Spike returned well before first light. All was well at Buffy's house – he'd checked in, reminding Willow about the brat, and cracked a few jokes with Dawn. Then he went to check out the new graves and staked a couple of fresh vamps. "Sorry, mate," he said, as he'd helped a newborn out of the earth and staked him in a fluid movement. "Trust me, you're better off." He'd looked down at the dust coating his boots. "Coming back just messes you up."

    Buffy was asleep on his bed when he returned, as he'd hoped she'd be. She'd eschewed his blankets, and was sprawled atop them, her arms wrapped around his pillow. She looked so young and so vulnerable asleep. Compared to him, there wasn't much difference in age between the brat, sleeping safely in the coffin, and the young woman on his bed.

    He went up to her softly, feeling just a little bit the stalker, but hell, it was his own damn bed. He reached out for her, but didn't quite touch her. His hand hovered over her shoulder, just feeling the miasma of her body heat on his cold flesh. The thought of touching her sent a flare of desire through him, and he swallowed it down. He caressed the heat of her body without touching her, sliding down to her hip, and then back up, over her shoulder, down her bare arm. The bare arm looked cold, all alone atop the covers. He reached over her and folded the blanket sideways, barely covering her in the dank crypt. She stirred, and Spike froze mid-motion, but she didn't wake. He finished tucking her in, and heard her hum in her sleep, some dream, or some unconscious recognition of the security of blankets. He restricted himself to imagining kissing her gently goodnight.

    Then he went and checked the brat, who was also sleeping, more fitfully than Buffy. He looked pale. Spike didn't like it, but he hadn't ever watched a lapdog turn before. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd put up with in any of his lairs. The kid was bound to be odd, quite literally ripped from his parents and dropped in a crypt with a bloodsucking demon. Spike tucked him in, too, poured himself a drink, and settled in on the floor with a book, in a position where he could see both Buffy and the brat when he looked up.

    He had to admit to himself, he spent far more time glancing up at Buffy than he did the child he was supposed to be monitoring.
    

***

    A little before dawn, by Buffy's internal clock, a slight noise woke her. "Shh, sh sh," Spike was whispering. "Come on. Don't wake Buffy, I got you. I got you." She heard movement as the boy was lifted, carried across the chamber, fussing a little. "Just hang on, kid. Up we go."

    Spike took the child upstairs to tend to it. Buffy tried to get up immediately, but there were no further noises that ripped her out of her sleep, and she felt really comfortable... warm, and this heady scent surrounding her, and the crypt was so peaceful....

    She didn't really go back to sleep, but it took her a good fifteen minutes before she actually opened her eyes, rolled onto her back, and stretched. She looked down and realized Spike had pulled the covers over her while she slept. She wanted to be annoyed that he'd lurked above her, but she found herself touched.

    She got up slowly, and climbed the ladder. Spike was in the middle of his crypt, the child snuggled into his arms, against his chest. Spike was humming something. The song wasn’t punk rock or death metal. It was softer, older, some sort of folk tune. Spike looked genuinely concerned, his face softer than she was used to seeing it. She watched them for a long moment. Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of man Spike had really been, back when he was still just William. Sometimes she got the impression of someone very different from the big bad she’d always known. Just an echo of someone she didn’t quite recognize.... “He okay?” Buffy asked, climbing out onto the floor.

    Spike shook his head. “He’s fussy. I changed him, tried to give him some milk, but... he doesn’t want it.”

    “Do you think he’s...?”

    “I have no idea,” Spike said. “You go on home. We’re good here.”

    “You haven’t slept.”

    “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Spike said with flat irony. “You go on. Get Dawn off to school.”

    It was an order. Buffy wanted to protest, but couldn’t think how. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got a parent teacher conference at two-thirty, but I’ll be back this afternoon.”

    “We’ll be fine,” Spike said. “Cartoons start in half an hour.”

    Buffy left, and Spike heaved a sigh of relief. He sang to the boy, his human warmth heavy against his chest, but the warmth did little to satisfy Spike’s suspicions. Heart rate elevated, temperature off, pale. If he was turning, Spike hoped he’d do it while Buffy was gone. It was too late now to keep her from getting attached, but she shouldn’t have to see it. He wished he could know in advance. “Okay, kid,” he said. “Let’s try this.” He went over to his fridge and pulled out his last mason jar. He opened it and held it to the boy’s lips.

    Spike was relieved when the kid scorned the blood as avidly as he’d turned away from the milk. He flailed, and the glass jar was knocked out of Spike’s hand, falling to shatter on the concrete floor. Spike looked down at the spilled blood and sighed. He hadn’t eaten. Still... better that than have the brat turning. He shifted the boy on his hip and went back to singing.
 

***

    Buffy was late coming back to Spike’s. The parent/teacher conference had gone longer than she’d thought. Someone had accused Dawn of stealing a book that belonged to a classmate, and Buffy had to field that discussion, standing up staunchly to defend her sister. It took well over an hour. She was exhausted when she left the meeting, ready to do nothing so much as go right back to bed, but she dutifully shook the weariness from her eyes and headed back to Spike’s.

    She found Spike and the boy in the lower chamber. “Shh,” Spike said as she climbed down. “He’s down for a nap. He’s been fussy today.”

    Spike looked paler than usual. “You okay?”

    “I’m out of blood,” Spike said. “I took the last of it yesterday.”

    “You gonna be okay?”

    Spike shrugged. “I’ve just been stuck here, I haven’t been able to go get any before the stores close. The butchers close at seven.”

    “You’ve got an hour if you go now. You can take the tunnels, right?”

    “For most of it,” Spike said. “But I’m needed here.”

    “You’ve been sending me away from this for days,” Buffy said. “I got you into it, I should take my turn.”

    “No, I’m fine.”

    “No, you’re not,” Buffy said. “What is it, don’t you trust me?”

    Spike sighed, looking doubtful. He did feel pretty wonky. “You sure?”

    “I’m sure.”

    Spike frowned. “Okay. Don’t try to wake him. Just... keep a stake handy, will you? If he wakes up all fangy, those things can leap like monkeys, and their bite’s just as strong as mine. They stop being babies and get all coordinated.”

    “I’ll be careful,” Buffy said. “Slayer, remember?”

    “Right,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his coat and headed into the shadows at the edge of the chamber.

    It wasn’t until quite a bit after he left that Buffy realized Spike had pretty much given her bad news. Whatever was going on with the boy, Spike didn’t like it. She went to the coffin and looked down at the child. He was very pale, and his eyes were shadowed. Buffy decided this was silly. She reached down and picked him up.

    The boy shifted lethargically, and wrapped his arms around Buffy’s neck. He cried weakly, his head lolling on her shoulder. He didn’t feel so warm as he used to....

***

    Spike came back within the hour with a paper bag of blood filled jars. Buffy had put the child back into his coffin, unsure whether keeping him wrapped around her neck was a good idea. She’d put the blankets over him and kept petting him, rubbing his back through the oversize black t-shirt, stroking his wispy brown hair. “Spike,” she said when he came up. “This doesn’t look good.”

    “I know it doesn’t,” Spike said. He set the blood on his bed and came up to her. “It hasn’t looked good all day.”

    Spike looked at Buffy. Buffy swallowed. "He won't really wake up," she said. "He'll stir a bit, but... he just lies there. I think he... Spike, is he...?”

    Spike reached out and touched the child’s throat. He had a very low body temperature, and his heartbeat was rapid, and pitifully weak. “He’s dying,” Spike said. He sounded so damn sure.

    “Are you...?”

    “I know death, Buffy.”

    Buffy swallowed. “What do we do?"

    Spike gazed at her. "What do you think we do?" he asked. "I told you what we'd have to do."

    Buffy glared at him. "It's not right."

    "No. No, it's not," he said. "It's evil. I thought you understood that."

     "Isn't there something else we could do with him?" Buffy asked. "I don't want to just dust him, it's cruel." Buffy clenched her fists, wishing this was something she could fight. "Couldn't you... I don't know. Just keep him? We could keep him here."

    Spike raised his eyebrow. "What, fill his sippy cup with the blood of the lamb, and hope to god he never gets out to play with the other kiddies? He's still a vampire, love. He's still a kid. Kids are drawn to kids, you know that. He's got vampire strength, and even if we got him all gypsy cursed with a soul, he'd have no conscience – kids don't. They want a marshmallow, they take it. He wants blood, he'll take it. He gets ticked off at you, he'll break your arm. Normal kids bite, what the hell do you think that kind of demon spawn will do?"

    “Yeah, but we could... somehow we could make it so he... we could teach him... not to....”

    “Like you’ve taught me?” Spike said. “How good am I, pet? Be honest.”

    Buffy knew the answer, but she didn’t like it.     

    He stepped toward her. "There is no motivation he will ever understand, moral or not, for not grabbing what he wants when he sees it. He'd never grow up, Buffy. He'd never know better. He’d hunt, and he’d kill, and he’d feed. If you could find a way to stop him, then all his life would be is pain and longing, for blood, for understanding, for another like him, for the sunshine and kiddies he can no longer play with, and there'd be nothing. Talk about cruel. Are you really prepared to torture him like that? For eternity?"

    "It's still not right," Buffy said.

    Spike shook his head. "No. No, it isn't. I never thought it was right, not now, not ever. The first time I saw a lapdog, I was disgusted. Any of my minions ever brought one home, I dusted them both, in a blink." He came up closer to her. "I told you not to get attached."

    Buffy turned back to the pale child. “It shouldn’t happen.”

    “No, it shouldn’t. But it did. He’s dying, Buffy.” Spike said what he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to say. “Don’t force him to keep living when he’s meant to be... finished.”

    He knew it was a strike below the belt, but it had to be done. Buffy winced, and her head bowed. She took a deep breath, then lifted her head a completely different person. “You said you'd do it," she said. Her face was hard as stone, and her eyes had turned to iron.

    "Yeah," Spike said, without feeling. "I can do it."

    Buffy swallowed, already battling tears. "We'll do it gently. I'll... I'll sing to him. Hold him. If you come up... from behind him, we'll... we'll...."

    "No," Spike said. "You're getting out of here."

    “What?”

    “You’re getting out of here. Now. Before he’s finished dying.”

    Buffy turned to him. "I have to do this," she said. "I made you do this. I have to see it through."

    "No."

    "What do you mean, no?"

    Spike stared at her. "I can't do it with you looking."

    His voice bristled, but not with anger. She couldn't understand. "Why not?"

    "I don't have a soul, Buffy," he said. "I don't have a conscience, I don't keep human morals. You do."

    "What do you mean? What's that got to do with it?"

    "I can't do it with you looking," he said again.

    Buffy lost her temper, then. "I'm a slayer!" she growled. "It's my job to rid the world of vampires!"

    "And if you turn around and walk away, there will be one fewer in the world," he said. "That's all you have to do. Turn around, walk away, and the evil will be gone. You win."

    "You just want to revel in killing an innocent all by yourself," Buffy snapped.

    "Believe what you want, but go."

    "Why the hell should I?"

    "Do you really want to be here?" Spike asked. "Really? Is that really something you want in your head? To watch the stake go in, to see his flesh melt and his tiny bones turn to ash, to catch that wiff of demonic dust, and sweep up that pitifully tiny pile afterwards? Is that really what you want flashing behind your closed eyes as you go to bed tonight?"

    "You don't have to be so graphic about it!"

    "You think singing him to sleep will make you feel better about it? It won't. This isn't prince Hamlet, he doesn't need flights of angels, he just needs it to end."

    "It's not fair!"

    "No, it isn't!" Spike yelled. "It's never fair! It's evil! That's the point! The demons come from out of the dark, and they drain you dry and fill you up with sin, and you become another carrier to spread more evil after them! You crawl up out of the earth to an unlife of darkness and death, and it's never, ever fair." He was shouting into her face, now, all but a physical attack, and Buffy reacted. She hit him, hard.

    "Good girl," he said, after staggering back a few steps. He came back to her. "Do it again."He came right up into her face, and she did. She almost couldn't help it. "That’s right, hit the demon!" he barked, as his head lolled. She did. "Again!" She blacked his eye, that time. He staggered back and pointed expansively at the coffin. "Now do it to him!" he shouted.

    Buffy froze, her fists still clenched.

    "Or get the hell out of here, and leave me to."

    Buffy blinked, the anger still rising.

    "We're both vampires," Spike snarled. "Same evil demon. What's the bloody difference?"

    Her lip quivered as she realized there wasn't any at all. She didn't make the decision, she just backed away from him, found herself at the ladder, and started to climb.

    She wondered every step of the way home – as she crossed his crypt, as she closed the door, as she reached the edge of the cemetery, as she crossed the street – if that was the moment when he'd done it.

    She was three blocks from the cemetery when she threw up. She hadn't done that since she was fifteen – not about the slaying. She was still new to all the death, and she'd just killed some classmate who had been turned; the first time she'd known the vampire she dusted. It was disgusting then. It was disgusting now. It was evil, it was so evil. Turning innocents into monsters, yes. Then turning humans into slayers so they could get rid of the monsters, turning yet one more innocent into a different kind of monster.

    That was why Spike wanted her gone, she realized. It wasn't because he missed killing innocents – every vampire just out of the grave was still, technically, an innocent until they killed their first victim. But he didn't want her to have to do it. It was to keep that image out of her head. To keep her from the monstrous act. To keep her from having to be the monster.