Chapter Two: Tugging Heartstrings

A local news channel droned on in the background in the otherwise quiet Magic Box. Anya kept one eye on the coverage of a five-car pile-up a few miles out of town, while helping Willow and Tara pour over books. Going to and fro, Giles sorted out more books, choosing only relevant ones to place on the table for them.

“Any luck?” Anya asked at last, breaking the silence.

Willow just groaned and rested her head on the table. Tara gave her a sympathetic look.

“Giles *did* say it couldn’t be done, Will.”

“I said it *probably* couldn’t be done,” Giles corrected.

Anya tore her eyes away from the television. “I thought Willow was researching a way to kill Mr. Hellmouth? Without us dying in the process, I mean.”

“We can’t – *I* can’t – let that happen without trying other options first, Anya.” Willow sighed, before drawing in her breath sharply as she saw something. “Hold on – Yes! There’s a spell here that might work.” Running a finger over the text, a small smile formed on her lips. “Power transference.”

Giles looked over her shoulder at the book. “That would be nowhere near powerful enough to transfer the Hellmouth energy, Willow. And read the fine print: there has to be a link to the castee.” He squinted. “And the cast*or* takes the power into themselves.”

“Oh.” Willow’s heart sunk.

“Still, it was a nice try,” Tara tried encouragingly.

Giles placed a pile of books on the table. “I’m going to go back home and wait for Buffy and Spike; they should return back there.”

“And then there were three,” Anya muttered as he left the shop.

Willow looked glum. “How’s the Hellmouth research coming?” she asked Tara.

“Not so great either,” Tara replied, closing the book she had been reading and placing it on a pile before taking a new one off the top of the ones Giles had left. “There are a couple of references to there having been one in England, but no details.”

“What details do we want, exactly?”

“Not sure; anything right now would be useful.”

There was a collective sigh. Anya turned up the television.

“Mr. Hellmouth doesn’t have far left to come, judging by this.”

Willow and Tara looked at the news broadcast. There were pictures of a town a few miles away from Sunnydale. The high street looked like a war scene. A quick clip of footage showed a dark figure surrounded by what looked like blue lightning. All three girls shivered.

“Guess that’s him,” Willow said quietly.

Silence fell again. Anya continued reading, her eyes occasionally flickering up towards the television, and Tara and Willow went back to their books. Willow could feel an unspoken dread pressing down upon them, and scanned the musty pages in desperation for help.

“I’ve found it!” Tara suddenly announced.

“The Hellmouth?” *Finally, progress,* Willow thought.

“Yes,” she answered. “Here, it references a Hellmouth in London that was filled in after it opened in 1867. Talks about the guy who tried to close it. Definitely nothing special about him; Just a guy who’d played around with magics and tried to be a hero. Poor man. He left behind a wife and child. They’ll be long dead now.”

“He was an innocent,” Willow murmured. “More than that, he was a hero. He didn’t manage to close the Hellmouth, but he still tried, despite the odds. He must have known he would never succeed.”

“So, what do we do?” Anya asked.

Willow didn’t answer, but took the book from Tara’s hands and read the entry for herself. It wasn’t too detailed, but it did mention one small, hardly significant fact that nonetheless tugged her heartstrings.

“Kind of makes it more personal, knowing his name,” she said, more to herself than the others.

“What’s his--” Anya began, but stopped. “Hey, I got lucky too!”

The other two looked up at her. “What?” Willow asked.

“I’ve been looking up portal types, to try and ID the one Buffy and Spike got sucked in to,” was Anya’s triumphant reply. “It’s a portal in time.”

“You mean … they’re in the past?” Tara voiced what they were all thinking.

“Past, future, who knows?”

“That can’t be good,” Willow said, the feeling of dread back. “Why do you think the Seers sent them *there*?”

-----

“This is – was – your house?” Buffy asked quietly and when Spike nodded without speaking, added, “It’s … nice.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, his mind elsewhere. Shakily he reached for the doorknob. “Maybe you should stay out here.”

“If you don’t want me to see--”

“I just mean, you’re not exactly dressed appropriately to the century.”

Buffy looked down at her halter top and jeans. “Good point.” She paused. “It’s cold out here, though.”

Spike sighed, shrugged off his muddy coat and attempted to put it round her shoulders. Buffy merely looked at him as it fell straight onto the ground.

“All right, come in then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pratt.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Buffy said as Spike pulled the door closed behind them. “Whoa.”

For a moment she simply stood staring around her. The hallway was large, ornately furnished, and filled with the scent of flowers, from the bouquets lined on top of a bookcase. On the wall was a large portrait in a gold frame. The man pictured looked, Buffy thought, a little like Spike.

“That’s my father,” Spike said, as he noticed where she was looking. He swallowed. “And my mother should be here somewhere.”

“What are you going to do?” Buffy asked, softer.

“I don’ know,” he whispered. “I just need to see her.”

Spike led Buffy into what she supposed was the living room. “I reckon she’ll be asleep; maybe I should go and wake her … Or maybe she’ll come down like she did last time. I don’ know.”

“Why don’t we just wait a while and see?” Buffy suggested.

He shook his head. “I can’ wait, Buffy. I need to see her now.”

“Then maybe you should …” Buffy trailed off, staring behind him.

“Should what?”

“W-William?”

Spike whirled around. Standing shakily in the living-room doorway was a woman who looked in her fifties; she was dressed in old-fashioned nightclothes and staring at Spike as if she had seen a ghost.

“Mother,” he breathed.

Spike remained frozen, but his mother drew nearer as if trying to see him better. “William? Is that you?”

He shakily nodded. “It’s me, Mother.”

She let out a cry, and Spike unfroze as she pulled him into a hug, clutching her close. “Wh-where have you been? I-I’ve been beside myself for days – They t-told me you were d-dead!”

Mrs. Pratt still hadn’t seen Buffy, who thought she ought to give them some privacy, but couldn’t tear herself away from the touching scene.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Spike murmured. Buffy saw him squeeze his eyes shut against tears and found swallowing difficult herself. “Everything’s going to be alright.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

“What happened to you?” She drew back, but continued hanging onto Spike’s arms as if, when she let go, he would disappear again. “Why are you covered in dirt?”

Spike met his mother’s eyes. “You’re tired,” he said in a gentle voice. “Why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll bring your pills up; and then tomorrow I will tell you everything.”

“All right,” she said hesitantly. Her eyes flickered round the room, and Buffy waited, but they went straight through her. “William, who were you talking to a minute ago?”

“I was talking to -” Spike began, before realising what Buffy had just worked out; that Mrs. Pratt couldn’t see her. “No one. Just myself.” He smiled slightly. “You know me.”

She gave a small laugh. “You *definitely* need a woman around if you’re going to start holding conversations with yourself.”

“Let’s not start that again,” Spike said. “Right now, you’re the only woman I need.” He kissed her gently and started guiding her out of the room. “Let’s get you to bed, Mother.”

“I am not so old yet that I cannot manage the stairs without assistance, William.”

Buffy chuckled to herself.

A few minutes later, Spike came back down the stairs, very slowly and his eyes staring blankly ahead.

“You okay?” Buffy asked.

He just gazed at her.

“Right, of course you’re not.” She sighed. “So, what now?”

Spike didn’t answer, but sank onto the floor, his eyes unfocused. Buffy sat down beside him. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

At first she thought he was going to remain silent. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve always loved her. Always.”

“You said you killed her,” Buffy pointed out, slightly confused.

“I killed her *because* I loved her.”

“Huh?”

“She’s sick,” Spike explained. “She’ll be dead in a few months. I tried to make her better … I turned her into a vampire.”

“*Ah*.”

“Stupidest thing I ever did. Oh, it cured the sickness, but she changed. Too much. She turned on me … said … stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“How sick she was of me and how I could never be anything … and worse. Stuff I wouldn’t care to repeat.”

“Spike, you know that wasn’t your mother talking, don’t you?” He remained silent. “It was the demon you sired that said all those things. Your mother loves you; I can see it from here.”

“You think?” he whispered.

“Didn’t you hear? The Slayer’s always right. So, what happened then?”

“There was a struggle. I won.” Spike paused, and continued in a bitter tone, “I killed my own mother – *twice*.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Spike,” Buffy said. “Like you said, you were just trying to help her.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier. And I can’ let it happen again.” With a faraway look, he shook his head. “I don’ know what to do. I can’t go through that again, can’t let her die like that.” Another tear escaped. “But I can’ let her die slowly and alone either. I don’ know what to do, Buffy. Help me,” he whispered.

An uncomfortable knot formed in Buffy’s stomach.

“Whatever happens tonight,” she said after a long pause, “your mom’s going to die. Neither of us can change that. Even if we stayed here until after you – after your mom died - I’m guessing once we return to the future, your old self will just … well, it will happen anyway.” She paused again. “But, you’ve been put in a position where you can change that – change how she died. A second chance, maybe.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “To end her pain as humanely as possible - stop yourself from making that mistake in the first place.”

Spike swallowed. “You mean -- I’ve got to kill her all over again,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Think of it this way,” Buffy said, gentler still. “This time, she can die happy and painlessly, and you can say goodbye.”

He put his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Buffy tried to put a hand on his arm, to comfort him, but it went straight through.

“I don’ think I can do this,” he whispered.

“I know it’s not fair,” Buffy murmured. “But it’s the best choice on offer.”

TBC …