A/N: I appear to be back, again. Blame the procrastination bunny!


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He was too miserable to be angry any longer. In fact, his anger had disappeared within about two minutes of his meeting with Buffy in the alley. He had thought that by being angry, by throwing jibes at her, he might be able to make himself feel a tiny bit better, but it had been a plan doomed to failure. Only minutes after his harsh words, he had regretted them. He knew he had got to her with his threat to Dawn and knew she would be worrying about it now. If only he could keep his mouth shut, for once in his unlife.

It had only been Drusilla’s arm in his as they walked away that had stopped him from turning on his heel and running back to Buffy to fall at her feet and beg for forgiveness. And Drusilla, somehow knowing this – as she knew everything – had turned petulant and had stormed off home, only to confront him then.

“Why won’t you play anymore?” she moaned, “You’re a naughty doggy. Why won’t you behave for Mummy?”

“Dru,” he called out soothingly, reaching out for her.

“Don’t think I don’t see your lies!” she suddenly spat out, evading his grasp, “Don’t think I don’t know what little fairytales my William makes up in his head!”

Her anger disappeared a moment later and she moved over to him, trailing her hand across his face.

“My poor poor boy,” she murmured, caressing his cheek, “You live in the darkness but you crave the sunshine.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, love,” he lied, wrapping his arm around her waist and attempting to draw her closer.

“No!” she cried, lashing out at him and managing to scratch his face as she tore out of his arms, “Lies, lies, all lies. The priest can’t say his vows. He lies to himself in the darkness.”

“Dru-“

She spun round and fixed her piercing gaze on him.

“She’ll destroy you!” she spat out, before turning and dashing out of the crypt.



With Drusilla making things difficult as well, his misery had been complete and he would have been happy to be dusted right there on the floor of his crypt by an angry Slayer. He wanted an end to this misery – and end to his torment - and, after all, it was only right that the Slayer he had lost his heart to to drive her stake through it and kill him. She hadn’t though. She had faltered – why he wasn’t sure – and had run off, leaving him lying on the floor in silence for long minutes, before he burst into hysterical laughter.

Moments later, the laughter subsided into painful sobs that he could not stop, no matter how hard he tried. He was being torn up from the inside and he couldn’t bear it, didn’t know how to fix things. He was stretched between the two lives he had forged for himself: the first, as a killing, slaughtering monster and the second, as an ally to the Slayer, a white hat of sorts. But he could succeed at neither: he could not be Drusilla’s bad boy and he could not be Buffy’s knight in shining armour.

He was so tired – tired of keeping up the illusion, of lying, of hiding. Drusilla had been right, as always – he was lying to himself, to her. He was pretending to be a man – a monster - that he wasn’t sure existed anymore, despite the clamour of protest from his demon. The Bad Boy façade was so familiar though, a second skin – along with his coat – that protected the vestiges of William from those who would laugh and scorn. He didn’t know how to change any more, didn’t know what else he could do to show that he wanted to be different. That he wanted to be good.



And what did it matter after all? Buffy was disgusted by him at best. She couldn’t even bring herself to kill him, pathetic as he was. All he had was Drusilla, who had made him great, who had supported him all along, making him into the man he was today. She had created Spike – and it was something he could never forget. He owed her everything and so he had loved her – despite her mood swings, despite her illness, even despite her faithlessness – for a hundred years and more. He had succumbed to her every whim, had given her everything she asked for on a silver platter – and begged to do more for her. She had been his world.

Now, his world had shifted and although he still loved his sire in some way, he could not summon back those emotions. He craved her affection, as he always had, but his heart was already lost to a Slayer who despised him – and he hated himself for it. His love for her made him weak, made him stupid, pathetic. Everything William had once been. He wanted to rid himself of these feelings, but he knew that was too much to hope for. His love was not the kind to fizzle out overnight, or to be dissuaded by rejection – after all, he was and always had been Love’s Bitch. He would continue to love this fierce, beautiful Slayer, probably until it killed him.



Somewhere in his musings, he had picked himself up from the floor and found his way down to his bed – with a bottle of whiskey. Sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling, he set to work on the bottle. If he could not rid himself of these feelings, at least he could drink himself into a haze, could dull the pain and the misery with the help of some good whiskey. He took several pulls at the bottle and laid back, eyes closing wearily. Maybe he should leave Sunnydale, leave all this mess behind.

The idea disappeared almost as soon as it appeared and he took another large mouthful of whiskey, feeling its warmth work its way through him. Why did he have to fall for the Slayer of all people? The one woman who hated him more than most. He knew exactly why – it was because they were the same, whether she knew it or not. They had both been burnt and both protected themselves with a mask of bravado. They were both fighters, warriors – just on opposite sides.

It was more than that though – she was so, so… He couldn’t describe what it was that drew him to her – more than her Slayer status, more than her charm, her power. From the sidelines, he had watched her grow into an incredible woman, who had the weight of the world on her shoulders but still went on, day after day, trying to make a difference. And she was so beautiful…

In his mind, he conjured the image of her from earlier that evening, angry and fierce as she pinned him to the floor, her long hair falling around her face. In his daydream, he reached out to touch her hair, running his fingers through it. She smiled at him in his daydream – one of those smiles she saved for the people she cared about – and he felt warmth in his dead heart.

“Beautiful,” he whispered out loud, his eyes fluttering as he finally sank into unconsciousness, the bottle of whiskey still clutched in his hand.