The translation of The Book of the Dead that I'm using is by Dr. Raymond Faulkner. Props to him.


“Thus said the gods when they lamented the past. ‘On your faces! He has come to you while the dawn lacks you, and there is none who will protect you.’ My faults are in my belly, and I will not declare them.” – The Book of Going Forth by Day


The tower listed drunkenly as Spike ran up its spiraling ramps. There was a good reason why the clinically insane weren’t generally hired as engineers.

He had picked up a spiked bat, dropped by one of Glory’s minions in the concussive wave from Willow’s last spell. His mad dash was tempered by the structure’s instability, forcing each step to be a little more careful than would have otherwise been the case.

So it was that Spike scaled the monument to Glory’s psychosis in relative silence.

He came to an abrupt halt at the top, surprised to find Doc standing there. The well-dressed demon hadn’t heard him, so intent was he on the girl tied in front of him. Despite his shock at seeing a demon he though he had already killed, there were more important things to worry about, like how to get Dawn away from said demon and safely to the ground.

For once, the vampire suppressed his natural urge to make a sarcastic comment. He had the element of surprise and intended to use it. Dawn’s frightened eyes caught his over Doc’s shoulder, but she quickly hid the hope he saw reflected there. Nibblet was a clever one and her dissembled fear blended so well with the real thing that she didn’t give him away.

Spike’s club slammed into Doc’s head without the demon ever knowing he was there.

*****

Day 3

Spike woke to the feel of fire eating at his insides.

I’m not dust. Why am I not dust?

He distinctly remembered the burn of the holy water when it had hit his stomach, sizzling and burning like acid. No vampire should have been able to survive that, which had been the elegance of the plan. Self-staking was a lot harder to pull off than it sounded. The same went for decapitation. Burning in the sun ran the risk of someone rescuing him with a well-placed tarp or blanket, something that the Scoobies had proved willing to do, shockingly enough.

And that left holy water. It should have been foolproof, so why in the nine hells was he still amongst the undead? Short of divine intervention, there was only one answer, magic. But he had waited until the witches were out of sight, and the watcher hadn’t lifted a mystical finger before Spike had quaffed the blessed draught and lost consciousness.

It didn’t make any sense.

Blue eyes, as cold and dead as the heart of a glacier, opened and took in Spike’s surroundings. He was lying in the slayer’s basement, laid out like the corpse he was on a rickety cot. He could hear voices above, murmuring and toneless until he forced himself to focus. Maybe the others knew why he wasn’t completely dead.

Hell, maybe they’d even help me finish the job.

The first voice he heard was the watcher’s, rambling and distracted. “… unexpected to say the least.”

“I don’t know Giles.” Willow’s usually bright voice held a soft rasp as if from prolonged crying or lack of sleep. Probably both. “He’s tried to do it before.”

“But that was over the chip,” Xander chimed in, sounding honestly confused. “And this, uh, isn’t. It’s not like demons…”

“Alexander Harris, if you finish that sentence, I will go back to the apartment and throw every last collectible plate I find out of the window.” Anya’s voice, which usually grew shrill when she was angry, was instead low and venomous. “I do not care what kind of value they have accrued.”

“But Ahn…” The boy’s voice trailed off in a whine, but he didn’t continue. Not that he needed to; Spike had heard it all before when the others thought he wasn’t listening.

‘It’s not like demons can feel anything real.’ ‘He can’t really love.’ ‘It’s just some kind of sick obsession.’

The echoes tore into him and the aching void in his chest, which was slowly filling up with anger and self-destructive despair, begged to differ.

Spike’s feet felt like lead as he swung them over the edge of the cot. The others had left him fully clothed, jacket, boots, and all. Doc Holiday had a point; there was a certain appeal to dying with your boots on.

The conversation continued, even as he dragged his battered body up the staircase.

“What if he tries again?” Tara asked quietly, ever the perceptive one.

It was Xander, of course, who answered first. “Well, I am not vamp sitting again.”

“Then don’t.” Spike’s voice, flat and dispassionate, never the less made everyone start in alarm. He limped forward from the basement door, slowly looking around the room. Willow and Tara were seated at the island, faces frozen is guilty shock. Giles and Anya were across from the witches, wordless and wary, even though he saw more sympathy in the former demon’s eyes than anything else. That left Xander, who was in front of the refrigerator, the closest of them to the vampire. Spike stepped forward, opening the lapels of his coat to expose his chest.

The invitation was clear.

Much to his disappointment, the boy backed away, eyes wide.

“Don’t back out on me now, Harris,” Spike said quietly, stepping forward again. “How many times did you try to get…” he couldn’t say her name, “her to stick a stake between my ribs? Here’s your chance.” No change in tone, no inflection, emotion, or sarcasm. Nothing. “Do it,” his voice echoes hollowly.

No one moved, including Xander.

The rising despair crested, remolding Spike’s face into hard lines and ridges. Fangs bared, he moved stepped forward, hemming in the young man in the corner of the counters.

“Do it!” The growl was partnered with a lunging feint.

That finally prompted a response. Xander scrambled blindly for one of the wooden spoons that stood in a stand next to the sink. The others stumbled back, taken completely by surprise by the vampire’s sudden assault.

“Do it!” he repeated a third time, full throated roar ragged and deafening. He didn’t even notice the wetness that was staining his cheeks.

Up came the impromptu weapon, but before it could sink home, a thin form dove between Spike and Xander, knocking the attack wide. The spoon clattered on the floor. Spike watched it fall dully before turning golden eyes on the person whose misguided actions had spared his unlife.

Dawn.

She must have run into the room after he had started yelling. Stupid that. If he hadn’t shouted it would all be over, but it seemed like he always did something to guarantee that even his most meticulously planned schemes went up in smoke.

“Get out.” Dawn’s voice only trembled a little, but it was with white hot rage, not fear or grief. It was the kind of tone of voice that made the others sit up and take notice, no matter her age. Favoring everyone in the room with the same, tear streaked glare, fists clenched with rage, she was a tiny, glorious shadow of her sister.

Spike slumped against the refrigerator, numb hands releasing his jacket lapels and dropping to his sides. Suddenly, everyone was talking all at once, but Spike was no longer listening. Something had snapped inside, and his knees were suddenly weak. He slid down the appliance until he found himself in a loose ball; legs sprawled in front of him, sobbing like a child.

He wanted to stop, God he wanted to, but once the dam was broken, there was no fixing it until the flood passed.

And just like that, they did leave, filing out of the kitchen one by one until none were left but a cold-eyed Dawn. After a long moment, she collapsed next to him, wrapping her spindly arms around his shoulders. He leaned into the embrace, unconsciously seeking the comfort she offered. One hand grabbed the girl’s shoulder, fisting in the sleeve of the t-shirt hard enough to rend fabric.

Instead of pulling away, Dawn hugged him closer, burying her head in his shoulder. Hot tears fell against his neck, smelling of salt and Summers.

Spike didn’t know how long they crouched there with only their muffled sobs between them, but after a while he managed to get himself under control. He straightened, releasing her torn sleeve and shrinking away from her loose hug.

Dawn settled next to him, thin arms encircling her bony knees instead. He started to ask why she hadn’t just let him die, but when he looked at her face, he knew the answer. The pain he saw reflected there was as acute as his own, and his actions had only added to it. Only God and Dawn Summers herself knew why she cared so much about a broken down, farce of a monster like himself, but she apparently did.

“Don’t do that again.” How she could imbue so much demand and so much pleading into so few words, he did not know.

“I told her I’d protect you.” his voice was hoarse and quiet. “Wasn’t strong enough, smart enough. She died because of me.” He choked on the last word and fell silent.

He didn’t know what reaction he was expecting with that admission, maybe a tithe of the contempt he felt for himself, but Dawn had always been full of surprises. She just smiled at him, a weak, trembling one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Funny, I was just upstairs telling myself the same thing.”

His golden eyes melted into blue. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said under his breath, quietly but vehemently.

Dawn rocked back against the fridge, leaning slightly against his shoulder. “That’s what they all say, too.” She didn’t seem to put much stock in ‘their’ words.

“Want me to eat them?” The half joke was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but at least it drew a half-smile from the girl.

“No. But thanks.” And like that, her smile was gone again, chased away by guilt and a slew of memories no teenager should have to shoulder. “Spike, I don’t want… Please don’t try that again.” She didn’t look up, hair tumbling across her face, hiding her features from view.

The new guilt mingled with the old, tying them together into one. Spike could only nod in resignation.

He owed her. He owed her more than he could ever repay.

“‘Til the end of the world,” he had said. Spike grabbed those words like a life raft and held on with all the strength he had left.

He had promised. He would do everything he could to protect her.

“‘Til the end of the world,” even though a part of him wished that it would happen to be that night.