Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 14 &15.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae* and Science
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."

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Chapter 44

I Don’t Want To Fight Tonight

15 December 2000

Was a time when killing the Slayer was what I thought I wanted most. Turns out I was wrong.

I want her.

God, I want her.

I want to pound on her, until we’re both bruised and sore and aching. I want to shag her until her throat’s raw from screaming my name before I sink my fangs in her and mark her as mine. I want her to ride me until I’m broken, wrap those glorious little legs around me and trap me inside her so deep I’ll never get out.

I’ll never want to. Never leave her.

Fuck.

Know none of that’ll ever happen.

Monster, right?

Shouldn’t even want it. But I do. So much it hurts sometimes, to have her so near, so warm, just within reach, and not be able to touch her.

Still, in a way, I’ve got her. In her dreams, she’s mine.

Turns out just sitting on a bed and talking to her—well, listening to her talk and doing my best to communicate with a sodding two word vocabulary—could go for a long time on that. Girl's got a brain in there, which anyone could see if they'd bother to look past the dumb bint routine she uses so well. Times like that I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from answering her back. I want to… bloody hell, I want to reassure her that she's not as damaged as she thinks. Tell her how strong she is, how gorgeous, how much she shines. Tell her that Finn was a moron to do what he did, and Angel was worse—because she’s worth it all. She’s worth fighting for. I want to make her see her like I do.

God, she’s got me so bloody twisted.

Bloody hell.

Last night… said I was her best friend.

Don't really believe that. Girl's got the Scoobies, after all. And she needs them to keep her going. It's not right, her being shut up in the dark with a vampire for a confidant, though I know myself well enough to know that I'd try to keep her here, if I thought this was all I was ever gonna get—it'd kill both of us, but the demon's selfish enough to do it. And William's desperate enough not to fight too hard.

But her calling me a friend… it's a crumb of hope. Means that if I can get her to see Spike the same way she feels about Mr. G… there's a chance.

A chance maybe I can live on the fringes of her light. Chance that maybe…

Just… maybe…

And right now, maybe is just enough.

***

16 December 2000

Today was… almost perfect.

Discovered Harmony had left me a grand total of three shirts, so I took the sewers over to Sunnydale's massive shopping centre. I'd hunted there, once or twice, back before the chip, but since then I've come to appreciate the back way into the cinema there from the sewers.

Somehow, despite Harmony's little display the other day, I'd managed to forget that it's nearly bloody Christmas. Sodding humans everywhere. Luckily men's clothing sections are almost always deserted. Was just gonna grab some more black cotton shirts when a blue one caught my eye.

Maybe if I changed how I looked a little, Slayer'd see that I wasn't the old, fangy, out-for-Slayer-blood Spike? Worth a shot, yeah?

Was in the middle of trying it on when the she walked round the corner and found me.

Wasn't exactly how I'd planned our next meeting. I'd been practising an apology of sorts, for hurting her by showing her what a wanker Finn was. Though I was having a hard time trying to figure out how to go about it—can’t actually recall the last time I apologised for something. She hadn't said much to Mr. G about how she felt about me being the one to take her there, but I figured there was probably some residual resentment. Besides… remember how I felt when I found out about Dru and that fucking chaos demon. Killed the little bastard that told me, I was so brassed off. I wouldn't have put it past her to punch me in the nose for it, at least.

Instead we had a conversation. A real one. Without nose punching.

Finn hadn't even told her he'd staked me, which was another surprise. And she acted like him staking me bothered her—though, come to think of it, torture's not really her cuppa. She's more of a beat 'em to a pulp and leave 'em type.

Had to bollix it up by forgetting we were supposed to be enemies, and asking her opinion about bloody shirts, of all things. Still… watching her pet the black one had me imagining her hands running all over me. Couldn't pass up the chance to tease her a bit, then, could I? Love how flustered she gets when her hormones overpower her Slayer instincts. She might be strong enough break my back with a pipe organ, but underneath that… she’s just a girl, and if I’ve learned anything over the past century it’s how to flirt with females until their thighs quiver.

Course, I used to use it to catch my dinner, but there’s something satisfying about being able to use it on Buffy just to make her blush.

When she said she wanted me to stick with her and her mates so she could keep an eye on me, the demon in me thought about arguing, till William reminded it that we used to do the same for Dru: shop and carry. Not so different. Besides, it would give me a chance to show I could get along with her chums and stay out of trouble.

Which meant, of course, that I had to actually pay for my new wardrobe. Well, the part of it she’d seen me trying on, anyway.

Her chums didn't put up much of a ruckus about me coming along once they realised they had themselves a willing packhorse. The day I seriously whinge about carrying a few dozen shopping sacks for four beautiful girls is the day I stake myself for being more of a poofter than Angelus. Women shop, men carry the sacks. That's how it's been since the days of the bloody cavemen, and besides, William gets off on being a gentleman. Demon gets off on ribbing them when I can, teasing Red about her cookies, or Tara about Red. All while getting to follow downwind of the Slayer, drenched in her scent, and watching her sweet ass twitch under her tight little slacks.

If it hadn't been for the sodding crowds, it might have been a good time. The damned chip, of course, can't recognise the difference between "lemme through" and "knock 'em down"… probably because it's hard not to be thinking the one when doing the other. Aside from a few minor shocks, though, day was going well.

Then it got better.

Never figured there were Christmas demons, since it's not really a demon holiday. Used to be because everyone suddenly got religious and you couldn't turn around without burning yourself on something, then it got to be habit, I think. Most demons don't bother—besides, it's not a holiday for us, is it? Don't think ol' Christ died for all of my sins, and if he did, he probably should have done it a couple of more times to make sure he covered everything, cause I've got a hundred plus years and some real whoppers. Of course, there's a demon for pretty much anything, so it stands to reason Christmas would have one or two berks who take advantage of all that it's got to offer.

Was a bit surprised when the Slayer couldn't see what I saw hovering behind the ugly bastard in the cheap Santa costume people were lining up to have their kids photos taken with. Any other time of the year a man who encourages hundreds of children to bounce on his knee and to whisper what they want in his ear so he can sneak in their houses at night and give it to them would be marked as a pervert. At Christmas he gets to be a bleeding' saint. Seemed sort of appropriate that he'd have a demon at his shoulder.

Big, ugly bastard, too. One of those kind that makes me glad I'm only a half breed and get to stay good looking for eternity. Honestly, I think that's why the full bloods hate us so much. Probably why the PTB took away our reflections, too. Wankers.

Tall, dark, and horny was crouched behind old St. Nick, poking at each little tyke as they were brought up. When demon-girl explained only kids and evil demons could see him, it suddenly made sense why he wasn't trying to hide at all. Six-foot tall demons with horns aren't exactly inconspicuous, even when the place is packed to the rafters.

By the by, can I just say I think I deserve a bit of credit? So many fucking humans crammed into one spot, all that luscious blood pounding away, the smell of it strong enough to make me salivate near constantly, and a herd that desperately needed some thinning…and I only seriously thought about killing half a dozen times. And that only because stupid sods kept irritating me by stopping in the middle of the foot traffic to have a bleeding conversation on their phones. Even poncy William was thinking about eating those wankers.

Oh, and that one poofy bloke in the kiosk who stopped me twice to comment on my bloody skin and how "exquisite" it was, but then kept trying to sell me crap for my nails and tsking over the polish. Slayer finally shooed him off when she saw my demon was starting to crawl out, ready to throttle him, chip be damned.

Getting to taunt a demon in the middle of the bloody shopping centre and scare the piss out of Fake St. Nick with the Slayer ready to fight at my side? Gave me a bleeding' cockstand. Good thing I wore the duster today, eh? Else Buffy would have been complaining about more than just a bunch of little sprogs getting an ear full of English obscenities.

Best was fighting beside her, though. Girl's learning. Saw more than a few moves today that she's picked up from her Mr. G. We make a good team… not that she'll ever admit it, of course.

And to top it all off, out of nowhere Teen Witch gaves me the answer to my little journal problem. Best I can suss out, Louhi did something to my journal, too. “Don’t Look Here” just about sums it up. I can show this to whoever I like, they won't see it. Probably forget about it the minute they're not looking at it anymore. And I can't tell them what to look for in order for them to break the spell.

Bit ironic, innit? People go out of their way to hide their journals so no one can read them… I can show mine to the whole bloody world if I like and they won't be able to. Which means I can’t use it to get their attention. Shut me up but good, she did.

I swear, when this year is up and I'm free of old Louhi? I'm gonna tie her to the top of my DeSoto and drive her screaming through Death Valley in broad daylight. Just for the bleeding fun.

***

18 December 2000

"Can demons change?" she asked me.

I don't know if there's a simple answer to that.

I remember the night I died, much as I told her a few months back. Remember the pain of it, and the brutal beauty of being turned. Wasn't really a young man, when I died. Late twenties back then wasn't really young. Old enough not to have to dance attendance on young debutantes, but young enough I wasn't expected to be married yet. I felt young, though. Never lost that feeling. Being turned… it freezes you like a fly in amber. I've seen vampires that have been around twice as long as I have and still act like they must have the day they died. In that respect, we don't change. The flesh doesn't change. We are eternally what we were when we died. I'll be twenty-nine forever.

But I also remember waking up in my coffin. Don't know where Dru found it, or how she got me in it. Never would talk about it, and when she did it was utterly barmy. Lots of prattling about her pixies and the stars telling her to do such and such. Doesn't matter. What matters is that first moment, your eyes popping open, your stomach cramping with hunger you've never felt before, and the realisation that where you once were one person, now you're two. There's you, and there's the demon, and it's starving.

'Course, the demon takes everyone differently. Angelus once told me how it was, for him. That all there was was the hunger, the demon, the desire for death and destruction at his fangs and sod all else. But for me it was like waking up to find myself no longer alone, and the thing that moved in was a bleeding' arsehole of a roommate—or would have been, if I were still human and actually cared.

You become a vampire and human rules, human laws, human social customs no longer hold you. I revelled in it. When I’d been human I'd hated society, hated the rules, all the little social faux pas it was so easy to make. Break only one and you were an outcast among your peers. William always toed the line, afraid to step over it. My life was damned miserable as it was—no title, little enough money, and even less respect. William got by, holding onto his bloody awful poems as proof that there was still some beauty in his life, his great passion, his bleeding heart, his pure love. And then to have it torn to shreds… 'course he had a bloody death wish.

Then to wake up and discover you can break all the rules and no one can touch you. That social ostracism meant nothing in the face of the ability to tear the nose off of whichever wanker decided to look down it at you… powerful feeling. I remember my first meal—some youngish gent, dressed to the nines with a flower pinned to his lapel. Not someone I'd known, but the same sort. The kind who would stand about in a drawing room and mock a man for daring to put his heart on paper. It settled in, then, what it meant to be a vampire.

The demon set me free.

Whatever is William in me lingered, though, fascinated, and more than a little in love with it all. With the idea of it, the poetic irony. Weak little William, the most mocked boy at Eton and Cambridge, the most ridiculed of gentlemen, now with the strength of ten men and the ability to use it. Now able to do what he wanted most: the chance to show up every tosser who'd ever dared to laugh in his face; and to save his mum from a slow and painful death, and give her the ability to see the world.

Naive little William, to think he'd be giving a blessing, instead of a curse.

Even after … after mum was dead, he still believed it. Believed it when he met Angelus, the great Role Model of what a vampire ought to be.

Believed it right up to the day when Angelus decided William needed to learn a few lessons.

And there he was, poncy William and his weak demon, back on the bottom again.

First Angelus beat me for ambition. For trying to have what he saw as his. He beat me for daring. He beat me for showing mercy. He beat me for compassion. Above all, he tried to beat the love out of me.

Was the only thing he ever failed at destroying in me.

He always said that it made me weak. That my demon was weak and that the lingering taint of humanity in me made me weaker still. He tried his bloody hardest to make me a monster in his own image, and in some ways, he succeeded. But I embraced everything he'd disdained about his own life. I saw the freedom in it, the possibility. He tried to beat me for that, too.

Took twenty years of that, until I'd stuffed poncy William as deep inside me as he could go and built Spike out of his ashes. Until I found a way in which no one could touch me.

Can demons change? I don't know.

But then I'm a half breed, yeah? Half demon, half William. I've been changing ever since the night I died, building Spike out of the best of both aspects of me.

What's one more change, after all?

Don't know what I'll become, in the end. Maybe what I was in the beginning: a monster with the bleeding heart of a poet; a man, wholly unafraid.

[Note: the following is written beneath the entry, the handwriting slightly neater, more elegant. The letters tilt forward, here, instead of the author’s usual vertical handwriting, or his occasional left-handed, backwards lean.]

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.

from Four Quartets 1: Burnt Norton
—T. S. Eliot

***

25th December 2000 (after midnight)

Thought for sure she'd be by before now with my bloody shirts.

Didn't realise I'd left them until she brought them up the other night, then proceeded to give me an earful of why she detests me so much. Had to bite my tongue from laughing at her when she started babbling about "sticking your foot in your mouth," since she didn't realise that's what she was doing just then.

And she thinks I'm good-looking.

Knew it.

Useful bit of info, too.

Had it all planned out: from her kicking in my door to the part where I acted the perfect gentleman, offered her some wine, commiserated with her over philandering exes. I'd have done my level best to show her I wasn't such an arse as she's afraid of, and ended up with her realising I'm not such a bad bloke after all… maybe worked my way up to a proper snog, after which she'd melt in my arms and let me have my wicked way with her…

'Course, for any of that to happen, the chit would have had to actually show up.

So instead I'm sitting here, watching old holiday TV specials and enjoying my bottle of wine all on my lonesome. Haven't seen the old Grinch in a few years. Used to try to catch it on the telly back in the 70's, though Dru hated it. She liked the classics, all the old black and whites. Something about Jimmy Stewart always fascinated her… probably his enormous forehead.

I miss that life less than I'd have thought. I'm bloody useless, nowadays, with this chip in my head, but I'm not in any hurry to leave old Sunnyhell. Knew it was home the minute I set foot in it, way back when all was right with my world. Back when I knew what I was. Before I saw sunshine dancing in the dark and craved a chance to join her.

I’ve grown to like it here. Like all the cemeteries full of demons to hunt, and the blissfully ignorant human population. I like the action that you get on top of a Hellmouth, mixed with the sleepy little small town.

Mostly I like that this is where she is.

Only thing I'd change is my place in the world.

Way I figure it, I've got two choices. Get the chip out and go back to being her enemy, because she'll never let me live in this world without it. Or I can try to convince her to let me fight at her side.

Not a hard choice at all.

Just hard to

[Note: entry cuts off and resumes abruptly, apparently some time later]

Nothing ever goes like I plan.

She didn't kick in my door. I guess there's a first for everything.

Thought she'd have been in bed by now, getting ready to spend Christmas Eve with Mr. G. Instead she comes traipsing out to my crypt, then stands there just inside the door, staring at me like she's never seen me before—probably because my ridiculous poodle-curls had gotten knocked loose and were sticking up all over. Whoever heard of a bad ass vampire with sodding ringlets? Dru used to say they made me look like Cupid. Not exactly the most manly of comparisons.

"It's a bloody holiday, don't you get the night off?" I asked, trying to distract her from the disaster on top of my head.

Yeah, so I'm vain. I admit it.

She made some cute little quip about Evil never sleeping. God, I wanted so badly to tell her. Fucking spell.

"Sure it does, pet," was the best I could do. She had that look on her face like she was gonna punch me, so I figured I'd head her off. "You gonna tell me why you're here or keep me guessing? Really don't fancy spending tonight with a broken nose, just so you know."

She held up the bag with my shirts in it. "You left these at the mall the other day."

Couldn't tell her that I knew she had them, since she'd mentioned it to Mr. G. So I went with the rest of the truth. "Forgot. Figured you'd leave 'em there."

"You paid for them," she said, as if that were the answer to her sudden Miss Manners routine. "Besides, you helped carry all our stuff around without complaining… much. And you did help with the demon."

And that was my chance. I'd been trying to find out a way round to it, only to have her hand it to me on a silver plate.

"Right, 'bout that—" I started to say.

"Please don't ask me for money, Spike. Not tonight. The First Bank of Buffy is officially closed for the holidays."

"Wasn't," I told her. "Swear I wasn't." She always thinks the worst of me. Not that I don't give her reason to, but a little bit of faith would be nice.

"Then what?" She had those big, gorgeous eyes of hers all narrow and squinty, and I knew I was about three seconds from a busted nose.

"Just… I was useful, right? With the demon and the fighting and all?" God, all I wanted was for her to give me half a bleeding chance.

"Yeah…" she said, looking at me warily. Probably shouldn't have run my hand through my hair again. Sodding curls sticking up every which way don't do much to make me look good. 'Course, they're better than Angel's freak hair. Grows straight up off his head, too scared of his ugly mug to go near it.

"Just thought… maybe you'd let me in on the fight sometimes, if you wanted some extra muscle." Could've staked myself for how pathetic that sounded. Like a dog begging for scraps.

"Why?" she wanted to know. "Why do you want to help? For money?"

"No," I said, then figured I'd amend that. I'm not a complete idiot. "Not that I'd turn it down, if you offered. Could always do with a bit of dosh—"

"Why then?" she asked, interrupting before I could make more of an arse out of myself than I already had.

Doesn't give me any credit for trying. Not a lick. There I was, trying to help her out, do her a bloody favour and… and the worst part of it is, I can't tell her why. Not the truth. I can't tell her that I'm in love with her and I'd walk to the sodding ends of the earth if she asked it of me. Can't tell her that I'm so twisted up inside that I'd rather turn my back on my kind for the chance to fight beside her than start killing again. Can't tell her that even my demon wants to be hers, or that every night I spend a few hours in Heaven just being able to be beside her.

I'd scare her senseless.

If it weren't for Mr. G… I'd probably have tried. Tried to tell her the truth and hope she could see that I meant it. But I know better. My only chance for her to see me as something better is when she thinks she's unconscious. Awake… I'm just Spike. William the Bloody. Slayer of Slayers. Handicapped Vampire and royal pain in her neck.

Bit ironic, innit, that she can only see me as I am when she's blind and I can only tell her how I feel when I'm mute? Laugh it up, Louhi. You've no concept of what you were condemning me to with your stupid little challenge.

So since I couldn't tell her the truth, I had to give her something she'd understand, yeah? Something true enough that she'd believe. "Because I'm tired of feeling bloody useless!" I said. "Sitting here, night after night, taking down a demon or two on my own… it's not the same."

"Same as what?"

God I wanted to shake her. Make her see somehow, but William reigned me in. Didn't want to scare her off.

"Being in the thick of it. Being part of something. Doing something," I said. "I used to go where I wanted, did what I bloody pleased. Had plans and things to do. Evil, yeah, but things…Now I've got sodding daytime TV and…" stopped myself before I said following you about like a love sick pup. "I could be useful, right?"

It was true enough. I hate what I've been reduced to. The chance to fight beside her… I'd say 'I'd kill for that' only there's a lot of things I'd kill for. Better to say, I'd change for that.

"You want to be one of the good guys?" she asked.

"Not like it'd be the first time, eh?" I reminded her. "Seem to remember a similar conversation a few years back."

"That's not the same," she said. "You're not talking about a one time truce and trade here, Spike. How do I know you won't turn on me the first chance you get? You and I both know that the minute you get that chip out you're going to come after me again."

Bloody hell. Hadn't thought of that. It wasn't true, of course, but it's not like I could explain to her why that was. From her perspective I was still the enemy, and one with a history of switching sides. Can't change the past. Can't be her enemy anymore. Can't tell her why. Can't be her friend or ally because she can't trust me. Can't tell her I'm in love with her. God, I'm buggered.

Decided to let it go then. No point in trying to push it. She'd just want to know why I wanted it so badly. Only I must've said or done something right because out of bloody nowhere… she gave me a chance.

"I'm not saying no," she said. "I'm not. I just… let's see how things go, okay? I need to think about it, talk to Giles and the others. You were helpful the other day, but that doesn't really make up for years and years of trying to kill us, Spike."

"Haven't tried in awhile," I pointed out. Haven't. Not for a long time. Thought about it, but haven't actually tried since…

"Hello, Adam?" she said. Oh. Right.

Only, technically I wasn't trying to kill her then. Was trying to trade in order to get the chip out, wasn't I? Wasn't trying to kill her or her friends. Just split 'em up. Which… didn't quite work like I'd planned, but then it was Patch Adam's bloody brilliant idea to leave it up to me, wasn't it? Which just goes to prove that my heart wasn't in it, even then, else I probably wouldn't have bodged it up.

I tried explaining that, but of course she's got to bring up the one time in recent memory when I might've sort of tried to kill her: that whole fiasco with the Initiative doctor and Finn back in October. Only I didn't really want to, not even then. Can flip back through this bloody book and there's your proof. Just… wanted to show her I wasn't fangless, didn't I?

Besides… that's what made me realise the truth, wasn't it?

Tried to tell her that, too. Well, the part about not wanting her dead. Tried to apologise.

Never seen her look so pole-axed. Well, not since the night I made the truce with her over Acathla, anyway.

"You needn't look so shocked, Slayer. I'm capable of being sorry. Just don't usually bother," I told her. Which is true. I get regret. And guilt. They're just not something the demon likes to hang on to. No bloody point. Does the hunter feel bad he shot Bambi's mum when it means he gets to eat for another week or two? No. Killing people is how vampires live. How we go on. No use getting all sympathetic about it like one of those PETA fucks, or you'll starve.

Or you drink pigs blood and pretend it's human. Like the difference between those freeze dried meals they give astronauts and a sirloin steak—not the same, but you can live off it. Or if you're a real masochist, all bogged down with a sodding soul, you eat rat blood because you're a total wanker.

But that doesn't mean we don't get regret. The demon doesn't like it when Buffy's hurt, and William likes it even less. The thought of killing her now makes everything in me recoil in horror. The thought of living in a world without her in it… more than I can bloody bear.

She didn't look like she believed me, but she said she'd think about me helping, so maybe something got through.

When she handed over the bag, static sparked where she touched my hand. Thought for a minute it was gonna restart my heart beating, the way she met my eyes then. God… if I could just… when she looks at me like that I almost think she sees me. Not Spike the vampire, not her old enemy, not… not the monster. Can almost believe she sees the parts of me that I used to think were dead, the parts she's brought back to life: poncy William and his bleeding heart, the man who lived and died for love, the fool who followed Drusilla for a hundred years, hoping for…

More.

Know I don't deserve her. Know that what I am means I'm not meant for the likes of her.

But if there's any sodding chance in this world that the bloody Powers That Be might take pity on a wretched thing like me…

I want it. Just tell me what to do.

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