---

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part nine - the double-edged sword

---

Spike was NOT happy.

The minute he'd walked into the house--still laughing at Buffy's little slip-up--Giles had practically attacked him, dragging him into the kitchen. When the rest of the gang had entered (and Spike hadn't failed to notice that Xander was seething with hatred whenever the boy wasn't pretending to avert his eyes), Giles had already been well into questioning him about his trip.

He'd relayed the information the best he could -- after all, everything had gone a bit fuzzy since he'd received his soul. Though it was clearer now than it had been the first week, it was still all hazy. Needless to say, Giles had been absolutely fascinated.

"Where did you hear of this legend? How did you manage to get to Africa? What was the name of the tribe that took you in? Where was the cave? What were the tasks you had to accomplish? Why aren't you dead?"

Actually, the last one had been from Xander, which had managed to earn him a dirty look from Buffy and Dawn both. And those were just a few of the many questions that he'd been bombarded with. Luckily, the doorbell had rang, announcing the delivery boy's arrival with the food, effectively cutting Giles's interrogation short.

Thank the Lord that there had been a lot of really good food, and five extremely tired, extremely hungry White Hats present. By the time Spike had finished shredding his sweet-and-sour pork into tiny little pieces with his molars and incisors, Giles had nearly collapsed from exhaustion on the couch with a cup of tea (thankfully not in hand when he actually did collapse -- that would have been painful.)

He sighed with relief when Anya and Xander shoved off, and the rest of the house went to sleep. Buffy hadn't been able to meet his eyes for the rest of the night, and though it amused him greatly when he remembered why, her actions were all-too-familiar, painful reminders of her attitude toward him... before. Naturally, he was more than happy to have some time alone to himself.

He still loved her; this was a given. He couldn't just stop loving her, after all. But now it seemed that she had a thing for him, and he couldn't make heads or tails of it. Granted, he'd known that she'd fancied him for quite a long while -- that pre-wedding couple-ness that Willow's spell had tossed them into... as well as the kisses... and the groping... had somehow managed to bombard his mind when he'd least expected it.

It would be a terrible, awful lie if he said that he hadn't enjoyed some of the... er, situations that his extremely creative imagination had placed them in after that. And he knew Buffy would be lying if she said she'd never thought about it. Ten to one, she'd imagined the feel of Spike's hands and body every time Captain America hadn't been able to launch her the right way. She should have just come to terms with it -- Riley, as a mortal, just could not live up to the sexual stamina of the Slayer. A couple of thrusts, and Riley would've been shot for the night, while (as Buffy had learned not too long ago) Spike could, in fact, go all night long.

Ahem. Not gonna think about that, he mentally admonished himself. He was supposed to be trying to figure out why Buffy, after years of rejection--not to mention mental and physical abuse--had suddenly decided he was the hot and yummy, perfect, loving boyfriend-type after all. Gah... the woman drove him absolutely mad.

It figures, mate. You finally accept that the Slayer's not gonna actually love you, and here she goes, meddlin' things up again inside your head!

ARGH! He HATED it when she did this to him! As if she hadn't tossed him in and out with the damned mind games last year!

He'd been wondering how to deal with the situation of his feelings for Buffy, should extenuating circumstances have brought him face to face with her. Well, he'd been right there with her, in the flesh, for the last seventy-two successive hours or more. And his decision was weighing even more heavily on his nerves. Usually it was Buffy who pulled the, 'I need to be strong, I can't live by my emotions' bullshit that usually resulted in her receiving a spectacular ass-kicking, but now it was Spike's turn. And he had no doubt that his feisty little girl wasn't going to be too pleased about it. After all, if Spike refused his daily routine Kick-The-Puppy job, who was that going to leave Buffy with?

Well, Harris, maybe, but the prat was human, for one -- wouldn't be able to take it. And second, he was still trying to get back into Anyanka's good graces in the hopes she wouldn't build an 'I Hate Xander' fan club and use her powers to fricassee him. Although it would be enormously hilarious to see the self-righteous little prat run screaming down the street with his head on fire.

He shook his head and made headway for the kitchen. He needed something comforting, something soothing, something loving...

Sigh. He needed Joyce. The woman had always managed to be there for him... even though she hadn't exactly been pleased with the truth of Spike's feelings for Buffy toward the end. Still, she'd been as good to him as his own mum had been. Just then, he could have sworn his heart had suddenly, painfully pulsed with the desperate edge of regret for not getting the chance to smooth things over with her before she'd passed. He missed Joyce -- truly, truly missed her. The elder Summers woman had been one-of-a-kind and, despite the fact that the Slayer and her friends hadn't deemed him worthy to be informed of her untimely (and unfair) demise, she had taken away a part of him. She'd taken away part of the humanity still inside of him, part of the humanity that she, and Dawn, and Buffy had managed to replace.

God. He really wished that there was a way to bring the woman back. He really needed to unload. And he really needed her hot chocolate.

What the hell was he bitching for? She'd shown him the recipe, for Christ's sake! He smiled wryly to himself. She'd shown her family recipe to him, so he could make it. She'd shown it to Dawn as well, the cocoa being the only thing the teenager could really make without somehow managing to set fire to the curtains all the way on the other side of the kitchen from the stove. But Joyce hadn't shown the recipe to Buffy. And frankly, he still couldn't understand why.

Maybe it was because Buffy possessed that remarkable ability to burn water in a pan. Spike's shoulders slumped, the melancholy feeling once again invading his thoughts. Or maybe Joyce had thought that Buffy would never live long enough to pass it on.

Gathering all the necessary tools and ingredients, Spike set to work, and within minutes, he was sitting down at the island, his head bowed, his hands around the warm, fulfilling mug.

Mentally, he asked himself if this was all worth it. All of this, going to Africa in the first place, coming back to Sunnydale, coming here, to the Slayer's home, yards away from where he'd actually had the nerve to... "convince" her to love him, all to end up with his chip out of his head, and a soul that made him regret ever having been brought into the world.

The only reason he had stayed here tonight was because Dawn had batted those beautiful blue eyes at him and begged him to.

He smiled gently when he thought of Dawn. He wouldn't admit it out loud to anyone who wasn't her, or Buffy for that matter (and probably not even them), but he absolutely adored the girl. He'd been wary of her when Dawn had deemed him 'cool' and had started visiting him at the crypt, when he realized that she found him intriguing and knew she wasn't afraid. Oh, no, not his little Dawnie. Never afraid of him. He had a fond recollection (though he knew it wasn't real) from years before when he'd offered his deal to Buffy for Dru. When Joyce had driven up behind them, he hadn't seen the little brown-haired girl in the back, but her yelp of surprise when Buffy and Spike had destroyed Angelus' minion had clued him in -- the Slayer had a younger sister. When they'd all gone inside the house following Buffy's announcement of her identity, Spike recalled being alternately amused and irritated at the sight of a pair of glimmering blue eyes, gazing defiantly at him from the living room doorway. Dawn, in typical rebellious preteen fashion, had turned her nose up at her mother's request for her to go to bed, opting instead to see "what latest fashion crisis Sunnydale decided to spit out now."

He chuckled silently when he recalled the indignant snort he'd given her, coming quite close to threatening to eat her before realizing that a very formidable duo of mother and Slayer were in the room, and that there were more pressing matters at hand.

When he thought of Dawn... it was worth coming back. It was worth the dirty looks Harris gave him, the furtive, unsure frowns Giles sent his way, the fishhooks that tended to affect Anya's eyebrows from memories of their last... meeting, the slight anxiety that radiated from Red, and Buffy's tentative glances and general uneasiness. Dawn was the closest thing he had to a sister, and she had been the only one that hadn't shunned him for what he physically was, aside from Joyce. Dawn was worth it. And he owed that girl a lot.

Speak of the devil.

"Spike?" A soft, sleepy voice came from the doorway. The blond tilted his head up curiously, frowning slightly when he saw Dawn.

"Dawn-luv? What're you doin' up?"

Dawn shrugged, rubbing her left arm. "I wasn't tired," she said, yawning.

Spike smirked. "Is that so, pet?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Okay, so I wanted to come see you when Giles wasn't making an absolute lunatic of himself for information. Don't tell me you weren't glad to see him finally go to sleep?"

Spike held up his hands, smiling gently. "Caught me. What'd you wanna see me for, Bitlet?"

She stumbled toward him, yelping and cringing as her bare feet came in contact with the cold kitchen floor. She plopped down with little grace onto a stool next to him before resting her head on his arm. "Just wanted to see how you were holding up. You looked fine when you first got here, but you got quieter as Giles's grilling went on." She smiled at him slightly, looking up. "He's always yelling at Anya for not having any tact, but it's kinda the pot calling the kettle black, you know?"

Spike sighed, shaking his head. "Better believe I do."

He became silent then, and stayed that way for so long that Dawn thought he'd nearly frozen on her. Gently, she nudged him in the side. "Well? Are you?"

He glanced at her. "Am I what?"

"Okay. All right. Calm. Peaceful, serene. You know, the opposite of what Giles made you feel?"

Spike snorted. "Don't know if there's a full recovery from that, Bit. But yeh... 'm all right. Better'n I have been, last coupla weeks."

Dawn sat up. "Is it 'cos of being here, with me and Buffy? Or is it the soul?"

Spike raised his eyebrows, contemplating it for a moment. "Normally, I'd say it was the soul, full stop. Angel was one thing - I was something completely different. Angel was forced to accept his soul, I got mine back, my original one, on my own. I just figured... it might be different for me. I killed people, I know I did. An' I feel guilt, I do. But for all I've done, I was never as bad as Angelus. I had my moments, yeh, but I don' think anyone could've passed up Peaches in the evil department. But to answer your question, ducks, I think 's both. Soul's more'n common sense, you know. 'S... instinct, almost. Bein' here, 'round you an' Buffy, bein' back here in this bloody Godforsaken little town... Make's it better. Just a little bit."

Dawn leaned her arm on the countertop to stare at him properly. "Spike? Are you glad you came back to Sunnydale?"

Spike smiled, reaching his hand up to muss up Dawn's already messy hair. "Nibblet. When I see you, an' when I see Buffy... I don't think I could ever be more glad." An enormous smile broke out over Dawn's face, and she giggled in agreement at Spike's next words: "Still bloody hate this town, though."

"I always expect you to," Dawn answered, eyes twinkling. She brightened slightly as she noticed Spike's mug. "Is that Mom's hot chocolate? Is there more? Or did you drink it all?"

He waved vaguely in the direction of the stove. "There's more. 'S in the pan. Figured I'd leave some for the lot of you, but if you drink it all... well, more's the pity, eh? 'S not my fault."

Dawn snorted as she wandered to the cupboard, snatching out a mug before meandering toward the stove, and pouring whatever remained of the hot chocolate into it. "Oh, sure! Blame it all on me!"

Spike raised his eyebrow at her, nodding to the now-empty saucepan. "It is all your fault. You just snatched the rest of it, pet."

"Minor technicalities."

Spike leaned forward on the island, putting his head in his hands. "'m gonna have to make more, aren't I?"

Dawn grinned. "Yuh-huh."

"Get the milk out, Nibs," he ordered, pushing himself out from under the countertop, standing up and shuffling to the stove to continue slave labor. He heard another derisive snort and turned to the side to look at Dawn, whose arms were folded tightly across her chest.

"I don't wanna get the milk. I wanna pour the Hershey's. Then you can put in the milk and chocolate chunk bits," she announced clearly, head high.

Spike scowled. Okay. Maybe he hadn't missed Dawn all that much. "Dawn, just get the milk, 's not gonna kill ya."

"Yes, it will," she replied cheerily.

His frown deepened, and he moved toward a cupboard to get the chocolate sauce. "All 'm asking for is the bloody milk, Dawn. Now, be a perfect little love, and get it."

"Not with you ordering me around like that."

Spike closed his eyes as he pulled out the contents necessary, before standing up straight and squaring his shoulders. "I take it, then, that you want me to inform Buffy of a certain incident involving, say, your mum's old Jeep?"

That did it. Pretty eyes widened and Dawn raced for the fridge, dancing back to him with the milk carton in hand. "Got it!" she said, a painful-looking smile stretched wide across her face. Spike smirked, taking it from her and pouring the right amount of milk into the saucepan before handing it back to her. Dawn dutifully returned the container back to the refrigerator's cool confines, then remained silent and at attention at Spike's side when she returned.

After about a minute, while watching him break off pieces of chocolate, she spoke up again. Pretty damn good. She lasted a whole fifteen seconds more'n last time. "So... can I pour the Hershey's now?"

Spike snatched the bottle to his chest protectively. "No."

Dawn's eyes widened, and she immediately made a grab for it. "Please?"

"No! You'll bugger it up somehow an' I'll end up covered in it!"

Dawn tugged harder. "No you won't! You're safe from the chocolate sauce, I promise! Just lemme pour it!"

Spike held on as tight as he could, not noticing when the cap popped off. Dawn pulled the bottle to her slowly but surely, her feet slipping along underneath her, pulling her towards Spike. Spike gritted his teeth, tugging it back. It was amazing, really. Dawn was almost matching him in strength, and she didn't even have any of the powers of a Slayer.

Unfortunately, Dawn apparently really did hold a woman's prerogative to change her mind, and she suddenly decided that her arms were becoming sore from the impromptu tug-of-Hershey's-war. Which meant letting go of the bottle. Causing Spike to tighten his hold on it and stumble backwards, squirting himself right in the face, from slick blonde hair to muscular white neck. With chocolate. Room-temperature, sticky, brown, incredibly-hard-to-wash-out chocolate sauce.

Dawn's eyes widened. Not just from the incredibly huge mistake of inadvertently pouring chocolate over Spike, but... well... Chocolate-Covered Spike. It just had a really nice ring to it.

Spike scowled at her. "Safe from the chocolate sauce, eh?"

Dawn grinned sheepishly. "Well... you would have been if you'd have just let me pour it."

"Nibblet..."

"Sorry..."

"What's going on down here?" a new voice, laced with a wide yawn, popped out from the otherwise silent kitchen. Spike and Dawn both turned to witness a pink-jammies clad Willow, stumbling barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes. She froze when she saw the brown liquid mass formerly known as Spike. For a second (through chocolate-smeared eyes), Spike thought he saw a tiny smirk quirk her lips. Then, slowly, without missing a beat, she turned and headed toward the living room.

"Buffy! Dawn melted Spike!"

---

Buffy closed her eyes, her head resting in one of the hands she had leaning on the kitchen counter. After Willow's slightly amused summons, she'd raced down the stairs in a blind panic expecting to find a pile of ash on the floor, considering that when vampires melted... well, they didn't turn into a big puddle of formerly human goo. She knew he could take care of himself; he didn't need the Big Bad Slayer to fuss and coddle him... it didn't stop her from worrying, though.

Okay, so really, it was no use trying to delude herself. The face must hide what the heart doth know. Or something like that. It was from Macbeth--she knew that much--and she probably got it wrong anyway, but what was wrong with a little modifying? Anyway, she knew very well that it was full-fledged terror that had been stampeding through her veins when Willow had called her down. She'd honestly thought that Dawn had somehow managed to light the vampire on fire, and she'd be seeing nothing but the really dusty version of Spike's impromptu attempt to Play Dead.

Instead, she'd gotten all worked up and scared, only to find a chocolate-covered Spike -- so not what she needed to see, especially the way she'd been feeling around him lately. Sex dream about Spike, coupled with the shock of seeing him looking absolutely yummy covered in chocolate sauce kinda made things worse.

So now, she was trying to find a way to get back to sleep and trying to calm her frazzled nerves. Not that she'd been sleeping all that well in the first place. Spike knew about her dream, the smug bastard, and though he'd obviously been amused, he had—somehow unexpectedly—decided not not to push it with her. He hadn't said a thing about it, and it was really, really... surprising. Well, it shouldn't have been, really. He was still Spike; he just had a soul now.

He must have inherited the tact he'd formerly had right along with it.

Stop being mean! the Pro-Spike side of her brain scolded. If it wasn't for you playing push-and-pull with him, he could've been nicer without the soul. You forced him to get it, so now if he's all kind and gentle and nice and weepy, then it's your fault, so you get to deal with it!

She's got a point, said the other. Even if he is obsessive and freaky and downright scary sometimes, you pulled him further into it, and into your own messed up life. Suck it up and stop trying to trade it off already!

Great. Even the Anti-Spike side was against her. I thought you hated him and everything he stood for! she accused angrily.

Anti-Spike sighed and rolled her not-really-there eyes. I did. Till you warped him, and he got a soul. Plus, now that I think about it, he is pretty hot. I can see why you listened to her so much last year, she finished, gesturing to Pro-Spike.

Pro-Spike jumped up and down, clapping her hands giddily. I KNEW you'd see it my way sooner or later! Score one for me!

Buffy's head jerked and she lifted her face up from where it had fallen into the table. Okay. This mental conversation was getting a little too freaky, even for She-Who-Hangs-Out-In-Cemeteries. Seven years of really crappy relationships combined with the paranormal and the abnormal, not to mention the whole slaying gig and constantly arguing with her inner self (or selves, in this case) was enough to make anyone beg for a lifetime in the local mental institute.

Fortunately, she wasn't completely there yet. She figured she had about one more apocalypse to go before she was allowed to be dragged in, kicking and screaming. It was times kinda like this when she wondered why the Other World hadn't worked out. Then she remembered -- Big Stinky Demon with a habit of stabbing and filling someone with hallucinogens.

Apparently, she'd managed to bore Pro-And-Anti-Spike with her train-derailing-the-track thought processes. They were both crying out, in a subtle sort of way, for more Spike.

Well, they were just going to have to survive without any. Spike-thoughts were bound to make her head hurt. Not like it didn't already, but she was definitely feeling end-of-the-world sized migraine potential here.

"Pet?"

Strike that, make it universal annihilation.

Wearily, she glanced up, then jumped back when she realized just how close to her he really was. "God! Don't do that! It was annoying without the soul, and it still is with it!"

That's it, be Snarky!Bitch!Buffy. Ignore the fact that the Blue Eyes from Hell are boring right through you. Don't pay any attention to the fact that his hair's all wet and mussed and curly. Stay away from the ideas that are popping into your head because he's obviously still wet from his shower. Don't look at the way that T-shirt is practically molded to his chest, and don't think about the fact that his jeans are so tight that -- Ack!

Spike snorted mirthlessly. "Good to know 've still got what it takes to make you nervous." Buffy squawked indignantly, but Spike, rolling his eyes, continued. "Shut up, would you? I need to talk to you about something."

She had half a mind to squawk even more, and then punch him in the nose for telling her to shut up, but there was something in his voice that made her... well, shut up. She frowned. "What is it?"

Spike sighed, scratching his head. His little fiasco with the kitchenware and Dawn had tossed his mind right off the track it had been driving on... not like it had actually stayed there for very long when the AD part of his ADHD had kicked in... But he'd had enough time to himself in the shower to think about it now.

It was time that he started to think about things without Buffy obnoxiously shoving her way through everything he said and did. He had a soul now -- he really didn't want to be Depression Guy, and he'd stake himself if he got all broody like his grandsire -- and damned if he did, damned if he didn't, he was going to use it to its full potential. No more living life trotting after the Slayer as her lap dog. No more letting everyone else walk all over him, especially that pansy, Harris. He loved Buffy -- he would always love her -- but he was finally going to move on. Whether he had to lie his ass off about it or not.

Considering he'd had over a hundred and twenty years of being twenty-six to grow up, he thought it was pretty damn amazing that he'd finally done it. Love's Bitch was no more.

" 'm over you."

---

"Gwah?"

Buffy's jaw had flapped open. Vaguely, she became aware of this, and managed to snap it shut again, but words failed her, and her mouth began opening and closing like a trout gasping for water. Eventually, she managed to draw out something that was classified as human speech.

"O-Over me?" As opposed to when you were under me? Ooh. Bad Buffy.

Spike bit his lip. Eek. He looked nervous. This wasn't good. The only other time he had ever looked nervous was the first time he'd told her he loved her, and she'd rejected his pleas for a crumb with a resounding "No," and a punch to the face.

Crap. This meant he was telling her the truth. Not the snarky, 'Kick my ass if you don't like it' truth, but the 'I'm being as honest as possible, and I'm sorry' truth.

Breathing. Calm. Don't hyperventilate. Maybe you misheard him. Over you? Bah! This is Spike! He doesn't get over anyone!

"Yeah. 'm over you." The widening of her eyes, not to mention the stunned, murderous look in them aroused his self-preservation instincts and he instantly backed away, hands up in surrender. "It's nothing you did, pet, I swear it. I love you, I do, I always will." He looked up at her, biting his lip again. "Don't think I could survive if I didn't."

It was out -- that had been the first time he'd said he loved her since she'd discovered him at the crypt. He hadn't even told her that when he had relayed his journey to her. Buffy swallowed heavily.

This... this wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to do this to her. She was supposed to be the one that always broke up with him, not the other way around! Not that they were together. Not together equaled no breaking up-age. But still... he was the one calling for the end-age of their... non-relationshippy relationship... thing. It felt like her heart was being ripped out.

Spike was supposed to be the one who'd stay.

He seemed to be reading her mind. " 'm not goin' anywhere, luv," he murmured gently, coming forward again and kneeling in front of her. He took her hands and tentatively covered them with his own, relaxing a little when she didn't flinch, jerk them away or punch him. " 'm still gonna be right here in Sunnyhell. 'm still gonna be here whenever you an' Bitlet need me." He glanced up at her, his eyes begging and pleading. "But I can't wait for you, Buffy. I can't just sit there anymore an' hope that everything you say or do in front of me is one day gonna magically tell me that you love me."

Her world was shattering. "B-But..." I do love you! Ask me! I'll tell you! I swear I will, just don't go! Don't leave me like the others! she wanted to cry out. The best she came up with was, "Why? I mean... you know about my dream, so... why?"

A fond smile crossed his lips. "It's not the dream, luv, though 'm flattered you still think about me that way." He looked up at her then, solemnly, all his adoration and devotion still conveyed plainly in his eyes. His answer broke her heart. " 'S because I need to live. I love you more'n life itself, Buffy, more'n anything 've ever loved in this world. But 've got to move on. This thing... between us, whatever it is... 's not going anywhere. Never will, because you don't love me, an' I don't expect you to. I don't deserve your love." He took a deep breath. " 'm not leavin' forever, pet. 'm always gonna be one crypt away, whenever you need me."

He stood up, and suddenly, Buffy panicked. Despite his assurances that he wasn't leaving Sunnydale, that he would still be around for patrolling or for assisting to take down the next apocalypse, or hell, even for keeping a promise to Dawn for a game of cards, she desperately reached for his hand when he turned to leave the kitchen. The familiar electric bolt made itself known, leaping between their bodies with enough power to send them flying apart. Spike turned back, his lower lip trembling, with questioning eyes.

Buffy sucked her lower lip in self-consciously. She nearly withdrew her hand and reverted to Self-Righteous Bitch!Buffy, but all at once, Pro-And-Anti-Spike began bombarding her mind. Say it! Don't let him walk away! Say it, Buffy, say it! shrieked Pro-Spike, while Anti-Spike hollered Don't you dare pull the bitch card! I will give you such a migraine if you even think of pulling the bitch card! As if to reinforce that threat, she felt a twinge of pain along her temples. Oh, Lord, her voices were manifesting themselves.

Well, as long as they didn't turn her into Drusilla. They'd made their points loud and clear.

She swallowed hard, squeezing his hand gently. "Please don't leave, Spike?"

Spike's back went rigid -- she could feel him tense right through her connection with his hand. He straightened and looked down at her. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. "Give me a reason."

She frowned. "What?" Okay, weird. She'd thought that by simply asking him, he'd automatically turn back, scoop her into his arms and plaster kisses all over her face, telling her he wouldn't abandon her after all.

"Give me a reason why you want me to stay," he repeated. "I'm not giving you an ultimatum, luv. Not intentionally. I'm just asking... if you feel anything for me... at all. If you can even give me the slightest hint that one day, you could ever... care for me..." His gaze turned pleading. "Buffy, please. If there's any part of you at all that could ever love me, tell me now. Please. Don't let me walk away from you, I'm beggin' you."

It was so obvious to her now that he didn't truly want to leave her. She knew instantly, no matter what he said, that he would never, could never truly be over her. He wanted to stay with her, wanted to be given a reason to stay so he wouldn't completely break her, even if he had to wait for an eternity to hear something affectionate from her. He wanted hope, and at least the tiniest bit of kindness. That was all. And Buffy had the answer he wanted. Pro-Spike was hollering her head off now. This is your chance! Tell him! TELL HIM! Tell him you love him!

Buffy started to open her mouth... and nothing happened.

Spike swallowed roughly, taking that as his response. "Right." He ducked his head, refusing to look at her. "Shouldn't've gotten me hopes up." He smiled at the floor grimly, drawing a deep breath. "I mean, even with the bloody soul, 'm a horrible thing. Can't see why you would." He heard her draw a sharp breath and start to speak, but held his hand up. "Don't. Please, Buffy. Just... let me have the little bit of dignity I have left. Okay?" He looked up and smiled weakly. " 'S better this way, anyway. You wanted normal, right? Vampire who willingly got his soul back... not exactly normal."

He leaned down, kissing her forehead. " 'll see you 'round, sweetheart."

He walked out the backdoor, not looking back.

And Buffy stared in stunned silence after the man she'd just let pass her by.

---

Spike had nearly made it to his crypt before he'd broken down. His shoulders began heaving and shaking, and he began breathing heavily, uncontrollably, nearly hyperventilating. By the time he'd made it to the cemetery gates, he was full on sobbing, resting his head against the wrought-iron gates and gasping out his agony.

Leaving Buffy the way he had was most definitely the hardest thing he'd ever done. It had to be -- he hadn't cried this hard since her funeral. Now, telling her he was over her, accepting that he had to move on, was getting to be his biggest regret.

How could he ever move on from Buffy?

And, after all, if he was so over her... then why was his heart breaking into infinitesimal pieces on the ground?

When his sobs had slowed to whimpers, and the whimpers to sniffles, he entered the cemetery, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands furiously. He hated this -- he hated every single bit of it. Why couldn't the bitch come down off of her pedestal for just ONE second and admit what Spike had known since the minute he'd first laid eyes on her? Why couldn't she ignore her stupid sacred duty bullshit spiel and her even more idiotic friends' opinions about him for once, and just admit that she loved him?

But fine. If she didn't want to say it... well, he couldn't force her. Maybe, one day, she'd learn to think for herself. Maybe one day, she'd stop listening to everyone else's convictions and admit it, to him, and herself.

And when that day came... wherever he was, whatever he was doing, whoever he was with... he'd drop it or them in a heartbeat and race straight back for her. What could he say? He was a complicated man, but he did have simple needs and a simple life. There was only ever going to be one woman who could twist his heart around, put it through the grinder, before taking it out and soothing the sores, and succeed in only making him love her more. No one was ever going to take Buffy's place.

He was so intent on his thoughts that he walked straight past Clem, resulting also in not hearing his name being called by the good-natured, floppy-skinned demon the first, oh, ten times he'd shouted it.

It finally took Clem diving in front of him and springing his own version of a game face on Spike to make the bleach-blond stop in place, blinking in surprise. "Clem? What's wrong, mate?" he asked, frowning.

Clem panted. "I've been trying to get your attention for the last minute! Where have you been?"

Spike's eyebrows drew themselves together, creasing. "At Buffy's, why?" Then he grimaced. "Could you put away the tentacles?"

Clem shook his head frantically, retracting into his normal features, then looked at Spike worriedly. "I only went out for a half-hour, Spike, I swear. I don't know who did it, but the crypt is completely destroyed. I came back, and the whole place was leveled, nothing was standing straight up!"

Spike's eyes widened, and he spun, sprinting toward the general vicinity of his home. Vaguely, he heard Clem padding along behind him, trying to keep up, but he refused to slow down until he saw it for himself.

And yes -- there it was. Or rather, there it had been. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around frantically in hopes of seeing something that wasn't completely destroyed. Launching himself on to the rubble, he began digging, sifting the powder away until he found the hole in the ground that had led to his basement bedroom. Climbing down (for some reason, the ladder had been left intact), he stood still and gazed around in absolute horror.

It was all gone. Nothing had been left whole. Not one. Sodding. Thing. His home had been destroyed.

He was homeless.

He laughed bitterly at the cruel irony of it. He'd put out so many people, killed them, destroyed them, right along with their houses, and he'd reveled in it, reveled in their fear and grief... And now someone had done the exact same thing to him, short of killing him.

He'd nearly lost his sanity. He'd lost any ideals of a relationship with Buffy. He'd lost his home. He had nothing left. He'd lost everything.

He turned and climbed back up the ladder, scrambling over the remains of his domain, when he tripped, fell forward on his hands, and saw something half-hidden by the debris. If memory served him correctly, it had been taken by Willow sometime after the Birthday Party That Wouldn't End last year. A week after Dawn had been set back down firmly on the straight and narrow, but only a few days before he and Buffy had broken up.

Shrugging off the bad memories, he smiled and picked up the slightly torn picture of himself and Dawn scowling menacingly at the camera, her wearing plastic fangs and make-up, and himself in game face, baring his teeth while the Buffy in the background had her arms crossed and leaned haughtily against the wall, her raised eyebrows and annoyed demeanor making her exasperation with them clear.

Okay. So maybe he hadn't lost everything.

He tucked the picture into his back pocket as Clem stumbled over to him. "Is there anything left?" the demon asked tentatively, tilting his head.

Spike pursed his lips together gently, patting his back pocket and sighing. Slowly, he nodded and smiled. "One thing." Suddenly, he frowned. "No idea who did this? Nobody new that's got a grudge against me?"

Clem shook his head. "Not that I remember. I just came back from getting some chips" -- he held up the slightly crinkled orange bag -- "at the local demon-mart, and it was like this."

Spike shook his head. "Looks like 'm gonna have to go house-huntin'," he said, a wry smile twisting his lips. Then he frowned again. "Where the hell am I gonna stay?"

Clem scrunched up his face -- the only time that he looked more human than demon -- in thought, then snapped his fingers. "Why don't you try Buffy? She'd take you in, wouldn't she?"

Spike paused -- all physical motion and all mental thoughts came to a complete stand-still. Then he scowled and glared up at the sky, cursing the Powers That Be. "You bloody ponces think you're funny as hell, doncha?!" he roared. Clem stared at him in confusion until Spike shook his head. "C'mon, Clem. Looks like we both need a good home. Hope the Slayer doesn't mind a coupla strays." He scowled at the sky again. "Bloody imbeciles."

Clem shrugged, unfurling the bag of Doritos and pulling out a handful, feasting on them hungrily as he followed Spike back to Revello Drive.

---

Behind the trees that surrounded the area beyond Spike's former crypt, a pair of alarmingly bright green eyes followed the vampire and the floppy-eared demon's progress, an eager, wicked smirk curling her lips.

When she'd come across Angel all those years ago, it had been absolute jubilation for her. Manipulating him in his situation with the newly-human yet dying Darla had been a non-stop pleasure. And it was even more fun when he took the insanity she'd dosed him with a step further and allowed Darla and Drusilla a full lawyer buffet.

She hadn't appeared in her physical form, of course -- that would've been too obvious. She'd simply changed to one of her animal forms and had attacked his mind with hers. She'd invoked the lunacy that had resulted in him abandoning his odd human "friends."

It was going to be fun trying to see what would take down Spike. She had followed him all the way from Africa, the second she had sensed the glaringly obvious neon glow-in-the-dark 'I HAVE A SOUL -- TORTURE ME!' sign pointing at the vampire's head.

But Spike seemed stronger than that idiot Angel. Smarter, no doubt. It would be difficult trying to turn him around.

But she was going to try her damnedest.

Now all she had to do was lure him in. Bit by bit. Before destroying every little bit of what made this pathetic facade of a life with mortals worthwhile. Crying over the Slayer of all people? Pah. Spike was a Vampire, a Master Vampire at that. The Slayer should be bowing down on her scrawny little legs, begging him to eat her and make it painful.

Well. She was around now. And she was going to make sure that Spike remembered what being a proper vampire was like.

Now. What to do about that pesky soul.

She chuckled. "Oh, dear. This will be fun."



To be continued...