22, December 1879- LONDON-

It was Christmastime again. He couldn’t take the boxes, or the ribbons, or the snow. Not again, he couldn’t lose her again. Not one more year, one more night.

It hurt too much. Mary would be fine. William would care for her, and love her. She would be fine.

She would be fine, and tomorrow morning, he would meet the sun and beg the angels to let him into the gates of Heaven to be with her, his little rabbit, his beloved Diana.
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December 22, 2005- LOS ANGELES-

The anger rose up in him. She didn’t see him, thought he was beneath her, took his heart and tore it from him. She didn’t want his heart, and so he tore at the token he’d meant to give her, his useless scribbling, as he walked through the night, desperate and alone.

He was tired, so tired of being pushed aside. He would show those vulgarians that he would not be made a fool of, would not be a laughingstock, “Watch where you’re going!” he growled.

He was not crying. He was not. He would show them. He would show them all. If they wanted “William the Bloody,” that’s exactly who they would get.

He wasn’t going to lose…ever again.

Sundown. One more day, he had one more day, and he wasn’t sure he could do it.

But, he had to. He had to. He had to get this right, this time.

Angel wasn’t sure what hurt more, the past, present, or the future. It was all a jumble now. So much so that it was hard to remember where he was. That was fine, he didn’t want to remember; didn’t want to remember the look in her eyes.

He didn’t want to see the hate.

The grief was evident in the air, even without the enhanced senses he used to enjoy, he could smell it, feel it smother them both in the same way a blanket can douse a fire.

They were dead. Something was gone.

Spike was gone.

“I swear,” he said softly, to no one, his eyes downcast, he just couldn’t bear to look at them, not when he… “If there is anything I can do for you, Buffy, or you too, Joni. Both of you, all you have to do is let me know.”

“What can you do?” Jonina’s voice was like a hot knife in his gut. It had as much fire as her Daddy’s did when they had fought. But somehow this was worse, a controlled burn.

It was hard to keep from laughing when he saw the lighter, and the little metal- sounding whoosh that told him she was more than willing to use it.

And then the flame, and her mother’s voice, “Joni…”

Her eyes flashed, and it was then that he noticed. * She looks so much like him. *

He couldn’t help it. Before he could take control of it, his mouth was turning upward, ever so slightly, in a sad little smirk.

He shouldn’t have even been there, and he almost wished that Jonina had followed through on her threat to set him on fire, it would have been right; she looked so much like him at that moment, her eyes blazing with a private pain, a pain he knew but didn’t want to know.

He had to go, had to be there, to see, to smell the grief. It wasn’t real otherwise.

He couldn’t be sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore, and he supposed that was his punishment. Everything seemed too real, all of it, and he wanted to escape. But, he knew, somehow, that he never would.

There was so much hurt; it was a constant, confusing swarm and he wanted to numb the pain. He didn’t want to feel.

He wanted to drown the pain, wash it away in a sea of liquor, crawl inside a bottle and never come out. Angel could remember times when Spike had spent days, even months in a drunken stupor, especially after Buffy died.

He’d been so consumed with grief, that he could not care for anyone, least of all Jonina and certainly not himself.

He was there, where he thought he would be, at her grave. The one place he knew he wasn’t wanted, but he went, because Joni needed her Daddy.

* This is insane. This is insane…This is insane! * His inner voice tried to warn him, as he approached the mourning… *And nearly falling-down drunk from the way he’s swaying, even while he’s kneeling. He looks like he could dive right into Buffy’s headstone and not even feel it, * his inner-self snarked…vampire. But then, he remembered something. Spike was something he wasn’t anymore.

A vampire.

* He could bite you. He could turn around and…*

He cleared his throat, but that failed to give his voice any volume. The name came out as a frightened whisper, “Spike.”

A low, maniacally drunken giggle ripped the air, “Liam,” Spike slurred as he sniffed the air, “Scared of me, are you?” he asked, not turning around, eyes on the granite in front of him, “First time for everything.”

“I’m here because of Joni. She needs you. She needs her Daddy.”

Spike’s head swung low from side to side, his neck seemed unable to hold its weight, “Yeah,” he spoke slowly, as if the words had traveled a long way to reach his lips and they had made the entire trip on a steep incline, and were exhausted by the journey, “She needed her mum as well,” he reached for the tombstone, but his hand dropped suddenly before he could touch her name, as if a boulder were tied to his wrist; a weight he couldn’t lift. It seemed as though he would not allow himself to touch her now, as though he was punishing himself for letting her die.

And, he knew that because, he was punishing himself, too.

*Buffy shouldn’t have died…Now look at him. I’m so sorry, Spike. What did I do to you? *

“It’s sick, you know? Unnatural,” his voice wavered a little, “She…she tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.”

“Tell you what, Spike?”

“Slayers…Vampires. It’s…” his voice trailed off, as if he’d lost the thought.

* I don’t blame him. I don’t want to think about it, either. *

“Spike…Joni she…”

“She’s a Slayer, you know,” his voice hitched on the title, “A tiny Slayer, being raised and…loved,” he sighed, “by a vampire. How sick is that?”

“She doesn’t care, Spike. She loves you.”

“So did Buffy,” her name was a heavy sob, made even more anguished by the alcohol inside him, “I can’t lose her again. I just…I can’t! Take her, Liam. Tell Joni I…Tell her that I…I…I can’t!”

“But Spike, Joni needs you. I’m not you. I can never be…”

He laughed again, and the sound was unnerving- almost mad, “The rabbit’s me,” he said, “Did you know? Named it after me, she did. She thinks it’s a protector, like a charm. Thinks, if she could just love it enough…she could make it breathe, make it live. But, it’s not,” he sobbed, “It’s dead, just like her mother…Just like me.”

Spike slowly stretched himself out on the sod, face down, and whispered her name before he, mercifully, closed his eyes and slept the numbing sleep of the grieving, drunken, dead.

Yes, he understood now. Buffy’s death had nearly destroyed him, and it did destroy Spike. Angel could never be sure how much blood was on his hands, how many people had died, because he had a part in destroying perhaps the one being who might have been able to save them.

He’d let Buffy die. He’d handed her the amulet that eventually killed her, and Spike too.

Except, Buffy wasn’t dead. She was here, and so alive. Alive enough that she punched him in the jaw, and when she did that he could have sang out with joy. But there was still blood on his hands, and he had no idea how to begin to wash it clean, or even if he would want to be clean of this.

Angel knew it all, knew that Buffy hadn’t been able to accept what Spike knew had to be done.

“It had to be paid for, Buffy. The magic…the spell that freed you, let you be a girl, and Jonina’s mum, it had to be paid for. If this is the price, then I’ll pay it. No regrets.”

He felt weak and tired and glad for the security of the chains he knew she hated, but they kept her safe, and that was all that mattered.

“No, Spike,” he heard her say, “It doesn’t have to be this way!” he could hear the fright and regret in her voice, could see it on her face, and somehow he knew, that he had failed again, “It cannot be one for the other…”

*It has to be this way! * He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t one for the other and that he’d always be with her. But, he was so tired he couldn’t form the words he needed.

* Let me go, Love. Let me go. Let me save you… *

“No!” she was saying, and, hearing her say it, he knew he’d lost, again; but, how could that be? It had never happened before, “Maybe Willow can…I can’t lose you again!”

I can’t lose you again.

That thought became paramount in Angel’s mind. It became a litany, a mantra. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but he had to make Buffy see, make them both understand that this wasn’t an end. What Oscar really was, he could not have comprehended before, not without the blood to bind them.

Angel wasn’t sure how Spike had done it, but he had woven his own magic. Magic unlike Willow’s, magic of a different kind. He had done what he had always seemed able to do, turn what would be a punishment into something good.

Just like a true hero would.

“She’d just lost her Father, the one person she counted on. She was just a little girl. She was human! What did you expect her to do?”

He heard the answer, but didn’t quite believe it. * They’re out of their bloody minds! *

“Child, humans die. It is the way of countless dimensions. She was the Slayer. She, more than anyone, should have known this.”

“I know,” he said, “But, she was just a girl. She made a mistake,” he looked back, over his shoulder, at Buffy, Jonina, and Joyce, and thought of how much he would miss them. But this had to be done. He just couldn’t let her suffer, not like that. He thought of Willow as he said, “It’s one others have made,” his knees were weakening, he would not let them see him fall, “Please,” he begged, “Please, you can’t do this…”

“Would you be party to tearing her world even further asunder?”

“I’ll do whatever I bloody well have to, to protect her from *You! * You called her the destroyer, when she’s the best thing I have. The best I’ve done! You can’t do this to her!”

“You would accept her punishment as your own, then?”

He couldn’t stand anymore, so great was the swell of gratitude he felt. He’d gotten through.

He fell.

He bowed his head, wept, and said, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Daddy, no!” Joni’s voice cried out.

The last thing he saw, the last thing he remembered was a purple bird soaring in a pink sky.

Yes, Angel understood, more than he wanted to. He knew, it all started with Willow’s spell, and Buffy, and that damned amulet.

He smiled, as bittersweet tears stung his eyes. No wonder Oscar had sired him. This was going to take time to explain, and he didn’t think it could be done in just one lifetime. It seemed as though this had taken years to work out, years that went by in the blink of an eye.

How would he explain it? He didn’t know, and he had just one more day to think about how to make them understand just what had happened, and what was just about to happen.

It seemed that, this time, the rabbit would win the race.

“Good lad,” Angel said softly, as he watched the last purple ray of the sun disappear behind the pink sky of sunset, “If anyone could do it, you would,” he laughed a little as he scratched the back of his neck, in thought, “I don’t suppose you could give me a clue, then? How do I tell them?”

Spike’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, and in his soul, “Don’t have the slightest,” it jibed, good- naturedly, “You’re the drama queen.”