Chapter 2: Reminders of Past Life

Dreams give way to reminders of one's past life, which themselves bring forth more memories.
(Each drabble's title is the prompt on which it's based.)

Deep Sea Diving

This is the first reminder of his past life that floats into Spike's mind.

Tip: This memory is based on Angel S5:E13, "Why We Fight," in which Spike encountered Angel during WWII in a Nazi sub carrying their vampire prisoners, who'd escaped by the time Angel arrived. Angel was there to raise the damaged sub for the Allies, and also rescue US sailors who'd become trapped there.)

-oo-00-oo-

"They thought I was Captain America," Angelus had said with a twist of his lips that made it difficult to tell if he was amused or disdainful. Either way, he was full of himself. He had a sense that was typical of the fellow.

"What a world," William had replied. Except, somehow, he knew he'd been Spike by then.

And with that, the clotted gray around him morphed into the metallic inside of a World War Two submarine. The sensation of floating and rocking became the vessel's underwater movement. Meanwhile, his mind practically burst with memories of its dim confines. He could almost hear the thumps and squeaks of the surrounding metal. His nostrils flared at the hint of stale air, redolent of oil, sweat, and such delicious fear.

Almost overwhelmed, he grasped onto a random observation like a life-raft. That submarine had been nothing like the fantasy of Captain Nemo's Nautilus from his childhood. It had been a vessel of war, loosed in the water with a military crew. Or really, with human monsters ready to torture and use others, including other monsters, for their own purposes.

Nazis, his mind supplied. He felt only a whisper of remorse at having helped slaughter them. Much later, he'd met their organizational descendants. The Initiative, they'd called themselves, as though it showed a special get-up-and-go energy to torture and turn demons into weapons against other humans.

An old saying tickled his mind. History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes.

Yet, although he'd known the Nazi plan for his vampire companions on the ship was evil, he didn't feel bad that Angelus had staked those other vamps. Nostroyev and the Prince of Lies had also been evil.

But there'd been more killing. Remorse hit like a depth charge as his body recalled helping to kill most of the Allied soldiers on the vessel. It was side-by-side with the alluring joy of bloodlust. If he weren't already convinced that both a soul and demon resided within him, he was now. How otherwise could he harbor such simultaneous, wildly opposed feelings?

He was intrigued by the sense of acceptance that implied he must be used to this internal division.

Strong regret accompanied his memory of young Ensign Lawson. He'd lived through the first slaughter only to be murdered into vampirehood shortly afterward. Interestingly, if Spike's memory was true, his regret for that man and his companion crew members came later. Maybe being a demon with a soul meant that human emotions needed time and perspective to blossom?

He recalled Lawson's confused, agonized face after they'd gotten to dry land. Earnest as an Uncle Sam poster boy in a recruitment video, he'd been hard-wired to fight for goodness. Of course, that made him profoundly unsuited to be a vampire. All he'd wanted was a mission he could understand and embrace, which wasn't something Spike had been remotely prepared to give him then.

Leave it to Angelus to turn the poor fellow for his own needs. And then to let him loose at sea with Spike after he'd served his purpose. Once again, Spike felt regret, this time because he'd also left Lawson on his own after a couple weeks instead of stepping in to act as his sire. It was a role he'd long avoided— an actual shudder rippled through him at the thought— but he probably shouldn't have abandoned that duty.

He remembered Angelus telling someone (telling Buffy, he snarled deep inside) that he hadn't sired anyone for a hundred years. Spike glowered at the lie. Bunch of bollocks, that was, an inner voice agreed.

Now that he'd recalled Angelus, he discovered a vast feeling of betrayal regarding the older vampire. Even at the time, he'd been miffed when Angelus had dumped him and Lawson twenty miles offshore in the ocean at night, telling them to swim for it. He frowned; Angelus had vaguely implied that he was providing them with a magnanimous escape. Or that he was doing it to save the human crew. With hindsight, Spike should have questioned his sanctimonious silence. Angelus had probably just been putting out the trash so he could forget about it.

Whatever the reason, the swim hadn't been a doddle, especially accompanied by a starving, brand new vampire. They'd submerged several times so Lawson could maul mackerel and at least one shark for their blood. Instead of being deep-sea divers, they'd been like orcas lunging deep for the kill.

Unexpectedly, he recalled a later time trapped in a mansion with Angelus. The bigger vampire had regaled someone who'd mattered to Spike (oh, Drusilla, his beautiful, broken love) about the submarine. Angelus had once been his hero, his Yoda whatever that meant, but his retelling of events cast Spike as the fool. He'd been furious because, although he'd been a monster, he hadn't been an idiot.

So, who was the bloody "Prince of Lies" now?

Statue of Liberty

From his deep sea memory, Spike's mind drifts to another reminder of his past life.

-oo-00-oo-

Now that he remembered her, his mind idly reviewed what seemed like a slideshow of moments with Drusilla. (Who was also Dru, kitten, pet, princess, ripe wicked plum… she had so many names, no wonder he had so many memories). He now recalled she'd been his darkly luminous and decidedly delirious vampire sire. She'd also been his lover for what must have been decades.

A lover who loved another. He'd worshiped her for delivering him out of mediocrity. But now he realized he'd fought to be something more than average. While he mulled over that thought, the surrounding shapes remade themselves into another swaying, drifting memory. It was another time he'd been on the ocean, unmoored from land and rocking in the gray light of a ship's hold.

He recognized it instantly, although he didn't believe it was a frequent memory. He and Dru had come to New York City in the '70s. Arriving during the day, they'd been below-decks in a freighter's cargo area. Their method of arrival left him feeling cheated; he didn't see the Statue of Liberty when arriving the way everyone did in the movies. He and Dru lived large, they did. Being vampires meant they experienced the best of everything.

Which meant that the very next day he'd nicked tickets to an evening harbor cruise to view the statue from the water, as it was meant to be seen. Right there, on the island that had welcomed immigrants and visitors for a century. That was him and Dru, visitors to the Big Apple when it was birthing a new, underground culture amidst post-war decay.

It had been a challenge to keep Dru from eating the other passengers. But it was a small ship, passengers would be missed, and a pile-up of exsanguinated bodies would easily be spotted. He'd already decided he wanted to remain in the city for a while. So it was best to lie low, at least during their first twenty-four hours of residence. There'd be plenty of time to hunt in the full dark after they returned to land.

Since she couldn't eat the passengers, Dru had started conversations with them. Walking up to seated folk and then working along the ship's windowed railing, she'd asked them whether they kept their souls in baskets, why people didn't have nice litters like cats, or if they preferred strychnine or arsenic as a poison. He'd been hard-pressed to keep from guffawing at the shocked looks and scurrying flight of their fellows to another part of the ship.

A bit of dosh slipped to a ship's attendant (thanks ever-so to the wallet of a hapless tourist on the dock) had smoothed over Dru's antics. And it left them with a very nice viewing space of their own without tall, unpleasant tossers to shove out of the way. And wasn't 'tossers' a fun word?

He'd stood transfixed as the boat had rounded a curve, giving an unimpeded view of the statue. She was much bigger than he'd imagined, and loomed larger as they got closer. It made it easy to see the unreadable, yet forthright, expression on her face. She seemed to say that, while she might sometimes tire, she would never back down.

She was absolutely alien, yet he felt her spirit bridge the gap over the water.

Of course, he was a vampire, so kept his awe well behind his aura of cool disdain. Dru probably guessed his feelings, but didn't care as long as he catered to her whims. Which, as they sailed past, had been to waltz to silent music while in the gaze of Lady Liberty.

If he'd come to the States when he'd been younger, such as if he'd taken an active role in his late father's business as a young man, he wouldn't have seen the statue. She'd arrived from France and placed on the isle of immigration years after he'd been turned. Like him, she was still standing tall.

He'd remade himself many times by the time he'd been in the gaze of Lady Liberty. William had become Spike. He'd made himself a master among vampires in his own right. Freed from Angelus and the other one (ah, Darla, the matriarch) he'd become Dru's true companion and support.

But yet, the New York '70s scene was when he'd really found freedom and come into his own.

Billy Idol

Another reminder surfaces of Spike's time in New York.

-oo-00-oo-

Remembering Lady Liberty seemed to unlock more memories. Perhaps it was because, as he now saw, his time in New York had been exhilarating. He'd quickly taken to the punk-rock and underground music of New York. The dodgy, repurposed clubs with impromptu stages had spoken to him almost as much as the raw, rebellious sounds of punk music. It had been like a drug, or at least that's how Spike had imagined it. Because as soon as the sun lowered on the horizon he'd been ready to find where the latest house party, pop-up concert, or club night was going to be.

He'd become familiar with the musicians and promoters, and some of the more ecstatic fans. They formed another category of human he wouldn't let Dru eat. Oh, randoms were still prey (and quiet down, soul, because you know it was true). But he'd decided there were people who merited saving.

Dru hadn't understood, hadn't particularly liked the music, and felt constrained by his "no hunting" policy. As a result, they'd begun to hunt separately a few nights a week. It had been the first extended period in all the time he and Dru had been together by day, but spent their nights separately.

Something within him paused to wonder whether those first years in New York were when they'd begun coming apart. Because surely they had.

No answering that question now. Anyhow. as he'd found his "outsider, aggro tribe," as one guitarist had put it in an after-hours club, he'd reveled in their fashions as well. Getting piercings and tattoos were a lark, especially for a vampire who enjoyed a bit of pain with any type of pleasure.

And that was a new thing to know about himself.

He'd become a known figure at CBGBs, 82 Club, and Max's Kansas City, among others. He'd taken to wearing torn, skin-tight or skin-baring clothes festooned with safety pins and other found objects that flipped the bird at establishment wankers. Used their fears against them, he did.

And one night he'd let a couple of club friends cut and bleach his hair. He could tell right away from their reactions that it was an outstanding choice. He'd used some mousse to lift his newly white hair, applied a little eyeliner, and he'd been the bloody cock of the walk. Black nail polish followed, sometimes a couple pins through an ear or brow, and sometimes a black leather jacket with his brawling boots. He'd more than fit into his new pack of mates.

Even Dru had admired his updated look, and that was more than a bit of alright.

He'd been singular, an icon, until one of the Brit musicians who'd been passing through town had changed his own look. The bloke had been an average chap before that: generic if chiseled features, bland blue eyes, and a mop of mousy brown hair.

Best not think too much about that description.

But suddenly the bloke could almost pass as Spike. What had brought that all to mind? It was the memory of when, after his little makeover, dull-boy Billy Broad had strutted into CBGBs, having become Billy Idol. He'd hopped on stage, grabbed the mic, and belted a song with a whole new balls-to-the-wall attitude.

Good for him that the tosser had shown enough common sense to bolt back to the UK soon after. At least, before a somewhat annoyed vampire could catch up with him. It seemed like hardly any time had passed before he'd become famous, with his Rebel Yell and whatnot.

After so much time, Spike thought he didn't mind as much that he'd been copied and that someone else got credit for his look. Because well, here was a thought: instead of simply diving into a trend, he'd been on the ground floor and started one. His own rebel yell.

That was also more than a bit of alright.

Dance in the Subway

Of course, thoughts of New York would always lead Spike's thoughts to his final dance with Nikki Wood. (This is an "extra" drabble to fill in the story, without a prompt from the Drabblemania challenge board.)

-oo-00-oo-

Deep within, he remembered the sheer joy of fighting Nikki Wood. He'd needed all of his strength, wits, and improvisational abilities. He'd needed everything. She'd brought that out in him. She'd been bloody brilliant.

It had been the dance of life and death inside a subway car. The world had narrowed to that metal vessel hurtling underground like a mythic ship within the bloodstream of a city that represented myriad humanity.

Of course, the subway wasn't where their first true dance had taken place. They'd been playing cat and mouse across New York and its boroughs for weeks. He'd tracked her down more than once and simply watched her fight. She had style. Parry, defend, attack, whirl, stand, and smite. Feeling ready, feeling brash, he'd engaged her in Central Park. Chosen One that she was, she'd fought him to a draw.

He hadn't known her child was there, giving her extra reason to win. But she might've come that close to besting him anyway. She was that good.

When they'd next met, she was by herself in the subway. After a battle that had felt epic, he'd almost lost. But then, he'd rolled them a moment of literal and figurative darkness, finally pinning her to the subway floor. He'd looked at her fierce, defiant face and bloomed with something like exultation. Something like passion, like love.

Reliving this memory, he knew what came next. He recognized the itch of desire that ran like lightning along his teeth. He also recognized the pang of no-no-no-no-no that thumped instead of a heartbeat behind his breastbone. Demon and soul shared his being; there was no doubt about it.

He couldn't look away even though, after so much time, he had profoundly mixed feelings. He watched her struggle while he countered her moves. A battle royale until the very end. He saw when it happened: the slayer's wish for the struggle to end. That deep, raw emotion made her hesitate for the split second he'd needed.

She'd felt so much like a peer, like kindred, that he'd broken her neck while taking none of her blood. It was hers, an offering left behind in respect from one warrior to another. From the Slayer of Slayers to the legend who'd cemented his legacy.

But he'd taken her coat.

Oz

Spike's memories drift from New York to Sunnydale, reminding us that memory, like life, does not always follow a straight line.

-oo-00-oo-

The gray surroundings rippled and morphed into another vision. Oddly, his memory had jumped from Nikki Wood to his less-than-successful quest for the Ring of Amara some thirty years later. With a mental shrug, he accepted he had no choice but to relive it.

This was easy to recall. He'd spent a long time looking for that ugly bauble. First he'd pored through the DuLac manuscripts he'd rescued from the factory after its unfortunate burning. He'd picked up more details through circuitous conversations with a particularly tricky warlock and a few visits to an occult store outside of Phoenix.

After that, it had been a doddle to locate a schematic of the regional below-ground utilities and tunnels in the town's City Hall. And, well, it had been easy to "recruit" digging equipment and turn its crew into minions to use it. Now hush soul. Something tells me you weren't there for that spot of blood and mayhem.

With that effort, he'd located exactly where to excavate. Even with Harmony's distractions, he'd directed the digging crews and finally retrieved the ring. It was a Holy Grail of his kind. And he, the Slayer of Slayers, had found it.

And people said he didn't make good plans. They were bloody wrong.

But they were also right, in that his immediate next step had been to don his new bling and face-off with the slayer. With Buffy, the first slayer in decades who'd reminded him of Nikki's style and deadly prowess. The second slayer he'd ever found with that enticing and deadly combination of skills, moxie, and balls. Plus, she had a sense of humor as sharp as her stakes. He'd known from the start that she was the real deal.

Anyhow, he'd obtained the ring. He'd thought he'd changed his destiny by liberating himself from a vampire's limitations. Imperviousness to sunlight and stakes would be his. Instead, of course, irony was a straight-up, stroppy bitch. He'd actually been merely one Sunnydale visit away from having a bunch of next-generation Nazis muzzle him and reroute his destiny in a quite different direction.

Despite that, his ill-considered fight with the slayer had been a lovely bout. Ultimately, though, she'd stripped the ring from him. And, of course, she'd sent it to her homicidal honey-bunny Angelus. The same vampire who'd dumped her and skedaddled to Los Angeles.

Being an exceptional slayer didn't necessarily make Buffy a good judge of character, especially the shades-of-gray ones.

His next plan had been a trifle slap-dash. First, vamp-nap and torture Angelus to find the location of the ring. Interestingly, both his demon and soul found that part of the plan to be quite acceptable. They tastefully kept mum regarding the next part of the plan which was that after retrieving the ring, he'd do… something sensible. And okay, that part of the plan had been a big sodding, vague bit of hand waving.

Turns out he didn't need that part of the plan, after all. Because, right as he'd gotten the ring back, the Scooby's wolf-boy, Oz, bolluxed the whole thing. Driving his van into the abandoned building where Spike was holding Angelus, the fellow had helped rescue the older vampire. Who abso-bloody-lutely did not deserve such mercy. And then, in the mayhem, sodding Marcus the torturer had nicked the ring.

Being an exceptional slayer didn't mean Buffy's plans, or her chum's execution thereof, were always top-notch the first time through. But what flummoxed evil doers everywhere was their sodding ability to regroup, improvise, and succeed the second time around.

So, yeah, with wolf-boy's help, they'd gotten the ring back to Angelus, after all. It figured that the old plonker had immediately destroyed it. Absolutely no vision, that one.

Reliving this memory, two things really stood out in retrospect. The first was that his battle with the slayer for the ring had been magic, the absolute dog's bollocks. With that fight, he'd known that she was now a slayer who could hand him his arse in a handbag. In fact, that had been the moment he'd consciously resolved to return for his battle royale with her.

He supposed that was why this particular memory followed after Nikki.

The second was Oz, himself. He couldn't help wondering why the Scoobies had accepted a werewolf as a friend, but never Spike.

Perhaps it was because they'd known the lad before his demon moved in. And, yeah, he'd spurned the watcher's premature attempt to pull him into the clubhouse. Oh, and, lest he forget, it might have simply boiled down to Oz having an effing soul. After all, that was the magic, invisible party favor that caused them to trust Angelus. And, at the end, regaining his own soul had made all the difference to the slayer.

To Buffy. She'd come to rescue him from The First Evil. She was his salvation.

Unfortunately, that reminded him that he'd gone to fight for his soul. And it brought up the memory of why. He shuddered to his core as he tamped down anything to do with that particular dark cavern of time. He closed his eyes and tried to shift away from those thoughts.

"Undo It, Undo It!"

Next, Spike recalls his challenging (re)entry into the world of humans after he was chipped.

-oo-00-oo-

Of course, the next memory that arose in his mind was a bear. Literally.

He didn't know why he was being reminded of that sodding Chumash spirit; the one that attacked the watcher's house the day he'd arrived to request sanctuary. Perhaps it was simply that he'd just been reminded how, right after the Ring of Amara cock-up, he'd returned to fight the slayer but got that buggering brain implant shoved in his noggin instead. The one that led to him needing the watcher's help on this particular day.

Whatever it was, this memory was not one he fondly recalled.

In fact, it was grotesquely emblematic of everything he'd experience in the coming year. There'd been a supernatural crisis involving knives and death. One that, as always, required the slayer's intervention amidst what passed for a normal evening. There was the droopy boy being the self-described butt-monkey for spells. There was Anya hovering over the boy with inappropriate comments. Oh, and speaking of hovering, he recalled that Angelus had been outside, haunting the slayer (haunting Buffy) in a typically useless yet annoying manner.

The evening had also featured the tweedy watcher waffling urbanely between exasperation and righteousness. There had been Scoobies bickering in their best passive-aggressive way. And they'd all had to listen to some long winded, whiny tosh from Red (oh, he remembered her now; sweet girl, terrifying witch). Best he could recall, it was about how the murdering native spirit was all put-upon, boo hoo, because he'd been conquered centuries ago.

She was smart, so probably there was something to the point she was making. He might have appreciated it more if he weren't starving, implanted with a brain-melting pain device, and recently vivisected. Oh yeah, and having the aforementioned, long dead Chumash plugging him with arrows whilst he was tied in the middle of the room like a straw bale for archery practice.

And then, the supernatural tosser transformed into a sodding bear within claw-swiping distance. Because of course he did.

It had all been ridiculous and also just too, too much. "Undo it, undo it," he'd shouted. Undo the bear, undo the chip, undo just… everything from the past month, the past year. He'd been bloody desperate.

But now, he wouldn't undo any of it, even though it had been a hell of a way to re-enter something akin to human existence. Perhaps any life involving the slayer would've begun that way. And, in retrospect, the changes that led to him being with the slayer were all absolutely worth it.

But, yeah, he could have done without the cursed bear.

Out for a Walk (Bitch)

With time to reflect, Spike sees an unfortunate theme running through his time with Buffy. Facing and understanding the past allows him to also earn acceptance. (This prompt was a "Wildcard" borrowed from a different drabble board created for the event.)

-oo-00-oo-

Getting close to Buffy Summers was the best thing that had happened to him in over a hundred years. He'd been intrigued when he saw her the first time, dancing like a siren. He'd truly been hooked when they'd fought in her school, just him and her, mano a mano. Breathless, brave, clever, and undaunted, she'd been a marvel. She wasn't ready yet to fight him as a peer, but he knew she'd get there. He'd been fascinated by her, half in love at that moment.

Oh, who was he bloody-well kidding? He'd been arse-over-teakettle in love. He just hadn't known it. How could his passion for finding the best slayers and fighting them not be a vampire's version of the deepest, most profound love? Dru, bless her barmy self, had known it even if he'd been dense as a block.

That said, getting to where they both admitted it had been a grudging, scraping, almost impossible journey. Without the soldier-boys' sodding chip, he might never have gotten there. Conversely, stubborn arsehole that he was, he might have finally given up and left if she hadn't hardened her defenses and made him work for it.

Of course, he'd been a sodding idiot when it came to her. Vampire, he was. Known for big gestures but not common sense. And it showed.

Memories flashed by like a montage of his greatest clangers, like a review of What not to do when wooing the slayer.

With exhaled frustration, he remembered poking at her relationship insecurities when he'd had the Ring of Amara. He'd have had a cracking good fight with her without doing that, but he'd opened his big gob, anyway. She'd kept those cutting words close and served them back to him years later.

There was the shrine he'd set up to her, with the manikin wearing clothes he'd nicked from her. There was the fake slay-date he'd set up to track whoever had done for the passengers in the train. She'd seen through that immediately. Note to self: don't woo with lies. It probably hadn't helped his case that the train massacre had turned out to be Dru's work.

Even better (well, even worse), Dru's appearance had led to his attempt to woo Buffy à la vamp in his lower level. After all, who wouldn't be swayed by a bloke taking the effort to chain her up and play "stay or dust" for her affection? At least Dru had been amused, even if out of sorts that he wasn't making the gesture on her behalf. Hell, even Harmony with her head full of shopping and sparkly unicorns would have gone for it.

Who wouldn't have been swayed? Yeah, got it in one: Buffy Summers, the slayer.

More innocuously, there were the times she'd rousted him for stalking her house. "Out… for… a… walk… bitch." He'd counted out each word on his fingers like a complete wanker. Meanwhile, her expression revealed she knew he was talking through his arse. He'd sniped that she had stupid hair. Other times, he'd belittled her clothing sense. Rounding it out, he'd frequently mocked her watcher and her chums, although they honestly deserved it.

"What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad." Actually, he'd just always been a demon. At least, as long as he'd known her. And, rather a liar, to boot.

When she'd sacrificed herself to close Glory's portal, it had been the worst day of his life. Given his hundred years of mayhem and disappointment, that was saying a lot. He'd have done anything to have saved her. So, when she came back, he'd tried so hard to change and give her what she'd needed. Unfortunately, he'd still been a demon and missed the mark by miles.

After he'd come back with his soul, there had only been enough time to establish a new foundation. But the demon and soul within him both were content with that. ("I love you," she'd said at the end.)

Rather than reviewing his gaffes, he preferred to recall how perfectly they'd danced together with fists and bodies. She was as good a fighter as Nikki and she'd brought out the best in him. Beautiful, fiery, being with her was a ritual of life with inherent risk of destruction, which repeated yet never came to a conclusion. It seemed neither of them had quite wanted it to end.

Clem

Spike's reflections take him to the darkest time and place between him and Buffy, when he faced his missteps and intentionally changed his fate in a way no other vampire did before. With help, he is able to move forward.

(Warning: This chapter's final drabble, "Clem," is an imagined, off-screen scene at the very end of "Seeing Red." It hints at events in that episode, in that Spike recalls doing wrong, but is not explicit. It revolves more around his awareness that, as a demon, he'd reached a point where he didn't know what was right or wrong in human terms. He needed to make a change. If you skip over this drabble, just know that it ends with a something like a hint from Lloyd, the demon of Spike's soul-recovery trials, that moves him to the next phase of this current journey of his soul.)

-oo-00-oo-

"Hey buddy. You said I could stop by for the Bewitched marathon this afternoon." Clem had paused in the doorway of Spike's crypt, ears wriggling in confusion as he looked at the mess. Then, focusing on Spike, who stood with a duffle bag half full of money in the middle of his crypt, the demon asked, "You going somewhere?"

Spike had expected the slayer, or perhaps Xander, to storm in with a stake engraved with his dusty expiration date. Because no, no, no, no, no, he'd never meant to hurt her. (I hurt the girl. I hurt Buffy.)

So it took him a moment before he could reply, "I have to get away. Have to go. Have to see a demon in Africa."

He'd been reeling. Confused, frantic, horrified, gutted…. He hadn't known what to do. He'd even contemplated simply remaining outside in the sun, but it wasn't in him to give up. Then he'd remembered the demon in Africa who granted impossible favors for those who passed his trials.

Like a tempest with hands, he'd half-dismantled his crypt while searching for where he'd written the information a Synxa demon had once given him. Downstairs was in disarray where he'd pulled out drawers, dumped out boxes, and searched under furniture and the carpets. Even upstairs, he'd rummaged through the stone sarcophagi and overturned his sofa and chair. He'd finally found the note hidden at the back of his box fridge.

Blinking, he'd shook his head but couldn't clear it. No, no, no, no, no. He simply hadn't understood. She truly had been saying no for real this time. After so many times not meaning it, he'd assumed it was their same passion play. Hadn't Dru taught him that love meant refusal and pain?

Even in his mind's eye he could not confront his transgression directly. How could he ever have thought himself worthy of her?

Somewhere during his flight from Revello to his crypt, his thought process had managed to squeeze out one truth like a thick sacrificial droplet of blood. What had his sire said that one time? Something like, "We vampires can love quite well, just not wisely." He now knew that extended to, "and not how a human needs to be loved." So although he loved the slayer with his whole self, it was a vampire's self.

He simply couldn't feel what she'd expected.

While he'd been lost in that labyrinth of thought, Clem had stepped further into the room. Tentatively, he'd put his wrinkly hand on Spike's shoulder. "Africa's like far, huh? Does the slayer know?"

"No. Doubt she'd care. If she asks, say I went away. Don't say where." He'd caught Clem by the eyes until he saw agreement. "If you like, stay here while I'm gone. Watch TV and such."

"Oh, crypt sitting, like a vacation. Okay." Clem nodded. "When you coming back? Poker won't be the same without you."

With closed eyes, he'd replied, "Don't know." He knew he might ever make it back, although he'd try with everything he had. And with that, he'd left his crypt, made his way to the rail yard, and broke into a long-distance freight car headed to one of the eastern ports.

He'd crouched in the dark, folded over his knees, while he felt the sun circle from day to night, and back again until he'd lost the sense of time. Without Nikki's coat, he'd felt naked, but that was best for what he was about to do. One didn't remake oneself without leaving one's old identity behind.

But this was in the past, Spike realized. He'd passed the trials and returned with his soul. It was over. With something like a deep, gasping breath, he blinked himself out of the deep well of this memory. With effort, he finally returned his awareness to the floating, rocking, all-encompassing mottled-gray landscape around him.

He dropped to his knees. Bile rose in his throat as he still felt the horror. His demon thrashed within. At the same time, a deep, compassionate sorrow wrapped him in acceptance. It was his soul, calming him because after that memory he'd regained his soul. He'd made a fundamental change. For her. For Buffy.

After that, she'd rescued him from The First Evil. As he'd burned, she'd said she loved him. Even after everything that made him curl into a ball of howling remorse… she loved him. She'd given him the grace of forgiveness.

Tears trailed down his face as he resolved to face everything that was needed from him. After all, he'd faced even those trials and survived the madness, hadn't he? Revisited those he'd wronged after the demon, perversely called Lloyd, had returned his soul. But, back then, they'd mobbed him in crowds and they'd just… screamed and ripped at his heart. This time was different.

Sensing something, he looked up. "Oi, and speak of the bloody demon," he muttered as glowing green eyes preceded a figure that half emerged from the mist. He'd never imagined he'd see Lloyd again, but there he was.

"I felt you here, stubborn vampire. Dark warrior, who seeks again and again to birth himself into something different. Tangled with the light. Pathetic in love and caught in fate." The demon's voice rumbled as though he were back in his cavern of rocks and blood.

"How are you here?" Spike asked, getting to his feet. "Am I in another trial?"

"I've always had a foothold here, in-between." The demon lifted his head. "Your trial is almost as old as life itself, although it's not of our making. But here's a tip. Ask yourself: how many times did you die? Then make of it what you will." While talking, the demon had retreated until all that was visible was the emerald of its eyes.

"Hey, wait. I have more questions." But, as he spoke, Lloyd had fully disappeared.

"Useless wanker," Spike muttered into the emptiness of… wherever he was.

.

To be continued…