Usually, if Buffy was being kind, he was imagining her. She was his strength, then. His sense, his quality. If she was being cruel, he was being haunted by her. He couldn’t quite pin down the difference. But for the most part, when he dreamed of her, she said what he wanted her to say, and it all made sense, and it made him want to be himself again. When the haunting started – and he was haunted by many things – she yelled at him, screamed at him, accused him of all the hideous sins that he was, of course, completely guilty of. She lay on the floor and begged him not to do this thing. She called out his name in a desperate plea. Then she’d tell him to kill her. It made him worse, for a time. It made it all worse.

    But if he fled from that, from the Buffy and the Adam and the Glory and the Dru and the Angelus and fled – repulsed and with the most terror – from the images of himself, if he sank deep, deep, deep inside, that evil voice which was (he thought) part of his own shiny new conscience was quelled. If he didn’t move or think or speak, if he didn’t listen, he could be safe. Then he could dream. Then he could dream of her as he used to see her. As she was with everyone except him. Kindly. Forgiving. A pillar of tenderness and strength.

    Mostly the difference between his daydreams and his nightmares was that his daydreams didn’t seem real.

    He was daydreaming, now, curled up, silent in his mind, talking to Buffy. We’ll get through this, she was whispering. Soft and sure and angelic, she was everything he longed for. She reached out to caress his hair, such a miraculous thing that he almost moaned even at the dream of it. We’ll get through this.

    The basement and the world and the hauntings were all hidden as he sank inside himself, his own hand taking on the dream of hers as it caressed his head, when the voice cut through the daydream.

    “Spike,” Buffy said. He looked up, startled. It was stronger than usual, the avenging Buffy. She stood before him. She was strong and black and angry, and he expected her to berate him. She did, but not as badly as he was expecting. Not as badly as the hauntings. “This basement is killing you. This is the hellmouth. There is something bad down here. Possibly everything bad.”

    He was bad. He was the bad. The big bad bad that he couldn’t escape from. He knew what was coming next. The screaming. The pleas. The hatred. The pain, the pain, you hurt the girl. “Can't hear you. Can't hear you.” He had to sink back down. Find that other Buffy, the one he dreamed of, the one who made it all right again. The one who wasn’t trying to make him mad.

    “You have a soul?” Buffy continued. “Fine. Show me.”

    He felt like crying. Why wouldn’t she go away, so he could find her again? Locked in the basement, chained in the dungeon where he belonged. Where was the cask of amontillado? Where was the monster? Where was the blood? “Scream Montresor all you like, pet,” he murmured. Had to keep it chained. Had to chain it up, wall it in, let it scream.

    Buffy didn’t get the reference, and it didn’t bloody matter to her, apparently. “Get up, and get out of this basement,” she insisted.

    Spike was beginning to suspect that she was real. She wasn’t helping him like his daydreams. She wasn’t taunting him like his hauntings. And her scent was strong, and her scowl was irritated more than hateful, and her voice echoed right in the shadowy basement, and... oh, god. She really was there.

    Which meant he had to tell her the truth. “I don't have anywhere else to go.”

    She crossed her arms. “There’s a whole world out there.”

    He shook his head. “Not for my sake,” he said. He sank his head onto his knees and wondered how long she’d stay, and if she’d suddenly melt and start to scream at him in her bathrobe, raking at his conscience again.

    “What about your crypt?” she asked. “Wouldn’t Clem give it back?”

    He shook his head. “She’s too loud there,” he said.

    “What?”

    “She’s too loud,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Too many moments, too much flesh, too much liquor, too many memories. Too many tears, too much missing her, too much time.” He sniffed and glanced up at her. “Lower chamber’s still all boom! anyway.” He shrugged. “Never could get it all back together. Bed kinda blown up. Life kinda blown up.”

    Buffy regarded him. “There’s got to be someplace else,” she said. “Does Willy have any leads on–”

    “Yeah, good plan, that,” Spike said. “Kill your own kind, and wander in sack of hammers. Be lucky to get out as Mr. and Mrs. Big Pile of Dust.” He leaned his head awkwardly on his wrist, trying to drive the way he was feeling out of his skull. “Just leave me here. Always been here.” He took a deep breath. “This is where I belong.”

    “Why? What’s here?” Buffy asked. “Why here?”

    He glanced back at her. “I’m beneath you,” he said.

    She heaved a huge sigh and looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then turned around to go. Then she turned back. “You can’t do this, Spike!” she snapped. “It’s not fair. You act like a monster and run away like a coward, and now you come back like this, and it’s my fault?”

    Spike looked up at her, appalled. “No! No, no, never, never Buffy, never...” He sank his head back down. “God. Mess everything up.”

    “You mess yourself up, Spike,” she snapped. “Don’t make it my job to take care of you!”

    “It always was,” Spike said. “Why didn’t you?”

    “Oh, save it,” she snapped.

    “You had the stake!” he cried out, and she stopped. “Why didn’t you take care of it? Why didn’t you take the demon out, like you should?” He stood up. “You want to go a round, pet? We’ll have a gay old time of it.” He looked to the ground. “Why didn’t you take care of it?”

    Buffy frowned. “Do you mean kill you?”

    “Job of the slayer, of course,” he said. He looked up, his eyes glittering out of the shadows of the basement. “Why did you never?”

    Buffy sighed and leaned away from him, against an old filing cabinet. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

    “You can do it now,” he said. “Get what I deserve.”

    She regarded him. “You don’t deserve that, Spike.”

    He laughed, loud and tormented. “Oh, yes I do!” he announced. “Got the blood on my hands and the blood on my tongue, don’t I. Always deserved it, from day one, two, three, always, always, jumping in feet first to the screaming. Always deserved the dust.”

    She pursed her lips. “I meant about me,” she said. “What you did...”

    Spike made a sound like she had punched him in the stomach.

    “It may have been bad,” she continued. For some reason she had to say it. It was as close to forgiveness as she could come. “Forget that, it was bad, no maybe about it. But it didn’t deserve death.”

    “Only thing that ever did, pet,” he said. “Only sin that ever mattered.”

    “Yeah. I think I’m getting that.” She glared at him. “Did you really think you’d just go get a soul, and I’d up and forgive you?”

    He didn’t meet her eyes. “You did Angel.”

    Buffy looked down. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, trying to figure out what to say. She had forgiven Angel. He had gotten back his soul, and she just up and forgave him. And he’d done lots worse than Spike. “I know.”

    “He meant to hurt you, Buffy,” Spike said, driving it home, damn him. “He meant every minute of it. Take her out, drive her mad, kill her slow, kill her...” He shook his head. “No soul, back to himself again, and snap her neck and break her spine and torture the watcher, slice open the slayer, he meant every minute. I didn’t mean to.” He grimaced, holding back a scream. Don’t make her feel it, no. Not her job to feel it. “I didn’t mean to, Buffy.”

    Buffy was silent a moment. “I know.”

    Spike shook his head. “Gotta bag the slayer. Stronger than any slayer you’ve ever fought, he said. I learned it, didn’t I. Learned it back at the right hand of Angelus.” His accent changed, and he sounded like Angel. “Force won't get it done. You gotta work from the inside. To kill this girl... you have to love her.” He grimaced, self loathing clear on his face. “I learned it all real well. Taught me good, Angelus did.”

    Buffy stared at him. “That’s what he said?”

    Spike shrugged. “Worked for him,” he said. “Order, one soul, and why don’t you come on in, Angel. Oh, yeah, just friends, no danger there. No question of forgiveness for the torturer.” He shook his head. “And she will forgive and love....” His face crumpled, and he fought off tears. “One soul, and you just did.”

    “Maybe I shouldn’t have,” Buffy said. “I... I didn’t at first.” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to make excuses or what, but she wanted to explain. “I didn’t want to forgive him. Not for a long time. I... I tried... I tried to stay away from him. I tried to hate him.”

    “Should have asked me how, pet,” he said. “I got skills there.”

    She chuckled. Then she couldn’t believe she’d just smiled at Spike, when she should still be hating him, and she turned her head away. She didn’t say what she’d meant to say. That it was just too hard not to love him. It was too hard not to love.... Damn. She turned back to him. “You can’t stay here.”

    “Where else, love? It wouldn’t be you, Spike. It would never be you.” He shook his head. “You’re beneath me.” He shrugged. “Where it all started, yeah? Mess up your pretty doilies and stuff.”

    Buffy rolled her eyes. “God, do you remember everything I ever said?”

    “You’re a thing,” he said pointedly. “There is nothing good or clean in you. You’ve got a pretty memorable repertoire, pet. Hard to shake the tune from the head.”

    “Oh, like telling me I was twisted and addicted to the misery was all calculated to bulk up my psyche?”

    “Like we didn’t burn up and hurt each other all the damn time,” Spike said. “Mortal enemies, yeah? Stop me.” He shook his head. “‘S what we’re s’posed to do.” He sighed. “She deserves so much more,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Captain America and his drive by service, tear her down, make her weak, chip her up so she can’t hurt him like she should. Angelic Angelus, the fallen Angel drag her down with him, break her inside so she can’t love. And she can’t survive in the sun, it dims her light. All that flame is wasted in the sunlight. She needs the dark to shine.” He looked up at her. “I figured... take it on. If she doesn’t want... if I can’t be... if I can hurt the girl, then who...?” He shook his head and turned away from her. “Is she all right?”

    “Yes,” Buffy said. “I’m fine, Spike. You didn’t actually hurt me that badly, it was just... scary.”

    “I mean the other,” he said. “Cassie?”

    Buffy looked down.

    “Did we help the girl?”

    It took her a long time to answer. “Cassie’s dead,” she whispered.

    Spike trembled. God, no! He backed away, clenching his fists. “Did he get out? Did he get out, did he get her? Oh, god, chain it down, Monstresor, William the Bloody, bloody, bloody William, didn’t do it right!” He punched himself in the face. “Stop it!” he told himself. “Take – it – out!”

    “Spike, stop! Stop!” She jumped forward and took hold of his arm, holding him against the wall. He was still panicked, trembling beneath her. “Shh. It wasn’t you. Cassie had a heart condition. It wasn’t you.”

    “What’s it matter?” he asked. “All the others were.” He reached up and touched her face. “I was killing you.”

    Buffy knew now that the opposite had been true. She’d been killing him. Slowly, painfully, every moment they’d been together, she’d been twisting the stake just a little deeper into his heart. However he’d gotten this soul, it had killed her Spike. The demon she knew was weeping, injured, bleeding. She hoped to god he’d come back to life, because if he stayed like this... if he stayed like this....

    And the feel of his soft hand on her cheek still felt like a magnet, and every drop of her blood tried to reach for him, making her heart beat and her flesh tingle. And part of her still wanted to beat him bloody for what he had done. It was all blood under the bridge. It didn’t matter anymore. “It’s all done now, Spike,” she whispered.

    “I know.” He shook his head. “I do know. I thought, and then I hoped, and then I knew better.” He looked down, letting his hand slide to her shoulder. “I knew better.”

    Buffy trembled, as she realized how very close they were. His hand on her shoulder, her hand around his other forearm, her body against his, his scent so strong and still damningly seductive (he’d gotten a little better – he seemed to be keeping cleaner now, at any rate). She had an impulse to kiss him. To press her lips to his and try to kiss all that pain away, his, and hers, to bury it all in the fire that always flared between them – flint and steel. Two hard and unyielding substances which could never burn on their own, yet wrought sparks whenever they struck against one another. But she’d tried that before, and the fire had only burned them both. “Then show me,” Buffy said quietly. “Show me you know better. Show me you don’t need me to do this for you.”

    He looked back up. “How?”

    “If I can find a safe place for you to stay, will you come with me?”

    “How can you find–”

    “If I can find one!” Buffy glared at him. “If I find one. Will you get out of this basement?”

    He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he whispered.

    “Finally.” Buffy made herself step back. “In the mean time, I need you to do something for me.”

    He stood against the wall, tense, frightened, a wreak of his former self. “What?”

    “Try,” she said. “I need you to try for me, okay?”

    “Try for what?”

    “Put on the costume,” she said. “Fake it. Force it. Whatever it takes to untangle this knot in your head, I want you to do it, okay? Just try.”

    He shook his head. “I don’t know if I can.”

    Buffy hesitated. Then she stepped away and around the corner, to where she’d left it. His coat. His slayer’s coat, that he’d left behind the night he ran away. She came back and laid it on the top of the old shelf, that held out of date text books. (And where had all these old things come from, in a supposedly new building? The school basement didn’t make any more sense than Spike did, these days.) “Put on the costume, Spike,” she told him. “You did it once. You can do it again. Think. Make yourself human.” She realized what she’d said. She’d only meant sensible, but the words were out, now. “Or... at least you,” she added.

    Spike stared, regarding the old leather coat like he didn’t recognize it. Then he moved a little away from it, as if it were a spitting cat. “Dunno if I like me,” he said.

    “Well, I never did,” Buffy said, more teasing than cruel. “And I still want him back.” She stopped as she realized what she said. "I mean... back here. Just... here, not to me, just..." She shut up before she dug that hole any deeper.

    He looked up at her. “Why?”

    Buffy regarded him. One part of her wanted to jump up and hug him, tell him to hold her, tell him that all was forgiven, and that she too was sorry, and why couldn’t they just start over. But that was a young, naive, and impetuous part of her, too deeply buried under pain and betrayal and loss to have any influence over the jaded, wary, emotionally guarded slayer she had become over the last seven years. “Cause he’s lots better than this,” she said. That was it, of course. That was why she’d felt she was going just as crazy as he was these last few days. She hadn’t known what to do about him, because none of it had felt right. “You’re better than this, Spike.”

    He was silent for a long moment. “Think so,” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was asking for confirmation, or what.

    “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” She stepped away. “I’ll be back,” she said. “And when I do, you’re to get out of this basement, and try to sound sensible. Do you hear me?”

    “I always hear you,” he said. “Always.”

    She left him then. When she came back a day and a half later with Dawn and Xander (still reeling from a frightening incident with Anya,) Spike spoke to them with his eyes clear and the mania out of his voice. “With him?” he asked, incredulous, when they told him their plan.

    “It’s a human dwelling; it’ll keep other vampires out, at least,” Buffy said. “It’ll help until you’re... better able to figure stuff out.”

    “And I hate this plan,” Xander said without equivocation.

    “Not falling into a tapdance routine myself, you berk,” Spike said.

    “You got all your stuff?” Xander added.

    “No,” Spike said. His voice was hard; his face was harder. Buffy realized, he didn’t just mean his things, or his coat, for that matter, which was nowhere to be seen. He still wasn’t all there. But he was as wrapped up as he was going to get, and that was what had to count.  Spike stood straighter and squared his shoulders. Spike, Buffy knew, was leaving more than his coat in that basement. Madness, fear, pain... hopefully all of those would be left behind, too, though she knew it wasn’t likely. All of them would exercise their visitation rights. All of them would haunt him for she had no idea how long. At the same time, he was ready. He had listened to her, let her reach for him, and he was ready to leave it behind. If he could.

    He looked like a man readying for battle as he lifted his head along with the three of them, preparing to face the world. “Let’s go.”