It was five forty-five in the morning and Buffy was sitting on the back porch.  She should have been in bed.  It was Saturday and there was no reason to be up, but she couldn’t sleep.  Unwanted thoughts kept coming to her when she surrendered control--control of herself, her thoughts, her wishes, her fears, and her regrets.  Everything. In the end it was more relaxing to sit on the porch than lay in bed twisting her sheets.

Well, maybe ‘relaxing’ wasn’t the right word.  It was quiet--eerily quiet these days, quiet in a way made Buffy look over her shoulder because something *must* be wrong.  Only when Buffy looked, nothing was there. She told herself that everything was okay, but she didn’t believe it.  It was too quiet and too lonely.  And why wouldn’t it be? Tara was gone.  Willow was gone. Giles was gone.  Anya was persona non talkie because saying her name sent Xander into  mouth-frothing fits or brooding that rivaled Angel’s.  And of course there was the missing man. . .person. . . *thing* she wasn’t supposed to think about.   

All in all, not a lot of people left in the life of Buffy. Typical, wasn't it?  Just when she figured out that wallowing in misery did nothing but make her miserable, Buffy woke up to discover the lives of everyone around her had been shot to hell.

“Whatcha doin’?” a sleepy eyed Dawn asked from the doorway.

“Wha-uh. . .?” =Better not tell her I’ve been thinking. = Buffy-thinking had equaled a bad thing for a long time now .  It freaked Dawn out, and Buffy had only recently convinced her sister that she wasn’t half suicidal. “I got up early to watch the sunrise.”

“Uh. . .yeah.”  Dawn stared doubtfully at the dense white fog that had fallen over Sunnydale a few days ago. It obscured anything over three feet away. “You think it’s evil?”

“Oh, definitely.  It’s summer and it’s sabotaging our tan lines.  But—“ Buffy tossed her stake into the cotton candy whiteness and heard it clatter against the flagstone pathway “—it’s not big with the fighty.  Not sure what I can do about it.”

Dawn gathered her pink terry cloth robe around herself and sat next to Buffy.  “Maybe we should call Giles.”

“And have him explain ‘there’s this thing called El Nino?’ I don’t think so. Besides, if fog is a sign of the apocalypse, Giles is in London sitting on ground zero.”  She gave a wan smile before looking into the fog.  “Still, it’s weird.”

“And creepy.”

“Creepy and weird.”

*   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

The fog was so thick it looked like a solid, living thing as it moved passively along currents of air.  It seeped through crevices, and fell in vaporous waterfalls down manholes and storm drains until it filled the sewers and catacombs beneath the city. It moved. It flowed, traveling ceaselessly, searching as it entered the graveyard. It filtered into the coffins—both empty and full—and spread through the tombs and crypts.  Then it found what it sought and began to coalesce, pulling in its tendrils, gathering itself.  Changing.

*   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

Giles shoved the warlock against the wall.

“Oh, very impressive,” Reggie exclaimed.

With his glasses securely tucked in his pocket, Giles gave the warlock his patented Ripper glare. “If you *ever* see the witch again, you will send her on her way. Is that understood?”

The warlock laughed.  “A Watcher making threats?  Why should I—“  The choking sound the warlock made as Giles tightened nunchucks over his throat gave said Watcher a visceral thrill.

“I am not just any Watcher,” Giles said.  “I do not make idle threats.  If you dose her with magic again, I will see you dead.  Is that understood?”  The warlock, still choking and turning a pale shade of blue, nodded, leading Giles to reluctantly release his chokehold.  “I believe we are done here.”  He stepped back.  “Miss Grant?”

“Oh, yes, quite.”  Lydia, dressed in a gray wool skirt and ivory-colored blouse, looked very prim and proper standing in the middle of the dramatically lit room. 

The floor, ceiling, and walls had all been painted black, which only threw the colorful patrons and artwork into high relief.   A shockingly impressive Modern art collection hung on the walls.  There were white, blue, red, and yellow block patterns by Mondrian, frenetic splatter paintings by Pollock, and a blurry-edged celadon and traffic-cone-orange canvas by Rothko.  It looked as though someone had robbed the Tate Gallery, which might well be the case with these demons. But Giles admitted the artwork complemented the colorful occupants of the room. 

In one corner sat four green Fyarl demons.  In the opposite corner two blue Lazuli incubi played darts while hot pink, tangerine, and fuchsia Farquart pixies drank banana daiquiris with little umbrellas in them.  Giles became acutely aware of how absurd the scene must look to someone unused to the vagaries of demon society, and he wondered what lapse in sanity had led him to bring two young Watchers to this place.

Of course, Giles knew the lapse in sanity’s name was Quentin Travers. Travers had insisted that Giles not work alone, and, though there had been many volunteers, Claridge and Grant had seemed to be the most amenable—and malleable--of his available choices.  Still, it felt wrong to drag two neophytes on this misguided mission. 

“We should go,” Giles said tersely.

Lydia followed Giles to the door, but they were missing someone.  Giles turned to find the youngest Watcher fascinated by the discovery that Farquart pixies had three breasts.   “We’re leaving, Reggie.” 

Reggie blinked owlishly.  “Of course, of course.”  He stumbled over his feet a little before following Giles and Lydia outside. “Was that truly a Troll in there?”

Lydia nodded. “I believe so, Reggie.”

“And a Nayr Spirte?”

“Yes.”

“In London?!”

Feeling tired and frustrated, Giles unlocked the car. “Yes, Claridge, in London.  Will you bloody well climb into the car?”

Lydia slid into the passenger’s seat. “Sir, I realize we are no closer to finding William the Bloody—“

“What we are, Miss Grant, is short of time.  That arrogant prat Quentin Travers gave us a week to find Spike.  Forty-eight hours and six demon haunts later, we are running out of places to look.”

Reggie leaned forward from the back seat. “I am sure the Council understands the difficulty of the task assigned to us.”

“In my experience the Council ‘understands’ precious little.” Giles cranked the car.  “Although you are probably right.  *Travers* understands.”

Reggie’s brow furrowed with confusion. 

Lydia explained, “Mr. Giles suspects he has been set up to fail.” 

Reggie glanced from Giles to Lydia. “Surely not.”

“You must admit, Reggie, it makes a certain kind of sense.“  Her gaze darted toward Giles. “Mr. Travers does not particularly like you, sir.  And he’s never been supportive of my research.”

“Calls it a bloody waste of time.”

“Yes, thank you, Reggie.”

Giles almost smiled and attempted to console his younger companions by saying, “At least tonight’s search wasn’t a complete waste.  I rather enjoyed striking fear into the magic dealer’s soul.” 

Reggie’s spectacled visage brightened.  “That was brilliant! He’ll think twice before crossing the Council again.”  Reg all but bounced in the backseat with uncontained eagerness. “Could you show me that move with the nunchucks? It was--”

“Brilliant?”

“Exactly!  I envy you, sir.  I truly do.  On the front lines, fighting the good fight, every day, do or die as you face down demons.”

Giles moved the small sedan into traffic.  “Well, today is over, and I’m returning you to the Council.”

“But tomorrow—“

“No tomorrow.”  Reggie looked so crestfallen that Giles felt compelled to add,  “With Spike being as—“  Giles searched for a word “—domesticated as he is, the places we have searched have been relatively benign. The places I must now go. . . These are not places for Watchers without field experience.”

“But how do we gain field experience if we are not allowed into the field?”

“Don’t muddle this with logic, Claridge.  It has been a long night.” Aware of Lydia’s unhappy expression, Giles asked, ”Do you have something to say, Miss Grant?”  

“You only have five days left to find William.  You may need our help, sir.”

Reggie blinked. “Five days? Are you sure it isn’t three?  I was under the impression Mr. Travers was referring to a work week not a. . .” Faced with Giles’ glare, Reggie’s argument trailed into silence.  “Yes, of course, five days.”

Giles considered his situation and silently conceded that Lydia might be correct.  Still, he hated to lead these two into danger.  “If I agree to this, you must do *everything* I say without discussion, is that understood?”  

Reggie cried, “Brilliant!”  Lydia, however, frowned.

“Does something concern you, Miss Grant?” Giles asked.  

She bit her lower lip before venturing to say,  “I don’t wish to question your methods, sir.”

”Except you wish to question my methods.”

Her gaze met his. “It’s just that I wonder whether searching demon haunts is the most efficient way to find William.”

Giles stopped the car at a traffic light.  “What would you suggest?  I confess I haven’t the foggiest notion of where to look.  And even if we do find Spike, it’s difficult to imagine him agreeing to play Louis for your version of ‘Interview with the Vampire.’  I’m not even sure what purpose such an interview would serve.”

Lydia raised her chin.  “I realize you are a man of action, Mr. Giles. But I think you underestimate the need for in-depth historical research. Do you have any notion of how many of the Council’s records contradict one another?  Why, in William’s case alone, I have found two different sires and three different ages attributed to him.”

“And this matters in what way?”

Warming to her subject, Lydia's voice rose in pitch and insistence.  “It matters because it is indicative of how slipshod much our data is. If we cannot provide accurate information about the most fundamental of facts, what else does the council not know?  You are a field Watcher, and I have enormous respect for that.  I only ask that you offer me equal respect as a historian.”

Giles considered Lydia for a long moment.  “Of course.  You are right.  I apologize.” 

Mollified, she relaxed into her seat.

“Though if you don’t mind my asking, why Spike?  I know he has been useful upon occasion, but,  Miss Grant, if you wish to do significant research, shouldn’t you find a more significant subject? The Master, Angelus, and Dracula have far more storied histories.  Or, if interviewing a vampire is your goal, I’m sure something can be arranged with Angel.”

“I’ll be honest, Mr. Giles, I’m not particularly interested in Angel or Angelus.  There have been countless papers written on the subject and—“  She grimaced. “—I admit I find them rather dull.  Other than the Sunnydale incident, Angelus seems to have had a rather ordinary career—rape, torture, killing—standard vampiric activity. And his human self seems to have been little more than your typical eighteenth-century wastrel.  If not for the curse, I don’t believe Angelus would have warranted much attention.  As for the Master, he predates all of our records and without a significant archeological find I have little hope of breaking new ground where he is concerned.  And Dracula? Let us be serious.  He’s quite passé.”

“Leading you to choose Spike of all creatures.”  Giles still could not quite believe it.

“Oh yes, William…uh… that is *Spike* has exhibited a great many anomalous traits. For instance, despite being soulless, he has helped save the world on more than one occasion.”

“For selfish reasons.”

“Perhaps, but given that we are taught all vampires crave chaos and destruction, choosing to avert disaster for any reason is worthy of note.  And, of course, there is his tendency toward near-human emotions.  He is quite fascinating.”

“Perhaps. At a distance.  Up close he is usually an irritant, and entirely likely to eat one out of house and home.”

Reggie’s eyes grew huge.

“Weetabix,” Giles explained.  “Tea, chicken wings, salt and vinegar crisps.  He has a predilection for human food.”

“Another anomaly,’ Lydia observed with some satisfaction.

“I still cannot believe you are comfortable in such close quarters with a vampire.”  Reggie sounded awed.  “It’s quite extraordinary.”

Sometimes it still shocked Giles.  There were times, even without Willow’s mindwipe spell, when he actually forgot what Spike was.  Lydia was right. Spike was an anomalous creature.

Lydia bowed her head.  “I realize most Watchers consider the history of demonology to be outdated and somewhat pointless.  But I believe one day it may prove vital to our survival.”

Giles eased the car through traffic.  “I believe you may be right.  But that does not help us find Spike.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,  perhaps. . . “

Giles glanced Lydia when her voice trailed off.  “Go on.”

“Perhaps in William’s case, with all of his anomalies, we shouldn’t think ‘what would a demon do,’ but what would *Spike* do?”

“You mean think of him as a person?”

“Yes. Think of him as a man.  What would the man do?  What are his interests, his likes, his dislikes, his preferences?  Where would this *person* go?”

Giles blinked.  Bloody hell, he had never thought of it like that.

*   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

“Bollocks!”  Simon Cook scoffed.  “You weren’t there.”

Antony Lister bristled at having his story questioned. “Was so.  Lesser Free Trade Hall.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Simon took a swig of his lager. “Who else was there? Who performed?”

“The Buzzcocks.”

Simon rolled his eyes.  “Too easy.  Who else?”

“Mandala Band.”

“Liar! Read a few books, but you don’t know a sodding thing. They didn’t perform the same night as the Sex Pistols.  Now if you’d said ‘Slaughter and the Dogs’ I might’ve believed you.  But Mandala Band—“

“Solstice,” a new voice interrupted the argument.

Simon’s gaze raked over the newcomer.  “And what would you be knowin’ about it?”

“I was there.”

Simon and Tony laughed.  “Right. ‘Cause six-year-olds were common at Pistols’ concerts.”

Spike almost smiled as he motioned for a pint. The female bartender had eyed him since he’d walked through the door, but she had never approached him, only stared at him suspiciously.  The first time she spoke it was to Simon.

“He’s right.” She slid a Guinness down the bar in Spike’s direction.  “And for the record, I *was* there.”

Simon and Tony fell silent.  They clearly viewed the woman as an authority on the subject, and drinking in the ambience of the cluttered pub, Spike began to suspect she was responsible for the bright yellow and carmine “Never Mind the Bollocks”  Sex Pistols’ poster beside the front door and the “Anarchy in the U.K.” poster next to the entrance to the loo. 

Spike watched her wipe down the bar.  She kept glancing at him, looking wary, looking as if she suspected that something evil had walked through the door.  Did she know him?  Should he recognize her?

She was somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, with long dark hair and tired blue eyes. There was something almost bird-like in her delicate frame that made Spike want to say, “Good lord, eat a sandwich, would you?”

Simon nudged Spike’s shoulder.  “Got an eye for our girl?  Should warn you, she’s got issues.”

=Show me a woman who doesn’t.= 

Women with issues were Spike’s specialty.  The more screwed up they were, the more attracted to them he was.  But Spike wasn’t interested in this woman--not in that way.  He just felt he should recognize her.

His gaze moved to the dark blue poster of Sid Vicious standing over a coffin with the words “From the Grave” emblazoned over his head.  Spike remembered that tour.  He tried to think back.

He and Dru had spent all of seventy-six and most of seventy-seven in Belgium, although Spike vaguely remembered a few lusty weeks in Paris . . . maybe.   Years had a tendency to blur together, and lately, Spike had grown glad of that fact. Anything but the most recent past had a dreamlike quality.  It didn’t seem quite real. Time had blurred the edges of his nightmarish history to make the memories bearable in his newly souled state--though Spike did his best not to think about the past at all.  It did no good.  Nothing in recent or distant memory held anything like comfort, just pain and distress.

He was a monster.  He’d said it long ago, but now he knew what it meant.  For over a century he had been a murderer, a schemer, and a menace. . . and then there was what he had almost done to Buffy.

=Don’t go there, mate.  There lay dragons.= He leaned back in his chair,  and listened to the two middle aged punks arguing. 

“I saw them Boxing Day.”

“Tony, if you’re goin’ to lie, at least lie well.  You didn’t see them at the Roxy on Boxing Day.”

Tony looked offended.  “Didn’t I? And how would you know?”

Spike became irritated. “’Cause they cancelled the show, you git.” 

The female bartender looked at Spike with startled blue eyes.  Damnit, why did she look so familiar? 

Simon elbowed Tony .  “The lad knows his stuff.”  Simon faced Spike. “You discover the Pistols with the ‘God Save the Queen’ re-mix?”

Spike snorted. “The re-mixes are awful.  Should’ve left the originals alone.”

Simon chuckled.  “Someone raised you right.  Hey, Emma, another pint for my young friend. “

=Emma?= Spike squinted for a better look at the woman.  He tried to picture her as a girl.  Add a few pounds to her.  Subtract some of the world-weary exhaustion from her eyes.  Give her some spark, some fire.  =Oh, shit.  Emma.=

Spike saw her swallow.  He could hear her heart’s rapid beat.  The scent of fear was in the air as Emma slid the glass toward him, looking as cautious as she would approaching a wild animal. . .or a vampire.  Spike caught her hand.  “Emma?”

She pulled away.  “Oh God!”  And ran for the door.

Simon rolled his eyes.  “What did I say?  Issues.”

Spike followed Emma into the street.  “Emma!”

But she was nowhere in sight.  Spike tried to hold still, to listen for her heartbeat, her footsteps or her labored breathing, but Simon and Tony were standing at the pub door, drinking and wanting to know, “You an old friend of Emma’s?”

=Friend?  No.  More like an old nightmare.=

Spike raked his hand through his hair.  =Bloody hell!=  He handed Simon a twenty for his bar tab and walked into the night, not thinking about where he was going, just knowing he had to go.

In nineteen-seventy-seven Spike and Dru had been in Paris drinking champagne and hippies over Jim Morrison’s grave.  But something had worried his wicked, ripe plum.  With her hand on his crotch and her lips at his ear, Dru had sung, “Strange days have found us.  Strange days have tracked us down.”

Spike had maneuvered her against a gravestone and hitched up her skirt.  “I know the lyrics, love.” 

But when their graveyard games were over, Dru had had refused to be deterred.  She had pleaded to leave Paris.  “The moon tells us to go.  Can’t you hear it whispering?”

Of course he hadn’t, but what his dark princess had wanted, his dark princess had got.  They had hopped the ferry from Calais. 

“What strange thing are you?” She had asked as they stood on the moonlit deck.

“I’m not a stranger.”

“Not stranger but different.”  Dru had touched his hair.  “It goes all white.”

Spike had laughed.  “I can’t go gray, love. No more than you.”

Dru’s gaze had narrowed as she stepped away. “London is calling, and you’ll be different there.”

Looking back from the twenty-first century, Spike could see that Dru had been right. A shag over a dead poet’s grave in Pere-Lachaise hadn’t been the only thing Jim Morrison had inspired.  In those days Spike had been stuck in his Lizard King phase.  His hair had been longer and still sporting its natural shade. His pants had been leather and slung low across his hips while his shirts had been loose and often unbuttoned.  However, when he had reached  London, things had changed. 

Dru had disappeared. That had often been her way.  The first time Dru had done it had been back in 1881, and Spike had been frantic to find her, worried that she’d been caught in the sun.  Angelus had laughed at Spike’s concern, saying his crazy little girl would be back when she wanted to come. Spike had suspiciously eyed the son-of-a-bitch, causing Angelus to backhand him across the jaw.

By the 1970s Spike had grown used to Dru  wandering away and knew that all he could do was wait. Not wanting to stray far from the place he had seen her last, Spike had used the money he’d taken from the banker he’d killed on the train to rent a flat in Balham.  The same flat he was walking to now, although these days he was paying the rent in a slightly different way.  He still had a few thousand dollars left from agreeing to harbor demon eggs in Sunnydale, and a dead Suvolte wasn’t about to ask for a refund.

Spike stared at the building where—for lack of a better word—he ‘lived.’ It was identical to every other building on the block, all weathered red brick and unwashed windows.  Nothing distinguished it from its neighbors except its address. Everything was in an equal state of disrepair. 

Spike pushed open the front door and toed aside a small mouse who scurried into a crack in the wall. He climbed the stairs by the light of a single, naked bulb to unlock the door to the upstairs flat.  Small, dark, and dilapidated, it wasn’t a place that inspired thoughts of hominess or comfort.  It was just a hole to hide in.

There were only two rooms other than the bath.  The first held a broken down chair and tele with a kitchette situated along the rear wall.  The other had a mattress sagging on an iron bed frame and blackout blinds. Spike had cleaned the place well enough.  It was marginally less filthy than it had been before, but the floor remained stained, the wall plaster still crumbled, and when Spike laid down he couldn’t help counting the water marks on the ceiling. There were seventeen. The night he had first met Emma, there had been only ten. 

He’d been different then--more pissed and less likely to consider walking out to face the sun--and the floor had trembled with an erratic bass beat which drowned out his eight-track copy of Morrison Hotel by The Doors.   Spike had considered ignoring it for all of three seconds before his quicksilver temper demanded he go downstairs to rip out someone’s lungs. 

He had stormed out the door intent on causing carnage and mayhem only to find Emma sitting at the base of the steps.  She’d been a kid of fifteen or sixteen—the same age as Bit was now—and she had looked at him with tears in her eyes. 

Bugger it all to hell, he’d always been a sucker for tears.  If hers had been the loud, blubbery kind, he would have killed her without a thought. But Emma had sat silent with her chin up and tears filling her eyes, and Spike had respected her for that.  His murderous rage had faded, giving him time to notice the bruise on her cheek.   It had been as much green as purple and black.  Someone had hit her.

The door to the downstairs flat had opened revealing a boy not much older than Emma.

“Emma!”  The boy had come out into the hall and knelt in front of her as he gently touched her bruise. 

“It’s alright, Pete,” Emma had protested.

“’S not alright. That bastard Ned Dix did this to you, didn’t he?  I’ll kill him.  Touchin’ my sister like that.  I’ll kill him. ”

=Appropriate reaction,= Spike had thought.

Peter had stared at Spike.  “Who’re you?”

Emma had pulled herself to her feet.  “He’s the one livin’ upstairs always listening to The Doors.”

Pete had  rolled his eyes, looking young and petulant and not nearly as intimidating as his raggedly cut hair, tattooed knuckles, and black leather jacket implied.  “That stuff.”

Spike had bristled. “Better than that screeching you call music.”

“’S not the point.”  He helped Emma inside the flat, then looked back at Spike. “Well, are you comin’ in then?”

A dangerous invitation to issue to a vampire, especially dangerous if the vampire had been plotting your death only moments before.  But somehow, that night Spike hadn’t been in the mood for killing and had enjoyed the novelty of being invited inside.  He’d told himself it wasn’t because he was lonely.  It wasn’t because Dru had been gone for a fortnight, Darla for two and a half decades, and Angelus for nearly a century.  It wasn’t because he was desperate to talk to someone, and be spoken to in return.  He wasn’t lonely.  It was just boredom. 

As the weeks passed Spike had become a regular visitor to the downstairs flat.  He’d met Emma and Peter’s father who had once worked for The Underground but who had lost his job and lived on the dole.  He’d accompanied Emma and Pete to concerts by the Sex Pistols even when they had performed under such names as Tax Exiles and Acne Ramble. 

The three of them had seen the great Roundhouse triple bill of the Ramones, Talking Heads, and The Saints.  Pete and Emma had even tried to make it onto the infamous boat party on the Thames.  Spike hadn’t attempted—daylight issues he hadn’t wanted to explain—but it hadn’t mattered anyhow.  The kids had never made it onto the boat, and Spike had met them later that night at the side door of the Earls Court Arena where they had slipped in to see Queen live.

Spike had never told Emma and Pete what he was, and somehow he had managed to restrain his ways to keep them from finding out.  Oh, he snacked often enough, making meals of everything from tourists to punks, but always out of sight of his young friends.

Then one night Spike had returned to his Balham flat to discover Drusilla had come home. He had sensed her the moment he had entered the building, or at least when he had heard hearts pounding with a rapid flutter and smelled the scents of sweat and fear. 

The door to the downstairs flat had stood ajar. A streak of yellow-white light had striped the darkened hallway as Spike laid his hand against the painted wood door.  He had silently opened it to find a familiar sight—pain and death. 

Emma’s father had lain in a sloppy sprawl across the floor, his eyes open but with a glassy stare.  Dead, of course.  What else would he have been with that gash in his throat?

Spike had heard a squeaking, terrified sound and lifted his gaze to meet Pete’s pleading stare.  Drusilla had held the boy in her clutches as she grinned in gameface at Spike.  “I followed the biscuit crumbs home.”

Emma had cried, “Spike!”  She had probably believed he would save her, but Spike  had casually crossed his arms and leaned against the frame of the door.  He had watched Dru murder Pete.

“No!” Emma had screamed, her sobs becoming gut wrenching and loud.  There had been no stoic dignity in her then, just grief and fear as she sensed the exact moment her brother died.  “No. . .” she whimpered before something caught her eye.  “Ned?”

Spike had turned to find Emma’s erstwhile abusive boyfriend standing behind him, an expression of horror etched on the teen’s face.  Spike hadn’t thought about it.  He hadn’t needed to.  Instinct had kicked in and, shifting into gameface, he had reached out and grabbed the boy around the neck, twisting it with brutal strength until the boy’s spine snapped and his lifeless husk dropped to the floor.  Stepping over the corpse, Spike had walked across the room, taking Dru’s hand and lifting it to his lips.

“Did you miss me?”  Dru had asked.

“Always, love.”  He had slipped his hand around her waist.  “Come with me and I’ll show you how.” 

Dru had held back, looking over her shoulder at Emma.  “But the biscuit tin is still half full.”

Spike had nuzzled Dru’s neck, giving soft kisses before nibbling her ear.  “I’m hungry, pet, and not for cookies.”

“Mmmm, my tummy *is* full. . .”

And he had led his dark princess from the room saying, “I think it’s time I change my look, pet.  What would you think if I got a haircut,  something new?”

Spike had never looked back.  Not once.  Not until tonight.  Now, Spike sat up on his sagging bed, and his hand shook as he reached for a half empty pack of cigarettes. =Bloody hell.  I *am* a monster.= He’d said it before.  He'd known it was true, but he had never understood the enormity of that confession.

Spike stood and anxiously paced the room.  Emma and Pete had trusted him.  They had thought he was their friend, and he had betrayed them. 

“Our girl has issues,” the barfly had said earlier tonight.

=And why shouldn’t she? She saw her entire family murdered in front of her eyes.  God.= 

Spike felt sick.  He’d done that.  It had been him.  Angel had always liked to claim that he and Angelus were two different beings, but Spike didn’t see that.  He didn’t feel that.  It was him.  He’d just never cared before now.

Spike stubbed out his cigarette.  What was he supposed to do?  He had convinced himself that he was prepared for this.  When he’d sought out Lurky, he’d been so sure he knew what he was doing.  Buffy had demanded change, so he would bloody well show her change.  He just hadn’t known it would be so hard or that it would hurt so much.  When he looked at the last century from his new perspective—

Spike ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.  There had only been pigs’ blood and beer in his stomach, but there was even less there now.  He laid his head against the cool porcelain and wondered what in the hell he was doing.   How had he ever arrived at a plan as insanely stupid as this?

If he’d felt guilty for what had happened in Sunnydale, he should have walked out to face the sun.  But, no, he’d gone off on some half-cocked plan, determined to prove Buffy wrong, to fix his mistakes, to do. . . *something.*  

He’d done ‘something’ all right.  He’d gone and gotten himself royally fucked. 

Spike now had the conscience of that oversensitive, idealistic fool Dru had killed in an alley. A century’s worth of sins now plagued his innocent old soul. What was he supposed to do with that?  What was he supposed to do with any of it? He had committed more murders and atrocities than he could count, and he couldn’t change a thing.  He couldn’t take it back.  He couldn’t fix anything.  Nothing could be made right. How could he possibly go on like this?  Was there a reason to go on at all?

He’d told Willow that death was the easy way out, that facing yourself was the real challenge.  =And you were right, you bloody arrogant fool!=  But how was he supposed to pull it off?  How was he supposed to find his way out of this pit he had dug himself into?

=Pull yourself together, mate.  You’re barely two steps away from becoming the poof, and you wouldn’t want that, now would you?= Brooding didn’t accomplish a damn thing.  It was paralyzing and made it all too easy to become weak and ineffectual. 

=So don’t be a wanker. Get up.  Get your arse in gear.=

Spike pulled himself to his feet and splashed water on his face.

=Think.=

He had to do something.  He couldn’t sit still.  He could never sit still. . .or hide.  He’d go back and face Emma.  He’d apologize.  Yeah, he knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good.  Saying ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t change a thing.  She would only hate him, and she had every reason to.  But it was the only thing he could offer.  He could stand and face her anger and hate. Who knows, maybe it would help her in some small way.

Spike looked up and laughed.  “Who do you think you are to think you can help?”  The mirror reflected everything in the room but him.  “That’s what I thought.”

The next night he paced for a half hour before working up the courage to return to the pub.  When he walked through the door Simon elbowed Tony. 

“Just the bloke I was lookin’ for.” Simon pushed away from the bar.  “What would you say to a ticket to the show.”

Spike frowned.  “Show?”

“You’ve got to be  kiddin’ me!  The show.  Carling Live.  The Sex Pistols’ jubilee.”

Not believing what he was hearing, Spike shook his head.  “Twenty-five years of mocking the old bird, and now they’re cashing in on her jubilee?”

Tony sipped his lager. “It’s called selling out.”

Spike tried to wrap his mind this new bit of information.  “Sid must be rolling in his grave.”

“That’s the truth. All the real ones are gone.”  Simon raised his glass. “To Sid.”

Tony raised his glass as well.  “To Dee Dee and Joey Ramone.”

Simon wiped a tear from his eye. “And our Emma.”

That caught Spike’s attention. “What?”  Spike glanced from Simon to Tony.  “What are you saying?”

Simon sat down.  “I’m sorry, mate.  It’s the extra ticket.  It was Emma’s.  She—“

Tony bowed his head.  “Kicked it last night.  It was always gonna get her sooner or later.”

“It?  What it?”  Spike felt like the floor had fallen from underneath him.

“You noticed the tracks didn’t you? On her arms.”

Spike’s brows furrowed and there was a sinking feeling in his gut.  “Heroin?”  She was an addict.  It was obvious now.

Simon stared intently into his lager. “She tried getting off the stuff once or twice.  Never worked.  Like I told you—issues.”

“Tragic history,” Tony explained.

“Don’t know how she lived with it all.   She was a strong person, but I guess she’d had enough.”

“Or her body had.”

=Or she saw me again,= Spike realized.  =The sight of me sent her off for a hit—the *last* one.  I killed her.  Wasn’t even trying, and I killed her. =

*   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

Buffy walked through the graveyard in sunlight.  How weird was that?  Most of the time it was the graveyard shift for her -- ha-ha -- and for the last few days it had been the freaky fog.  Now, the sky was clear and blue and it looked like Southern California again.

She turned left and started down a familiar path where she ran into a floppy-eared demon carrying a grocery bag.

“Slayer!” Clem, as always, managed to look both surprised and pleased.  “Here for a visit?  I just bought blue corn tortilla chips and peach salsa. Yum!”

“I think you’ve been hanging out with Dawn too much.”

The puppy-like demon’s happy face fell. “But. . .I. . .If you think I shouldn't see her—“

Buffy rushed to say, “Relax. I’m kidding. Honest.   Dawnie lives on junk food too.”

“Oh.”  Slowly his smile and enthusiasm returned.  “Oh! That’s different then.  It’s just, you know, you Slayer, me demon. I can be a bit jumpy sometimes.  Wanna be on your good side, not tick you off.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Shifting his brown paper bag, Clem asked,  “What can I do for you?  If you’re looking for—“

=No, don’t go there.  Don’t mention *him.*=  “I just wanted to check how things were around here.  The fog kind of made patrol difficult.”

“The fog?  Yeah, that was weird.  Haven’t seen anything like that since ninety-four.”

That surprised her.  “It’s happened before?”  The demon nodded.  “Anything come from it?” Buffy asked.

“Anything…?”

“Freaky.  Monstery.  Apocalypsy?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well, that’s good.”  They stared at each other and the silence stretched.  It was getting kind of awkward.  “That’s good.  I guess I’ll go.”  She turned to leave.

“Buffy?”

The fact that Clem used her name made Buffy stop and become a nervous.  Using her name meant what he was about to say was important.

Clem tugged nervously at his ear. “I got an e-mail from him today.”

“You’ve got an e-mail account?”

“I’ve got DSL and an IMac and—“  Clem took a deep breath and blurted out “—Spike said he wasn’t coming back.”

“He always comes back.”  Buffy knew she sounded like a bewildered little girl.  She hated that sound.  She attempted a more authoritative tone.  “He’ll be back.”

“I hope you’re right, Slayer.”  Clem looked down at his feet.  “He could be good company, you know.  I mean, when he wasn’t pissed or anything, he could be good company.  I just. . .I miss him, and I thought maybe you. . .”

What could she say?  That she missed Spike too?  She *so* could not admit to missing Spike.  It was wrong and squicky and for years she’d been insisting he go away.  How hypocritical would it be to now admit she kind of missed him?  “Don’t worry about it,” Buffy said crisply.  “He’ll be back.  He *always* comes back.  He’s annoying that way.  Just be glad we got rid of the fog.”

 *   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

Inside the tomb the last of the mist faded away, revealing the face and form of a man.  He was handsome, with aquiline features and fair hair, and his eyes were a clear, pale blue.  He smiled as he moved to sit and then to stand.  He looked at his hands and arms, admiring them.  He touched his face with a degree of amazement, then he moved toward the door.  He paused at the threshold, looking uncertain about crossing it, but he took a deep breath stepped into the sunlight. 

Sunshine bathed his face and shoulders as he spread his arms wide, embracing the light.  He threw back his head and laughed.

*   *   *        *   *   *        *   *   *

 Dawn entered the house.  It was big, silent and empty.  “Buffy?” 

No answer meant that Buffy wasn’t home.   She would be back soon, though.  Buffy had been all super-attentive lately.  It was probably an overreaction for eight months of pretending Dawn almost didn’t exist. It could also be  because just about everyone else  in their lives was gone.

Friend-wise they were pretty much down to Xander, and Xander had turned into the king of the eternally complaining bad mood.  He complained about talking to Anya.  He complained about not talking to Anya. He complained about not enough work then about too much. He complained about the X-Files killing off the Lone Gunmen, the new timeslot for Farscape, and that the Yoda fight was the only decent thing in the new Star Wars.  If he complained much more, Dawn was thinking about smacking him. Hard.

She walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and stared at the contents.  Not finding anything appealing, she opened the freezer.  Nothing there either--back to the refrigerator.  Maybe something new had appeared in the last three seconds.  No luck. Conceding defeat, Dawn pulled a glass out of the cabinet and turned on the faucet.  

Liquid as red as blood flowed from the tap, and through the window Dawn saw her sister latch the rear gate. “Buffy!”

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