you go?"

"Back to my crypt for the 'mo. Don't know where after."

"I can come tomorrow. With blood and-"

"Like I said, don't need your help, Slayer. You take care of yours and I'll take care of mine."

All the words that ran through her mind would not string together to formulate a cohesive sentence. There were so many things she wanted, or needed, to say, and yet, she didn't know how to convey it. Buffy wasn't sure how or why, but she knew it was different now. Completely. He was different, had been the moment he left, before she even knew he had gone to fetch his soul because he had shown her that he really wasn't just her punching bag. By leaving, Spike had forced Buffy to realize how badly she had been treating him, how bad off she was emotionally, and that had changed her perspective on him. Now, with the soul, she felt responsible.

Long after he disappeared into the night, Buffy watched after him. It was only when a muffled groan from Xander reminded her that he was on the ground, unconscious beside her, that she moved.

Before she could reach a hand down to assist him, Xander shot up, rubbing his head.

"What the hell happened? Where is he? Did you dust him, Buff? Because so help me, if I didn't get to see it, I'll-"

"You missed some important details by running out of the house like that."

"But Anya-"

"Was never in any danger. Not from Spike at least."

"But you said- The chip- Danger to us all. Ring a bell?"

"I was wrong." Buffy sighed. "I heard what Clem said and jumped to conclusions. Had I just listened a bit more- But then, I never could have guessed. He did it himself, Xan. No other reason than to-"

"Did he or didn't he?"

"He didn't, but he did."

"Is this an after effect of my head wound?"

"Xander, he got a soul."

"But how-? Why? What?"

"All good questions," Buffy sighed.

"You believe him?"

"If you'd taken a chance and looked at him, Xander. I think you would too."

She took off then, towards home, Xander following quietly behind, rubbing his head and looking as confused and conflicted as she felt.

Spike stumbled his way back to his crypt. He should have known better than to have gone to the Magic Box. He really hadn't intended to see her, was hoping she would be at home or patrolling and that he could find Anya on her own. All he wanted was to not feel the immensity of grief that weighed him down. A simple spell would have been easy, not to remove the soul, because hell, he'd fought for that thing to remain permanent, no matter the circumstances. But just a smidgen of relief would offer him a chance to enjoy the benefits of having a soul. He figured there had to be some.

When the Whelp had come barging into the store, dragging him by his duster and sweeping him into the streets, he had welcomed the idle nothingness that dusting would provide. Having it be at the hands of the boy wasn't entirely savory, though when he saw Buffy he thought at least he had a worthy adversary, but of course she had known. A vampire did not simply do something without the slayer and her minions knowing about it. Now he was certain he would be their next little project. Perhaps a second chance at an Angel-wannabe that they could fix up and redeem. Well, he wasn't the Ponce and he knew he could never be redeemed for all that he had done. Not only did he not want their help as a charity case, but he really didn't want to burden her further. The purpose of getting the soul had been to have an actual shot of having a chance with her, but all it provided was the realization that he needed to stay far away from her, for her own good. The only thing the Poof ever had right.

It was selfish having come back to Sunnydale. Worse even that he had run into her and revealed his little secret. He'd take a few days, heal physically, get his affairs in order, say goodbye to Clem, and get the hell out of Dodge. But bloody, buggering, sodding hell to everything, he'd miss her. Already did. The way she looked at him, with sympathy, or more like pity, as though he was a dying animal on the side of the road. Road kill, they called it. That's what he was.

But he'd be road kill with a purpose, so long as he was un-living. He just needed to find one.

As he shoved open the door, finding his home to be dark and empty, something crept to the forefront of his mind. What's that she had said, about how she found out about his condition? Something about Warren, the creep. Spike cringed in shame, remembering the Buffybot. The boy and his little friends had placed cameras, were watching Buffy, always planning, always hurting. It was one thing to go up against demons and vampires every night, but Spike knew Buffy wouldn't go to all necessary measures when it came to taking on a group of measly humans.

There it was then, his purpose. He'd find a way to put a stop to the lumps, in a way Buffy might approve, preferably without her knowing. His final gift to her. She'd be able to move on with her life, grow past the self-hatred, heal, live, without the gnats flying above her head, including him.

Maybe then, and only then, would he rest.

With this final thought, like a whispered prayer on his lips, Spike crashed down onto the hard sarcophagus and fell into a ragged sleep.