Chapter 4: Hallucination and Visions

Once the soul has acknowledged the transition to death, hallucinations and visions commence as the soul seeks beyond earthly memories to find resolution and clarity. Or at least understanding. (As before, each drabble's title is the prompt on which it's based.)

Early One Morning

Spike's feeling of disorientation as he begins this new phase in his journey elicits memories of his mother, who calmed his fevers and reassured him so often in his youth. Perhaps her own soul left a memory of comforting her son behind during her own soul's passage from death to the beyond. In any case, it gives him unexpected comfort before he continues. (This is an "extra" drabble to fill in the story, without a prompt from the board.)

-oo-00-oo-

The gray began thickening like a miasma; it became darker, almost tactile. Closing in, it brushed against him like stale sweat, leaving behind a feeling of nausea. Almost dizzy, he lowered himself so he was sitting. Or perhaps he was lying down, which would explain the tug of something shrouding him, like sheets that had become tangled.

He felt hot, feverish, and heard something like a grandfather clock marking the hour, muffled through walls. Clearly, he was hallucinating. Except, he sensed a cool cloth on his forehead in a darkened room.

"Don't fret. Mother's here."

He flinched, tangling himself further as he tried scrabbling backward. "No, no. I didn't mean to, Mother. I didn't understand," he gasped. "I thought I was giving you health and life."

"Hush. You're having fever dreams, William. They're from all those Jules Verne and other fanciful stories you read. None of it was real."

"No, this is a hallucination. This room. You and me. What I remember was real."

She sighed. "We have to wait for your fever to break. You have more frights to go through, I fear, before that happens." She patted his hand. "Doctor Gull will be here later. Until then, I'll have Maria fix another pot of willow tea for you to sip."

As she stood, he darted his hand to clasp her wrist. "Forgive me. I meant to look after you, Mother. You were so ill."

She relaxed back in her chair next to his bed. "No, it's you who's ill now, William. You must have faith. That will give you the strength to recover. For now, you must rest."

She began humming, with words murmured under her breath. "Early one morning, as the sun was shining, I heard a maid sing in the valley below. 'Oh, don't deceive me. Oh, never leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so?'"

He tensed. That had been the trigger the First Evil had used. But he'd broken through that, hadn't he? After holding his breath, he was relieved to know that nothing within him changed as she'd sung that verse. Whatever this was, it wasn't a hallucination brought by the First Evil.

He let his thoughts drift as his mother's gentle soprano voice continued to sing.

"I ask of the roses why should I be forsaken? Why must I, here, in sorrow remain?"

He'd heard this song since infancy, so how had he never considered how mournful it was?

"Mother, don't be sad. I didn't want to leave you," he said, still holding her wrist. "I thought we'd be together forever. I'm so sorry."

After a moment's pause, she replied, "I know, my son. But you've paid the price of that sorrow already, haven't you?" She tilted her head. "You mustn't feel guilt. Remember that guilt is a reminder of mistakes for which we haven't apologized or repented. I certainly forgive you all your trespasses."

"But I… I turned you Mother. I robbed you of your soul and killed you."

She reached down and then replaced the cloth on his forehead with a fresh, cool one. "Hush. You had a terrible fever dream. You see, I'm still here." She looked into the distance. "You're worried about death, aren't you? Never fear: Dr. Gill promised you aren't that sick. Even so, consider that death is but a transition. Although I mourn your father every day, within me, he is not gone. He surely resides in heaven and waits for me. You see? You have no reason to worry."

His heart suddenly felt as heavy and dead as he knew himself to be. Buffy's voice echoed in his mind. "I think I was in heaven." Looking at his mother's beatific, generous face, he felt a mounting horror. "Oh no, I stole heaven from you. A vampire never gets to heaven."

"We're going to take a serious look at your novels after you're better." She muttered so low that she probably imagined he couldn't hear. Then, in a voice as patient as she'd been when explaining Sunday school lessons to him as a child, she asked, "In your books, are vampires just evil people with souls?"

"No, the vampire's entry ejects the soul."

"Ah. Well, then I imagine that's the blessed moment when the soul departs for where it should go."

"You would have gone to heaven. That's where you must be." In his mind's eye, he saw his mother's face in that terrible moment when he'd staked her. Shedding the demon, her face had been sweet and grateful just before she disintegrated into the dust of memory.

"Heaven is where you will go as well. Although not for many, many more years," she said, unaware of where his thoughts had gone.

He shook his head. "I've done terrible things, Mother. Awful things."

"Do you regret them? Do you repent?"

"I do try," he said.

"Then heaven's door is not closed to you yet. Have faith and strive to do the right thing." Her lips curved in a kind smile.

His eyes closed in sudden exhaustion. His mother's message, whether real or hallucinated, was comforting. But how could he, a demon, use her human wisdom? How could he know what was the right thing?

A gentle nudge from within reminded him of his soul, which he'd burdened with his vampire urges. "I'm sorry," he murmured to his soul. Since he'd said it aloud, his mother answered.

"Oh, my darling. I will always forgive you. I know you have it in you to do what you think is best. And that's all we can do, isn't it?"

He hummed his agreement, too tired for words. All he knew was that he felt mantled in acceptance.

Band Candy

Spike experiences another imagined family visit, in a manner of speaking. As visions sometimes are, this one is trippy in its own way. Perhaps this is another soul's left-behind memory that Spike encounters.

-oo-00-oo-

He awoke refreshed but also confused. That time with his mother hadn't been a memory. Of course, he'd been bedridden and feverish more than once as a lad. But he'd sure as hell never discussed vampires and souls with her.

Looking around, he found himself in the courtyard leading to the watcher's front door. The place had always appeared the same to him, year-in, year-out. So, he didn't know when this was, other than some autumn, given the edge of California's meager winter chill tickling the air. Whenever it was, he hopefully wouldn't be staked on sight. Be right embarrassing to be dusted mid-vision while probably already dead.

He approached the door. With a beat of surprise, he realized that the Cream album he'd heard playing in the background was coming from inside the watcher's flat. Didn't know old Rupes appreciated classics like Disraeli Gears. Well, well. Who knew the man had depth? In addition, of course, to a well-hidden layer of sociopathic anger. Although, maybe the latter had developed later, like extra nose hair and a raging need for Viagra.

The next song had started up inside, crackling from the speakers with old Jack Bruce intoning Clapton's lyrics. You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever, but you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun .

For whatever reason, Rupes had never had a doorbell. So Spike tested the knob. As always, it was unlocked. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Shrugging, he pushed the door open.

The watcher was lounging on the floor, shirt loosened and without glasses, while smoking a joint. Normally, that would have been sufficient cause for a double-take, although not a bad development in Spike's opinion. But what caused Spike to stop in place, gobsmacked, was seeing Buffy's mother in the room with him. Oh Joyce, Mum, how we've missed you.

"Spike," she exclaimed from where she sat on the floor, flipping through the watcher's record albums. She turned toward him. "You're early. I thought you'd be coming closer to Thanksgiving," she said, brows drawn together.

Late November, that was, which gave a couple timing possibilities for this moment. Idly, Spike noted he didn't recall seeing the watcher's vinyl collection when he'd been in lockup here. Must've hidden the lot by then. Would've been a rather hasty concealment if the current moment was just before the Chumash bash. He didn't have much time to mull that over before the man spoke up.

"Do you think he'll ever learn manners?" he said lightly while side-eying Spike.

Joyce smirked, almost girlish, as she took the marijuana from Rupes. "Now, where would the fun be in that? Besides, it'll be good for Buffy to have someone in her life who pushes the envelope and never gives up." She looked at the rolled-up doobie in her fingers, then glanced at Spike. "Would you like a hit? It might soften the blow. I think your Drusilla leaves you soon. Or maybe she already has."

Ah. This was around when, heartbroken, he'd kidnapped Red and the boy. He'd had a lovely sit-down with the woman back then. As to her current question, the room was already thick enough with smoke that he didn't need a ciggy to draw it into his lungs. So, lips pulled in amusement at his restraint, he replied, "No thanks, Mum. I mean Mrs. Summers."

Having inhaled, she half laughed, half coughed as she replied, "My mother-in-law is Mrs. Summers. You can call me Joyce."

"Oi, don't bogart that," the watcher interrupted while reaching for the reefer. Spike watched him take a robust, experienced inhale.

Mildly surprised, he realized the geezer seemed younger and sounded rougher, more like Spike. Like he'd spent some time in his youth running the streets. Too bad he'd tweed-ified by when Spike met him. They might have gotten along.

The stereo filled the moment of silence with more of the song. And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise, and her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea .

Spike exhaled heavily. Ah, Buffy . All images of beautiful women, dancing, and longing resolved to the slayer in his mind. How could they not?

"Brilliant song, yeah?" the watcher cut into his thoughts. "All that pop shite they play now can't hold a bloody candle to anything by Cream, Traffic, or The Who. Apologies, Joycie, but your daughter has terrible taste in music."

"Well, she likes Seals and Croft," the woman objected, only to have both men goggle at her.

The watcher then turned his gaze to the vampire in his foyer. Odd to see the man without his glasses .

"Oh, do come in, Spike. For some baffling reason, you've an invite to my flat. So don't be a complete tosser." Rupes levered himself to sit against his sofa. He looked a lot more muscular than usual; actually downright manly for a change. Again, Spike had the sense he could've actually liked this version of the man.

While passing the joint back to Joyce, the watcher grumbled, "If he's not going to smoke one, he should at least try the chocolate."

"Oh, yes. Spike, dear, there's almost a full box over there." Joyce pointed vaguely toward Rupe's kitchen divider. "It's band candy. Raising money for the high school band." She turned to the watcher. "Rupert, why does the band need money?"

"Bloody hell if I know," he replied like a gruff boyfriend from British TV.

Spike drifted over to the chocolate stash while the Cream song drew to a close with its trippy lyrics. Tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers, and you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter . He couldn't help wondering if Drusilla had ghost-written some of Cream's songs.

And, speaking of ghostly things, the surrounding room began fading as Rupes and Joyce began discussing heading out and having a lark downtown.

Broken Coffee Mug

It seems that Spike's soul feels it has more to learn about Giles to better understand himself. One cannot always fix events in the past—and some events are not ours to fix—but it can be helpful to understand and make one's peace with them.

-oo-00-oo-

Blinking, he looked around. He was in almost the same place in the watcher's flat, although it was afternoon. There was no sign of Joyce, or of Rupes' daring record collection. He remembered this moment.

He was holding a mug of heated blood, so this was shortly after the forceful installation of his mind zapper. The mug was Rupert's Monty Python "Spanish Inquisition" one, which he'd liberated on rotation with "Kiss the Librarian." It tickled him that the stodgy watcher appreciated Python's absurdity. He'd enjoyed mentally repeating "nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition" and "get the comfy chair" when taking a sip. Wryly, he saw the obvious parallel between Python's skit and his lax incarceration in the watcher's flat. The Initiative had certainly taken a more brutal, forthright approach to imprisonment and torture.

He'd looked up, finding himself facing the watcher. The mug had slipped from his hands, shattering on the floor and splattering blood. Mundane or symbolic, there was blood between them. As he'd stared at the spreading stain, Rupes had exhaled in exasperation.

"Well, clean it up, then," the man had instructed. "And do try to be a bit more careful."

"Right. So this time I'll be the one donning the French housemaid frock, yeah? Pfft. I'm a vampire captive in your flat, not bloody Fanny Price in curtseying, deferent awe while visiting Mansfield Park on the BBC."

In a gesture Spike recalled well, the man had removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "Well, I doubt I shall ever mistake you for a French maid or Fanny Price. But, do recall that you're not strictly-speaking a captive anymore. You're in my flat, hiding out from Initiative soldiers. I'm sure they love to capture you again. I doubt they'll give you free rein to heat your blood and watch sodding soap operas."

"Yeah, yeah," Spike had groused. But, notably, he'd gone to the kitchen for some clean-up supplies. Being pissy, he'd grabbed one of the man's tea towels for mop-up. Ignoring the watcher's eye roll, he'd stomped to where the blood had almost leached into the rug. Lowering himself into a squat with non-human grace he knew made the man uncomfortable, he'd set to it.

This was an actual memory, Spike reflected. He couldn't help wondering how the man had gone from street tough to the fussy Jeeves from this memory. Or perhaps the tough lad was still there, just hidden as well as Spike disguised his human past. Like flip sides of a coin. He wondered if they'd been mutually uncomfortable seeing the reminder of their own hidden sides.

Of course, he'd been all jagged-edged, striving to shrug off any reminder of vulnerability. Of humanity.

As he acknowledged that, the surrounding scene shifted until he was in his old crypt. It was empty, so he'd just moved in. The watcher had handed him a wad of dosh, greenbacks, which he was busy counting.

Visibly uncomfortable, the watcher was saying, "Um, thinking about your affliction and, uh, your newfound discovery that you can fight only demons. Well, it occurs to me that… I realize this is completely against your nature. But I… well, has it occurred to you that there may be a higher purpose…."

Spike had glowered ferociously, far more than had been necessary. "You made me lose count," he'd snapped. "What are you still doing here?"

"Talking to myself, apparently."

"Well piss off, then. This bit of business wraps up any I got with you and your Slayerettes. From here on, I want nothing to do with the lot of you." In retrospect, it was obvious he was posturing, overreacting to establish a crumb of independence.

The watcher shrugged. "Your choosing to remain in Sunnydale might make that a little difficult." Spike could see he was still trying to reason like a human with the vampire in his midst.

But Spike had wanted none of it. "Well, you and yours will just have to show a little restraint, is all. Get out."

Giles's expression became a mask as turned toward the door. Spike followed him, continuing to speak. "And I don't want you crawling back here knocking on my door pleading for help the second Teen Witch's magic goes all wonky or little Xander cuts a new tooth. We're through. You got it?"

Giles had opened the door, not enough to immolate him, yet enough that Spike had flinched back to avoid the sunlight. Then he'd looked over his shoulder at Spike. The man's mask had briefly slipped, revealing the complex combination of emotions that rested just below his skin.

In retrospect, Spike was sure he'd seen hurt feelings and disappointment in the mix. With a sigh, he wished he'd been insightful or confident enough to tell the man that it was simply too soon to ask. His wounds had needed time to heal while he found new ways to avoid vulnerability in the human world.

After all, he'd ended up at that higher purpose, eventually, but without the help that it seemed the watcher had been trying to provide. He'd gotten there without the trust that the man's sponsorship might have allowed to grow.

It was too late to apologize to the watcher, in pretty much every way possible. Further, after the man had conspired to undercut his slayer by letting Wood dust him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to say the words to him in person. Even though he honestly meant them. Then his soul nudged him with an image of Buffy tapping her foot, and he knew he'd apologize to the man if she asked. Bloody hell, he'd do almost anything for her.

Magic Flu

Spike's realization that he'd do almost anything for Buffy brings back an off-screen memory. Which, in turn, reminds him of things he didn't get right at the time. He hadn't finished dealing some pent-up guilt before entering the afterlife. So, he begins to deal with it now. Being Spike, he is perhaps a little melodramatic as he processes it.

-oo-00-oo-

With a speed that made his head spin, he was suddenly in the gaze of Dawn Summers.

"Oh my God! You're pathetic," his nibblet had cried in teen-aged, arm flinging outrage. Fortunately, seated on the sarcophagus in his crypt's top level, he'd been out of arm's reach.

This scene featured so often with Dawn that he wasn't sure where he was in his memory Rolodex. His best guess, based on the girl's height, was the year of his brilliant yet doomed affair with the slayer. That didn't narrow down this particular scolding. But, at least it meant she was delivering it with love rather than the fury of the following year.

After an inhale on his ciggy followed by a deep exhale away from the girl, he'd brought his demon forward. Turning yellow eyes to the girl, he'd replied, "Not pathetic, nibblet. Scary vampire here."

Unphased, she'd fired back, "Fine. So, being a scary monster and all, why won't you help me?"

"You may recall, I've been told to stay away from Revello Drive unless Big Sis invites me. Not too welcome at the Magic Box, either.".

Dawn's mulish expression eloquently telegraphed what she'd thought of that. "If you're with me, you're invited. They'll just have to get over it." She shook her head, rippling her hair like a horse's mane chasing away flies. "I just swear someone's spying on us."

Back to his human mien for now, he said, "I'm keeping my eyes open, yeah? Looking out for lurkers and whatnot. Just like I promised."

"That doesn't help if they're spying on us inside ," she'd objected. "I mean, Buffy says she's going to the grocery store and suddenly a demon appears there in the middle of the day. Anya says she ordered newts' eyes, and suddenly nobody in California has them. Like the entire state ran out of newts all at once." More quietly, she added, "And besides, I get the wiggins sometimes, like someone's listening." She shivered.

Spike took another deep draw of tobacco. "Not discounting your feelings, nibblet, but it might just be coincidence," he'd offered like a complete wanker.

Dawn stomped her foot. "So, you're going to, what? Try to convince me I'm hallucinating? Like, I have a fever from a magic flu?"

Well, she'd been living in a house with Red, so magic flu had actually been a possibility. But, in retrospect, he knew the Troika of Twits had indeed been spying on them. He wished he'd taken his nibblet more seriously. She'd been his to protect, and yet again, he'd let her down.

A couple moments passed while he'd tried to figure out what he could promise Dawn while avoiding the slayer's and her minions' wrath.

Out of patience, Dawn practically growled. "Ugh, if I were Buffy, you'd do it. You'd do anything for my sister." She clearly did not mean that was a good thing.

His memory of Dawn berating him in his crypt rippled and faded into an uneven, gray background. He reflected that, from Dawn's perspective, he'd seemed to abandon her after Buffy had returned to their lives. Further, he now could see that his devotion to the slayer had kept him from helping either sister the way he could have, should have done.

I'm sorry Dawn , he thought. And Buffy too. Truly sorry I let you down. He wiped ineffectually at the moisture welling in his eyes. Some memories were a total kick in the balls.

Two-Ton Block of Cheese

Spike's sense of guilt takes him to a hallucination where he gets an unexpected and pleasant resolution.

-oo-00-oo-

Once again, his surroundings slowly resolved into shapes. This time, he seemed to be in the front row of a movie theater waiting for the show to start. Piano music was playing in the background, as in the days of silent films. Although he'd seen his fair share of flicks back in the day, he didn't think this was a memory. Most notably, he'd always sat in the back. All the better to snack on the less savory characters who frequented that part of the theater.

Feeling a drumbeat of no-no-no from his soul, he took a moment to calm it. It's all right, you weren't there to redirect my worst urges. Surprisingly, The demon surfaced a few memories of true low-lifes he'd targeted in those back rows, ridding the world of rapists, pick-pockets, and any number of flim-flam men. See, we did our best. With a rare discretion, it left out images of lovers, teens, and the like, which Spike appreciated.

All settled, he began watching the movie. It was, indeed, a silent black-and-white bearing the title, "What You Won't Do for Love: A Short Review." He had a sinking feeling when he saw the main characters: a woman who looked suspiciously like Buffy in crinolines and a man resembling Spike during his William days, complete with a waistcoat.

Oh balls , it looked as though he'd materialized Dawn's comment that he'd do anything for her sister.

What followed was a positively surreal set of unsubtle scenes that confirmed his guess. One had a quick legend saying, "The lady is bored." In it, the Buffy character batted her eyes, whereupon the William character rubbed his chin as he obviously came up with a clever idea. Darting behind a door, he reappeared seconds later with a whole bloody puppet show and juggling paraphernalia. With that, he set about entertaining his lady and puffed up with pleasure at her smiles and applause.

There were several more of increasing absurdity, culminating in one titled, "The lady likes cheese." In this one, a few actors brought snacks to where the Buffy character held court on her porch. One, who looked suspiciously like her Soldier Boy, brought an armful of Cheez-Its boxes, which quickly earned the emphatic head-shake of "no." Angelus strode up the steps with a stack labeled "fancy European cheeses: Brie, Morbier, and Roquefort." Those had been met with perplexed, dubious interest.

But then, interrupting the whole tableau, William had huffed and puffed up the street with a humongous block of cheese on a hand trolley. Likely weighing about two tons, the cheese block was almost as big as a French Citroën that Spike had once owned… well, had once nicked and kept for a decent amount of time.

After a few very obvious blinks of her eyelashes, the actress playing Buffy had come down the stairs and circled the block as though finding its vulnerability. Then, with a knife that looked suspiciously like the slayers' scythe, she'd sliced off a piece. With a grin of victory, she put it on what looked like soda crackers, or saltines, on her plate. She sat down and mimed a thank-you. Then, tilting her head, she waved him over to sit next to her on her porch,. As the scene drew to a close, she turned to him, offering him a bite of her cheese cracker, which sprinkled crumbs on the edge where she'd already taken a bite.

Christ, how many times did he need his subconscious showing him scenarios where he'd overdone things? Because, dammit, he'd already figured that out, even before he'd… well… died.

But, wait a tick. Buffy actually seemed to like everything he did in those scenes, ridiculous though they were. Perhaps his subconsciousness— or whatever passed for that in this place— was telling him that he'd been on the right track. With an internal bump, his soul passed along a sense of amusement along with a bit of a shrug.

Right, then. A vampire might not know how to court a slayer properly, and his attempts might've seemed excessive because he was a demon. A demon who was pursuing a slayer, of all daft things. But, he hadn't gotten everything wrong.

Then he started to laugh as he realized the imagined movie had shown her showing appreciation while quite literally giving him crumbs along with a whole bite. And, his character had been the one who made it possible by bringing the overlarge block of cheese in the first place.

Perhaps he'd been mentally berating himself a bit more than necessary.

Cookie Dough

In another vision, Spike gets insight by seeing more of an interaction than he did while alive. Perhaps the Powers that Be— or some other supernatural entity with an interest in seeing him succeed— want him to have hope as he nears the next phase of his journey.

-oo-00-oo-

His next vision was another kick-to-the-goolies memory. He really wanted to look away as it played out. But of course, that wasn't possible. So, he steeled himself to watch.

It had been one of the final evenings before they took on the First. Ready to provide backup if needed, he'd followed Buffy's scent to the Guardian's temple. He'd heard Caleb's voice and fighting, so hastened inside the triangular structure. And, surprise of surprises, he'd found Angelus already there. Once again, traveling from L.A. to save the day and whatnot.

He'd slipped in just in time to see his grand-sire knock out the preacher. The lummox was all 'big hero" like he'd just saved the damsel, never able to discern that Buffy was never that. And then he'd sashayed toward her. "At least you could tell me you're glad to see me," he'd asserted with the wry, understated confidence that his soul conjured from his demonic arrogance.

Spike's unbeating heart had dropped through the floor as he saw delight infuse her face and voice. Without further ado, she'd dropped her weapon and the two snuggle-warriors had gone directly to the snog without worrying about any pesky words. Hands caressed and tongues danced; long-separated lovers reunited, yada, yada .

With the last of his illusions breaking, Spike had done his best to ignore the avatar of the First whispering nasties in his ear. He'd barely noticed Angelus handing Buffy a folder (because he'd never heard of faxes, couriers or bloody demon Fedex). He'd only half registered Caleb getting up and bashing old Angelus to the floor with a cat statue, of all things.

Instinctually, he'd readied himself to fight with Buffy, but saw she had it in hand. And, well, he knew she wasn't fond of being helped when feeling all righteous, as she clearly was at that moment. In short order, and with the most devilishly delightful quips he'd ever heard, she'd defeated the evil preacher on her own. Pride had welled within him, even if he hadn't been able to bring himself to smile.

He'd stayed a tad longer than he should've, watching while Angelus gifted Buffy with the magic necklace from the demonic Liz Taylor collection. When the old sod had made sure to offer himself to be the heroic sacrifice to wear the thing into battle, Spike had slipped away.

As he'd walked back to Revello, he'd packed away any hope that Buffy loved him. She'd been declaring her romantic choice in the temple, and it wasn't him. It was time to leave behind what remained of his passion for Buffy the woman. Instead, he needed to focus on his devotion to Buffy the slayer , the one true compass point in his spiraling world. He'd finally understood that those two roles were different for her.

Clear and without illusion, he'd been able to fight on her behalf in the big battle and sacrifice himself without regret.

He waited for his memories to fade into the pervasive gray of his new existence, but that didn't happen. Instead, his perspective remained at the temple, shifting to watch Buffy and Angelus as they walked outside.

He listened to her outline the role Angelus would take in the upcoming battle, clearly and firmly. And then, surprised, he heard her deftly friend-zone Angelus while defending his own role in her life. She showed no shame at being close to him. No hiding of her feelings.

Instead, he heard a woman who cared about him, who was finally figuring herself out, and who knew it. He'd practically laughed out loud as he listened to her awkwardly try to explain this by likening herself to cookie dough, of all ridiculous things. And as he watched Angelus become increasingly baffled and shirty.

Oh, bless his slayer for being able to find the exact words when outlining battle plans, but being complete pants at expressing her emotions and feelings. He understood completely that she'd been explaining that she was still figuring out what and who she needed in her life. And he saw Angelus show, real time, why he wasn't that "who." That recognition flashed on her face as well.

At that moment, he knew he'd taken the wrong conclusion with him to his death. She absolutely had meant that I love you in her own complex, true-hearted way.

He felt as light as a cloud as the scene faded into roiling, lumpy gray.

Bunny Demon

Spike moves toward the end of this phase and once again becomes aware of his surroundings. He finds another soul on its journey, giving him the chance to actively do better this time.

-oo-00-oo-

He wasn't sure when he'd returned to the featureless gray space of clouds and barely discernible shapes. This time it felt like he was walking, although he didn't seem to move evenly through his surroundings. One footstep skimmed him past a cluster of darkened lumps as though he were on a motorcycle (which was evidently something with which he was familiar). The next step barely moved him beyond that.

A few more similarly unevenly-paced steps took him close to a thickened area that caught his attention. It felt somehow familiar. Curious, he turned in that direction and felt resistance. That was new. Was it a threshold spell to keep us out?

Having the sense that he was someone who flagrantly ignored barriers, Spike pressed forward anyway. He grimaced; his steps required effort, the clouds grew thick. But, with a final push, he was through.

A light-haired woman was kneeling, her hands held out to push something away. A look of panic or perhaps shock distorted her features. But he was sure he knew her.

She was… "Anya?" His brows drew together; he didn't recognize this scene. "Anya, is that you?"

Her face tilted his way. "Olaf? Det var en kanindemon." Then, swallowing with a gasp, she clapped her hand to her heart. "Wait, you're not Olaf. But I know you."

"It's Spike, pet," he gently replied.

"Spike! But wait, how are you here? You weren't here when this happened. You aren't nearly old enough. England doesn't exist yet. Or California, except for the angry native people who attacked us. They might be there, with their stupid bears and magic diseases." Her shoulders twitched as though flicking away those particular memories. "So it's you. How? Why?"

"No idea. Do you know where we are?"

She looked around quickly, then pushed to her feet. "Oh. Now I get it. Well, we're not in Sjornjost anymore." She flashed a quirky grin.

"We're not where?"

"The town where I'm from. I was reliving a terrible memory." She shuddered. "It was Storatänder, the bunny demon. You know: twitchy nose and bitey, bitey teeth. So, I guess, thank you for breaking me out of that. Unless I have to relive it again from the top," she concluded with a grimace.

"You're reliving memories too, yeah?"

Pfft, she huffed. "Memories, hallucinations. And it's not like I get to choose. No vengeance related disembowelings. No orgasms." She sighed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think this was Folkvang or maybe Helheim. You know, the afterlife. Except Hoffie proved to us those places didn't exist. Regardless, I think we're dead. Which sucks."

"Been thinking that, too." At least, the dead part.

Quietly, she said, "I actually imagined Hoffie might come for me, but of course he hasn't." She shook her head, then reached out to poke his shoulder. "Good, I can touch you. You're not The First Evil." Eying him more speculatively, she said, "You're the only non-hallucination person I've seen, other than Sylvie. You know, one of the last girls who arrived at Revello," she added, probably seeing his blank look at the name.

"Ah. Sylvie," he said as his mind supplied a brief image of a slim, curly-haired French Canadian. "I didn't see her, but I saw Amanda, the potential who was the nibblet's… who was Dawn's school chum." He took a deep, steadying breath. Or, whatever passed for one wherever they were. "You haven't seen Dawn, have you? Or, well, anyone else?" He could barely say the youngest Summers' name, let alone any other. Buffy, not Buffy.

"No. Like I said, just Sylvie. And now you." Twisting her fingers together, she asked. "Have you, um, seen Xander?" Her expression equally mixed apprehension with hope.

"No, pet."

She exhaled heavily. "I guess he survived then. It's weird. I hope he lived, but I don't feel much more than that. Is that normal? Do you still feel emotions about Buffy?"

Buffy. He looked down. "Yeah, I do."

"Hmm. Then I guess I don't love Xander anymore. Well, fine then. It's mutual." She sniffed. Reaching up, she wiped moisture from her eyes, but a few more renegade tears followed.

And, oh, she looked desolate. Without thinking, he took a step closer and pulled her awkwardly into his arms. As she rested her head against his chest, he recalled trying to do this once before. His soul knew that he'd done it the right way this time. The touch of consolation. The tears he also felt. An offering of common sorrow and perhaps of the odds-and-ends of humanity they shared.

And no orgasms, he snorted to himself. Simply a balm to move them beyond the moment's pain.

At that thought, he felt himself drifting away, back into the heavy clouds. He had one last glimpse of Anya. Her lips had softened into a smile as she looked away, snared by another memory. And then, all he saw was a misty landscape of gray.

Knitting Demon

Spike reaches the end of this part of the journey. This being the afterlife, where rules and mechanisms are beyond mortal understanding, this experience becomes even more surreal. But, not to worry: it's all good.

-oo-00-oo-

Yet again, he was wandering in the heavy landscape, seeing lumpy shapes writhing in ash and silver. He turned a corner and almost ran smack-dab into a boulder-sized demon who was wielding small metal stakes. Oh, sodding hell, those weren't stakes, they were knitting needles. The huge clod was perched on a stool and knitting .

"How the bloody hell is the afterlife, or whatever this is, full of demons?"

Well, maybe full was an exaggeration. But, outside of memories, so far he'd run into a fyarl plus an incorporeal vampire looking for a body. He'd met three probable people, counting the car-crash salaryman when he'd first arrived, Amanda, and Anya. So, three probable people and two demons. Plus his new knitting pal, making that three demons. Ergo: full.

He crossed his arms after mentally resting his case.

The demon peered at him over bifocals, which looked sodding nuts on a long face with a set of rhinoceros horns. With a voice that sounded like falling rocks, it asked, "Is the human world not full of demons? Are you not, yourself, a demon?"

"Well, yeah."

The demon raised a hirsute eyebrow, then turned back to its work. "Now, where was I? Ah yes, knit one, purl two, slip stitch, yarn over. This part is special, it's very tricky." The demon settled in, looking quite happy with itself. It started singing a jingle or nursery song under its breath. "Two feet, two legs, one spine… from the toes up to the pate. Two arms, two hands, one heart… do what they can with one fate. Two eyes, two spirits, one brain, hmm hmm hmm."

Spike shook his head to clear it before looking around. The demon perched in front of a large untidy workshop. Huge skeins of yarn proliferated everywhere. Tissue-paper patterns lay strewn on a table and an ancient, pedal-powered sewing machine perched on a stack of books. Cabinets lined the room with labels like Monopod, Biped, Quadruped, Octopod, and Arthropod. Others looked to be labeled in cuneiform, hieroglyphs, and something like the script that Lorophage demons were said to use. The writing on a final set of closets made his eyes hurt.

The click-clack of knitting needles paused. After an avalanche-like clearing of the throat, the demon commented, "Oh, of course you're still here. Well, do you think you're ready? To shed it all? Although, in your case, it seems it's to knit yourself together into new skin. And, well, it's not like you have a choice."

"Say what?"

"Don't be dense. That's why you're here, isn't it? I mean, the story changes over time. You get clear of earthly entanglements and then enter the wheel of judgment. Thoth weighs your heart, Yama looks into your third eye, Minos casts a deciding vote, St. Peter checks your bona fides, or your imaginary friend lands a kiss on your lips. Etcetera, etcetera. And then you finally 'Chutes and Ladders' your way to the right place."

The demon's eyes glittered. "Did I get that modern game reference right? I try to stay on top of the trends."

"Yeah, close enough." Spike wondered if he'd, perhaps, accidentally popped some afterlife 'shrooms. "This is bloody surreal, you know."

"It's the afterlife. What did you expect?" The demon's expressive, heavy brows hitched together into a rhino unibrow. "Of course, your case is a little different than usual."

"Yeah, I know. Demon plus the shiny soul shoved into a single undead bod."

With a huffing sigh that created a minor gust, the demon replied, "No. It's that you have multiple skeins that knit together in an unusual pattern. There are the normal ones for a planet Earth demon with a soul. It's odd for a vampire, but not for other demons. But then, there's this one that I almost never see."

The demon turned one of his needles enough to point out a small, glowing ball of yarn. "I'm pretty sure the 'Powers that Be' tossed that one in when I wasn't looking, leaving me to figure out how it fits into the pattern. Then there's that kinked bronze one over there, like razor wire."

He pointed again, and Spike could see a dull, jagged strand like a rusty saw-blade that stretched beyond the workshop. Squinting, he peered through a window he hadn't spotted before. The bronze thread seemed to traverse all the way to a blue ball that looked suspiciously like Earth in astronaut photos.

"Huh, would you look at that," Spike murmured, sounding inane even to himself.

"Yeah, look at it. That one that is crawling with magic. I don't even like to touch it." The knitting rhino huffed again. "It's dark sorcery that binds you and it isn't of your making. I strongly recommend you find a way to cut that cord when you have the chance." The demon's lips pressed together, making it suddenly look fierce. "Magic that interferes with the normal course of the afterlife is always tainted."

"Good to know, mate."

The demon shrugged one of its ponderous shoulders before tipping its head toward a curtain off to the side. "Go hang out in the changing room while I finish. You're sort of a rush job, since that jagged strand of yarn is starting to tug. I'm almost done, so just get comfortable for now."

"Well, guess I got nothing better to do," he replied. Sketching a loose salute with one hand, he stepped to the curtain. Behind it, he found a sitting room that looked a lot like the ones common when he was a lad. Pale walls offset by dark wainscoting, cushioned chairs set near leather settees, and a lit fireplace rounded out the room. He lowered himself onto one of the leather-upholstered seats, since those had regularly been more padded and comfortable when he was young.

Within a few moments, he felt himself drifting off, with a welling sense of peace overtaking him before he lost consciousness.

.

To be continued...