"First thing I remember was askin' papa, why?

For there were many things I didn't know.

And daddy always smiled; took me by the hand,

Sayin', someday you'll understand.

Well, I'm here to tell you now each and every mother's son

You better learn it fast; you better learn it young,

cause, someday never comes.

Well, time and tears went by and I collected dust,

For there were many things I didn't know.

When daddy went away, he said, try to be a man,

And, someday you'll understand."

- Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Someday Never Comes"



When she kissed me for the first time I realized that I'd never felt so bleeding alive in my whole sorry existence.



You think I don't know what it does to my image? Me, Spike, spouting poofy clichés over some bird who barely even gave me the time of day, who stooped to kissing me once, who made a career out of killing my kind? Yeah, I'm a sick bastard and don't think I don't know it. Lo, and behold, the stinking ruin that little chit left of the Big Bad. Step right up and see her handiwork for yourself.



Would've been kinder if she'd killed me.



I tried explaining that to her once, back when my Dark Princess left and everything in my life went straight to piss. She never got it. Stupid bint barely even listened to me, too busy making cow eyes at Peaches and taunting me to pay me any serious mind. Drove me crazy she did, even back then when all I wanted was to drain her dry and present her to my Dark Plum like an exotic sweetmeat. It would have been glorious. It was always meant to come down to that one final dance between us and what a partner she made, all flashing eyes and perky tits and soft golden skin just begging me to rip my teeth into it and take her.



Never even got close.



Where do you think you're going? Bored already are you? Don't worry, mate, I haven't got you here just so you can listen to me cry about the Slayer. It's not a story about the girl that I'm going to tell you. It's just that she's important. You have to understand the way I felt about her to understand everything that brought me to this point. For better or worse she changed me, took my insides and raked them over hot coals. She made me want to be more than "William the Bloody"; made me want to be a man. Problem with that was that even before I turned I wasn't much of a man to speak of. Bet you never knew that did you? It's one fact that's still kept out of the history books, only one I ever told was her and she heard it all only half appreciating the words I was saying. Doesn't make any difference now, she won't be telling any one else. That's one secret she'll take to the grave.



Like I said, I won't be telling some poor man's "The Ballad of Spike & Buffy". It's important that you remember that. I'm not Captain Forehead and there was never any star-crossed foolishness between us. Yeah, I loved her but she never had the time to let me get near enough to make any room in her heart for me. It would have been worth it too, the chip and the Initiative and Dru and the Scoobies would have been nothing compared to how good we could have been together. Now that would have been something effulgent.



It would've been a love to make the poet's weep. And I should know, I spent enough time fancying myself one before Dru turned me and Angelus knocked some sense and cynicism into me. Impossible to completely change a man though, behind whatever new being he's fancying himself at the moment there will always be a shade of the person he was before that. It's the only thing I can think of to explain what happened to me. Over a hundred years of striking terror into the hearts of innocents and when it comes down to it I'm still the same idiot falling head over heels for a girl who thinks she's too good to even look at me.



Love's bitch.



But back to what I was saying before about that kiss. It was the kissed that changed everything, brought it home to me just how gone I really was. She was right before, about me not really knowing what I was going on about the whole time. I was too wrapped up in the immediateness of the whole thing, letting myself get so consumed by passion that I forgot what I'd known when I was still just William. Well that kiss made me remember. It wasn't the only one she gave me but in many ways it was the most important one. I'm not fool enough to think that any others counted for much. Not compared to the first.



It was the briefest of things, barely a proper peck. And I know she was thinking that all she was doing was showing me a bit of gratitude for enduring bloody painful torture for her and the Bit. I could read her intentions as plainly as if she'd spoken them. It was supposed to be the kind of kiss she'd give the Whelp. For all its briefness though I felt as if I'd walked straight into the sun the moment she did it. Hurt worse that whatever Glory had done. Tore my heart straight out of my chest. Would've been unbearable if she hadn't lingered for just a moment, parted her mouth and let me taste her. Her heart was going a mile a minute and her skin was so warm it nearly burned me. And that's when I knew that she felt it too. Just like that I had a fool's hope. A fool's weakness, too.



If not, I would've caught on quicker, been harder to trap. I wouldn't have ended up letting her down when it counted most. But it was clever; never even saw it from a mile away. It was a gamble that risked and cost me everything. Cost you, as well. How does it feel knowing that all that bloody brilliant meddling was wasted, but took its pound of flesh off as cleanly as if it had worked?



So, it was this kiss from that girl which set the whole sorry tale in motion.



Not a love story, no.



This is a story about me. And when you're telling a story about demons, mate, there's rarely a happy ending in sight.

"Close the door, put out the light.

You know they won't be home tonight.

The snow falls hard and don't you know?

The winds of Thor are blowing cold.

They're wearing steel that's bright and true

They carry news that must get through.

They choose the path where no-one goes.

They hold no quarter.

Walking side by side with death,

The devil mocks their every step.

The snow drives back the foot that's slow,

The dogs of doom are howling more.

They carry news that must get through,

To build a dream for me and you.

They choose the path where no-one goes.

They hold no quarter. They ask no quarter.

The pain, the pain without quarter."

- Led Zepplin, "No Quarter"



* * *



"Spike."



It was a struggle to keep his customary level of annoyance in his expression as he turned to face the Watcher hovering in his crypt doorway. The Watcher wasn't exactly the last person Spike wanted to see at the moment, that was a designation reserved for the Whelp or Captain Cardboard, but he certainly wasn't high on the list of desired visitors either. The only one he really wanted to see was her but since she wasn't here and her Watcher was almost as good as an official representative he managed to keep his frustrations sufficiently under wraps, "Don't stand there in the doorway like a complete git. You're letting all the light in."



The Watcher started but, seeming to recollect himself, entered into the crypt proper and closed the door behind him. Then of course came the staring, the fidgeting, neither of them really sure what to say. They'd never had the chance of approaching anything near friendship; only an enforced camaraderie which had begun to dissipate as soon as he moved into the crypt and which had finally died when Spike's feelings toward Buffy had become common knowledge. Spike snorted; a sound which broke the tension easily, "Whatever it is you got to say to me, Watcher, make it quick. Passions is about to start and I don't fancy missing it just to play footsie with you."



A flicker of disgust spread across the man's face before it reverted back into its mask of feigned politeness, "Believe me, Spike, this is not how I wish to spend my afternoon either. Buffy, however, wanted me to check on your progress."



So there it was then, just about the only thing that could have maneuvered the man into coming to see him: Buffy. He had come less because she had asked him and more as a way to ensure that she didn't come herself. Despite the Watcher's assertions that nothing between the vampire and Slayer would ever develop, he was a smart enough man to take steps to secure the chance against there ever even being an opportunity for feelings to evolve. He knew his charge to well to know that she wouldn't be tempted. If she'd fallen for a vampire once then she could so again. It wasn't the Watcher's opposition to their potential romantic involvement that bothered Spike the most; he'd been expecting that. It was the Watcher's determination that nothing even resembling friendship or trust would develop between them either. Given enough time, he'd poison the girl against him so thoroughly that what he had done for her and Dawn wouldn't matter a whit to her either. And that kiss, the crowning moment of his whole sorry existence to date, would become nothing more than a pale ghost to haunt him down the remaining centuries, "Well then, you came, you saw, you turned up your nose. I can't rightly see that there's much left for you to do here so if you don't mind."



And with that he turned deliberately away from the man, flipped on the telly and settled back to watch his shows, his entire body issuing him an entreaty to sod off. The Watcher, hypocritical sadistic git that he was, merely stood there watching him for a time. Finally, he deigned to speak, his voice reaching Spike through the sounds of his television program, "I've also come because I have something important to ask of you."



Now that was interesting but Spike, unwilling to let the Watcher see his interest, let the silence stretch between them deliberately, his eyes studiously fixed on the TV set as he debated the best way to tell Giles exactly where he could shove his favors. But Buffy, he was certain, wouldn't take kindly to that so he decided that if the old man wanted to talk he'd let him. But he was bound and determined that it would be a one way conversation. Finally, the Watcher began again, "As I'm sure you're aware we are significantly underequipped to deal effectively with the threat Glory poses. I'm sure this is a fact that, after your last run in with her, you can appreciate as deeply as the situation warrants. There is, however, an item that could turn the tide so to speak. It would, most definitely, be of great use in bringing Glory down."



Despite himself Spike found his interest piqued by the thought of something that could help Buffy and despite himself heard his own begrudging voice answer back, "What's all this got to do with me?"



Satisfaction flared briefly in the Watcher's eyes but he quickly tempered it, "The item is not easily attainable. It was concealed by the Council some centuries ago and the magics used to dispel the traps long forgotten. It is doubtful now if anything human, or even any mundane demon for that matter, could reach it."



And so there was the crux of the matter. He was to be a glorified errand boy then, risking life and limb to retrieve some artifact so forsaken that not even its keepers could get at it any more. He tried to maintain his indignation but it faded quickly beneath the reality of his situation. There was no dilemma really: if Buffy needed that weapon to live then Spike would do everything to make sure she got it. Still, the remembrance that he needn't give the Watcher the immediate satisfaction of knowing that cheered him somewhat, "What's this all got to do with me then?"



"Believe me, Spike, if I thought for a moment that there was any other real option I wouldn't be here. You are not my first choice and to say that I am loathe to include you in any endeavor that might boost you in Buffy's good graces would be a gross understatement." The truth in that statement vibrated through Spike like a bell, rousing his resentment and, if the Watcher hadn't immediately continued he might have given into his baser urges chip or not, "Unfortunately for me, you're all we've got. The only hope for retrieving this thing that Buffy really has. I know I don't need to point out to you how easily this situation could go Glory's way. Buffy is a remarkable Slayer but even she may not be enough to stop a god. And I had thought, given your expressed feelings," here the disgust shone through strongly," for her you would be more than willing to assist us in this matter. Of course, if you feel otherwise I can simply tell Buffy that there is no hope of acquiring the item and we will simply have to make do."



"I never said I wouldn't do it."



A small smile graced the Watcher's face and there was a clear aura of triumph and satisfaction about him now. It set Spike on edge, letting him know that there was likely more to this simple pick up mission than Giles, despite his warnings, had let on. He pushed the thought aside though, knowing that for Buffy he'd endure anything. He couldn't imagine the world without her, not when there was still a sliver of promise between them, a vista of pleasure and passion just waiting to be explored. So there was nothing else to do but for him to stand unhesitatingly, turn off the telly and get down to business, "This weapon you need have a name?"



"Tell me Spike, have you ever heard of Eowyn's Construct?"



"Rumors, mutterings really, nothing to suggest it was much more than a myth."



"Oh, I assure you it is very real. It first appeared in Roman Britain back before the native people had been entirely civilized. Rumored to be the creation of an adept of Avalon it was said to possess pure divine power. It could only be wielded by a true champion of the people however and though many have sought to pervert its uses they all failed. It is not invulnerable though, there is a flaw in it that if ever manipulated could very well allow the weapon to be tuned to the will of its master, regardless of intent. So, when the Council happened upon it, we took and hid it in one of the few magically secure places left in the world: the Anatolian Well."



"Bloody hell."



"Exactly," Giles removed his glasses, carefully wiping his lenses as he avoided looking at the vampire, "You can see my predicament now, the reason I can't just send any one to retrieve it. There would be no chance for their survival. You, Spike, are a different matter though and I have very little doubt that you will reach the object successfully. In fact, it may even serve as a means for setting you on the path to redemption and of someday being worthy of a woman like Buffy's regard."



"No need to lay it on so thick, Rupes. I'll do it without the fairy tale promises." Fool that he was though he fell for them hook, line and sinker anyway. The artifact, despite his bravado, became more than just the means of Buffy's salvation but also the key to her heart. There was no more need for thought, only time for action. Consequences to his self be damned. Later, he would curse himself for his impetuousness and wonder at his stupidity for not noticing the carefully neutral expression on the Watcher's face.

"Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover,

Something in the way she woos me.

I don't want to leave her now, you know I believe and how.

Somewhere in her smile she knows that I don't need no other lover.

Something in her style that shows me …

You're asking me will my love grow, I don't know, I don't know.

You stick around now it may show, I don't know, I don't know."

- The Beatles, "Something"



* * *



The Watcher had wanted him to leave as soon and quietly as possible. He'd all but thrown the plane travel fare at Spike, helped the vampire gather his things and, if not for Spike threatening to change his mind, would have escorted the vampire the edge of town as well. But Spike's surliness seemed to shake the Watcher back into himself and with a muttered admonition to check in with him, emphasis on the him, he was off and Spike was finally, blessedly alone. Just to make sure Giles was really gone he sat and smoked for a bit in front of his crypt, his mind stretching backwards and forwards as he turned over everything that had changed since he first came to Sunnydale three years ago and everything he hoped would change upon his return. Despite himself, he couldn't quite crush the flare of hope that the Watcher's words had raised in him. Beneath all his cynicism and nonchalance still lurked his inner romantic and it had gotten hold of the idea of being some kind of hero and held onto it now for all it was worth. The part of Spike that currently wasn't channeling his inner Nancy Boy could do nothing but sit back and shore up his defenses for the inevitable sorrow that it was sure would follow. If there was anything he'd learned in all his years of living it was that love, no matter how strong, rarely ended well.



Suddenly disgusted with himself he tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with more force than was strictly necessary. Still though, there he was mooning over the Slayer like a love-sick idiot while he put off the only real opportunity he had to win her. He was channeling Peaches to an uncomfortable degree and in an attempt to distance himself from any of his grand-sire's characteristics he decided that he would not go off quietly into the good night. Sod the Watcher, before he left he was going to say good-bye to his girl. And so, duffel bag hoisted, motorcycle ready and bravado in full swing he started off toward Revello Drive and what he hoped would be a goodbye to put Rhett and Scarlet to shame. It wasn't until he stood beneath her darkened window that he felt his confidence flag. After all, with his invitation revoked there was little he could do to get her attention. But, luckily for him a few small dirt clods lay dried near the base of the tree and with a few well aimed throws he soon saw the light turn on and the face of his love staring down at him from her window.



For a moment he lost himself in the simple pleasure of looking at her. Her face was still flushed with sleep, her hair mussed and radiant against the glow of her lamp and her eyes, those agate guardians as impassable as stone, seemed to him to soften slightly as she took him in, her mouth parting as she said his name. Reality returned to him with the force of a Pamplonian bull. His name on her lips was not a lover's sigh but an exclamation of annoyance, her features tight with worry as she waited for him to state his business, a thousand and one world ending Glory filled scenarios rampaging through her mind. This was not a woman who was a lover; she was a general with her back pressed against the wall and a losing battle looming before her. In her eyes he saw the spirit of others who had gone down before her, fighting hard undoubtedly, but still losing nonetheless, "I have something important to tell you, Slayer."



She groaned, her head falling against the windowsill as she gazed at him tiredly, "Can't it wait until tomorrow, Spike?"



"No." The finality in his tone seemed to surprise her and the tiredness was instantly gone from her eyes. With a muttered plea for a few minutes she disappeared from the window and Spike was left alone to wait. Now that it came down to it he felt a twinge of nervousness, a certain breathless trepidation that grew exponentially as he realized that he had never once really said good bye to her before. Their relationship had never been much for cordiality, whether they were allied or not, and this decision of his would serve as a testing of sort of the waters between them.



"What is it, Spike?" She stood in the doorway, tall and straight as a tree, her eyes alert and hard as she waited for whatever disaster he came to lay at her feet. He wanted to memorize her like this, wrapped in her robe, a satiny cotton number with nothing inherently sensual to it, her chin set at a determined angle, her hair golden and falling about her in waves and, of course, those steady warrior's eyes.



"I had a visit from Giles earlier."



"Oh." For a moment her face softened, her shoulders slumping in relief, "I sent him to see how you were holding up after." She pushed away from the doorway then and coming down the porch to get a better look at him. It was then that she saw the duffel, her eyes widening in a question and behind them a flicker of something which almost seemed to him like fear, "You're leaving."



Spike winced inwardly at the arctic chill she managed to infuse in that statement, the duffel sliding almost ashamedly to the ground as he walked straight up to her, forcing her to look him full in the face, "Yes, I'm leaving, pet, but I'm coming back."



She turned away from him abruptly, her shoulders squared, her voice still so cool and implacable that he was sure any one else would have missed the tell-tale quiver, "Why now, Spike? You know how much Dawn needs you. You're the only other one beside me who has any real chance of keeping her safe from Glory."



"It's because of Glory that I'm leaving, Slayer. Giles -"



"So what? You get roughed up a bit and that's it? The Big Bad can dish it out but he can't take it?"



"What? No," he was angry now, all fantasies of a tender farewell forgotten, "That's not how it is at all. Your Watcher -"



"Don't try to blame this on, Giles. I thought I could count on your help with this! You were supposed -"



"Bloody hell, Slayer!" He grabbed her arm, wrenching her around so that she was forced to look at him again, "Would you just shut your gob and let me explain for a moment?"



"Fine."



Her eyes glittered dangerously and Spike released her arm, taking a careful step back from her, "Giles is sending me away, pet. The Watcher's Council has something called Eowyn's Construct which Rupes thinks could be what you need to finally bring Glory down. He's sending me to get it."



"I don't understand. If the Watcher's Council has this A-I-U Construct then why don't they bring it themselves? Or why doesn't Giles go get it? It seems like they'd be more likely to turn over some super powerful god killer to another Watcher rather than a vamp."



"Eowyn's Construct, love, and the reason your Watcher can't go get it is that the Council doesn't have it any more. They locked it away in some hell hole known as the Anatolian Well so since I'm, as Giles kindly pointed out, 'impossible to get rid off' he's sending me after it." She was silent for a moment, turning his words over in her head, running them through her very own Buffy filter that Spike knew meant trouble for him more often than not. A bloke, he reasoned, could hope however so, rather than taking his leave quickly now that the message had been delivered he stalled, watching her carefully. When she finally spoke it was not what he had expected to hear.



"This mission is dangerous: you might not come back."



He nodded slowly, "It's a chance I'm willing to take, pet. You and Dawn are worth more than whatever kind of life could be left for some neutered vamp. Even if it happens to be me." The silence stretched between them again and when she didn't immediately respond in the affirmative Spike began to wonder more intently what exactly was going on in that brain of hers. In an effort to lighten the mood he let his patented smirk cross his face and put a bit of swagger in his steps as he came to stand close to her once more, "I wouldn't fret if I were you, pet. It takes a lot to put the Big Bad out for the count. My money's on me beating whatever nasty it is that’s waiting for me out there."



Still nothing. Swagger and smirk gone he was just about ready to leave when suddenly she spoke, "You have to come back."



"Of course, pet."



"Promise me you'll be back."



"Buffy, love," his hand was on her arm again as he half-marveled at the seriousness of her countenance, "there's not a thing in this world that could keep me away from you." She flushed then, a lovely guilty pink, and he knew then that his meaning had not been lost to her. Unlike before though, when she would have pushed him away roughly or let her fist get intimate with his nose she merely muttered his name and shook her head in the negative. He could see the words forming on her lips and, unwilling to let her spoil might be his last chance for a grand goodbye pushed on, "I'm not going to waste my time re-hashing feelings that you don't want to hear and I don't want to lie about. You already know how I feel about you, Buffy, and that's not going to change any time soon. It's enough for me now that you know."



And so while she was still half-stunned he pulled her flush against him and pressed a kiss against her mouth. She was as still as concrete beneath him, the fluttering of her heart in her throat filling his ears as he lingered, taking in her scent, enjoying her momentary submission to, if not acceptance of, his embrace. He heard himself moan her name against her mouth, a prayer and entreaty which was surprisingly answered when a sharp intake of her breath allowed him enough of a chance to slip his tongue in her mouth and taste her. For a brief moment of time, what must have been a nanosecond of reality, she softened beneath him, letting her heat engulf him as she pressed her softness against the rather embarrassing proof of his excitement. It was only one brief beautiful flash though before she reared away, fist connecting with his nose and sending him sprawling to the ground at her feet. She turned on her heel in a glorious huff and stomped up the porch to her door. It was then though, right before she shut the portal on him that she turned unexpectedly to look at him lying on the grass, "Be careful." The door closed and she was gone.



He couldn't help himself: he smiled all the way from Sunnydale to the airport in Los Angeles. True, it wasn't exactly the romantic encounter he might have hoped for but as far as the two of them went it was a sight more than remarkable. It was all the motivation he needed to fuel his determination and as he settled into the cargo hold of the plane to rest he vowed to himself that absolutely nothing would keep himself from getting back to his girl as quick as possible. For once, he thought hopefully, for once she'll see me.

"I sit here clutching useless lists, keys for doors that don't exist.
I crack my teeth on pearls. I tear into the history.
Show me what it means to me in this world.
'Cause I am due for a miracle, I'm waiting for a sign.
I'll stare straight into the sun, and I won't close my eyes,
Till I understand or go blind.”
- Thrice, "Stare At The Sun"

* * *

He hadn’t suspected that Giles would have assigned a waiting party for him, but it wasn’t long after he left the plane’s hold that he took note of the two men trailing him on the tarmac. Despite their crisp suites and scholarly air they had the air of people who were not only familiar with violence, but liked it. It was an aura Spike recognized well; not too long ago he could’ve been described that way. What worried his though wasn’t the sense of brutality, or even the fact that outnumbered him; he was more than certain that, given the right circumstances he could handle twice as many guys on his own. The problem was that the two gentlemen who were rapidly catching up to him were human. Thanks to the circuitry floating around in his brain now Spike was defenseless against them.

He hoped that they were not privy to that information.

He resisted the urge to speed up, letting the two men follow him nonchalantly out of the airport and into the streets of the city. The skin on his back began to instinctively crawl, a shudder of recognition passing through him as he breathed in the night air that was flavored with the distinctive scent of home. He hadn’t fancied ever coming back here. Memories, the fragment of a song lyric flew though his mind, All alone with the memory of my days in the sun. He made a short turn, the old route still ingrained in the wrinkles of his mind. For a moment he let his feet guide him, the sounds of the past rising up in a rush to fill his ears and he had the feeling that if he squinted sideways long enough he would see this city as it had been when he had still needed to draw breath to exist.

The sound of footsteps up ahead shook him out of his reverie and he looked up to find that one of them men who had been following him had managed to cut him off at the end of the alley while the other stood with his hands in his pockets behind him. The man before him smiled comfortably and began to walk toward him slowly, "I take it you're Spike, correct?"

Spike shrugged, shifting his duffel around on his shoulder as he took the other man’s measure, "Depends on who wants to know, mate."

The man before him was a sinewy fellow, neatly but casually dressed in what stuck his as distinctively Wesylian rogue. The blank smile remained plastered on his face but his eyes shifted around Spike to meet those of his larger counterpart, "We have been expecting you. A mutual contact notified us of your arrival and we were sent to assist you as it becomes necessary."

Spike snickered, turning slightly so that he was able to get a clear view of the men on both sides of him, "Let Rupert know that I'm appreciative of his help but I don't need any babysitters. Now why don't you two sods toddle off somewhere before you get hurt?"

"Very well then, we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way." They came at him as one unit and it was sheer luck that Spike managed to avoid their grip, sending the heavier one tumbling into the trash behind him as the other struggled to keep his balance, "Here now, and I thought we were friends."

"The Council doesn't befriend your kind, demon."

"Your loss," Spike taunted before, much to his chagrin and the surprise of the two men, he turned and fled. Their shock only gave him a momentary advantage and he could hear the two of them gaining behind them as he wove through the darkened streets. They were well trained and despite his best efforts managed to stay just behind him. Desperate to lose them once and for all Spike scaled a fire escape and took to the rooftops, hoping to keep them confused and on the ground. Behind him he could hear the two men on the fire escape and with a muttered, "You've got to be kidding me," took off across the roof. It ended abruptly and Spike, sending a small plea to whatever being listened to vampires, took a flying leap to the building across.

He landed with a thud and a roll. Behind him, the goon squad cursed and the slender one ordered his companion to jump for all he was worth. Spike didn't bother to spare a glance backward, choosing instead to hurriedly locate and climb down this building’s fire ladder. He felt the roof vibrate with the impact of the heavy man and just when he thought he would have to make his last stand there among the air conditioning units and weather vanes he found the ladder and began to shimmy down the building. He was halfway down when he heard a shrill scream tear through the night air followed by a sickeningly wet thud far below him. Slender had failed to make the jump.

One down, one to go. Spike felt the alley floor hit his feet and took off running towards what appeared to be a large boulevard. He heard the remaining man hit the ground with a determined grunt and Spike raced across the street and into the shadows of a large building. He'd barely had time to plan his next move when from behind him he heard the terrible shriek of brakes and the snap, crackle, pop of a man's body yielding to the greater force of a machine. His pursuer lay half beneath a black gypsy taxi, a dark pool beginning to spread beneath him. His heartbeat was steady but growing weaker by the moment and Spike knew that if he had any hope of getting information from him it would have to be now. He threw his shoulders back and sauntered forward casually, letting his face take on a sardonic hue as he stared down at the dying man, "Well, well, whatever do we have here?"

"You're a fool, vampire."

It wasn't exactly the words Spike had hoped to hear but it wasn't surprising either. He already had an inkling that the man was a tough git and it didn’t appear that death would have a softening effect, "You're dying."

The man made an attempt at laughter, emitting a horrible rasping sound which decorated his filmy lips with a layer of spittle. Spike didn't bother to hide his disgust as he stared down at the mess. In the car he could hear the taxi driver beginning to revive and he knew that soon enough their tête-à-tête would come to an end and there was a very real possibility that the man would pass without uttering a single clue . Begrudgingly, Spike began to scout around for an escape and was about to make his exit when the faint voice of his assailant carried back to him, "You're a bleeding idiot."

"I believe you already said something to that effect, mate."

"You think that you've won, but you're wrong. The Council will never let a demon piece of trash like you do what they can't."

Spike shrugged, "Can't see that the Council's will matters much to me, mate. I'm here on Giles' say so, not theirs."

The man let out another rasping breath, as he struggled to get out one final sentence, "Despite his occasional rebelliousness at his heart dear old Ripper is a Council man through and through."

There was no more to be said on the subject; the taxi driver was rousing and the man let his eyes close as he struggled to breathe, the slow weak thudding of his heart a taunting refrain in Spike's ear. With one final glance at the scene Spike left and began to retrace his steps back to the alley where the confrontation had begun. All the while he turned over the dead man's words in his brain, trying to figure out how all the inconsistencies would come to play in his quest. The warning had been sound and had carried a ring of conviction in it. The man truly believed that Giles had played him for a fool. It was just the type of dirty trick that Spike normally wouldn't put past the Watcher but the nature and importance of his journey belied the thought. No matter how much Giles might enjoy watching him blowing in the wind, he wouldn't do it at the expense of his Slayer. As long as Spike was charged with finding this crucial weapon he could be assured that Giles wouldn't harm him. It was once he was back in Sunnydale that his continued undead status would be questionable.

His duffel bag was still lying where he'd dropped it behind the dumpster and Spike allowed himself a moment of gratitude as he lifted it up and stepped back out into the streets. His feet fixed on a path towards his destination, Spike once again allowed himself to ruminate on the events of the day. There was still the unanswered question of how the goon squad had known when to expect him and the specifics of his mission. It was a vicious cycle: the only plausible answer led him back to Giles' involvement in the assassination attempt but common sense was firm in it's belief that, whatever his personal misgivings, Giles would do nothing to endanger or weaken Buffy right now. Buffy needed the weapon ergo Giles needed Spike alive to bring it back to her. It was clear that the two men were playing him but to what purpose Spike was still unsure.

With a start Spike realized that he had stood for some time before a modest townhouse. Hesitantly, he fingered the single key in his pocket and for a moment he considered turning around and finding some nondescript motel to hunker down in while he was here. The idea was immediately pushed aside by the realization that those were the very places he could expect the Council or whoever wanted to track him to look. In the daytime he would be at the mercy of any assailants. Here though they would never think to look for him and Spike would wager that they didn't even know of its existence. He’d worked carefully to conceal all surviving remnants of his past from everyone else. There were only ghosts and memories here to plague him.

The door slid open quietly as he turned the lock and Spike stepped into the still foyer. Closing the door quietly behind him he braced himself and turned into the small parlor, the sheets covering the furniture gleaming in the pale moonlight. Unceremoniously he sat down on the sofa and proceeded to open his duffel. There, wrapped up in his extra t-shirts was the treasure he had thought so regretfully of when he'd been forced to drop the bag. He held the picture gingerly between his fingers, careful not to get a smudge across the face of his girl as she smiled up at him. It was one of the few pictures that Spike had managed to salvage after the destruction of his altar to Buffy. He held it now like it was a direct connection to her, fancying for a moment that perhaps she would sense his regard across the miles of ocean and land that separated them. It was a lover's fantasy but he refused to lose it as he settled against the sofa to wait out the coming day.

“You're such an inspiration for the ways that I will never ever choose to be.
Oh, so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you.
Fuck your god, your lord, your christ, he did this, took all you had and left you this way.
Still you pray, never stray, never taste of the fruit, never though to question why …
Oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you.
Christ, dear christ, dear god, never taste of the fruit, never stray, never break, never choke on the lie.
Even though he's the one that did this to you, never thought to question why.
It's not like you killed someone, it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side.
Talk to Jesus Christ as if he knows the reasons why, he did it all for you.”
- A Perfect Circle, “Judith”

* * *

It was the sound of a light rain beating against the windows that jolted Spike awake. For a long moment he couldn't remember where he was but, slowly, memory returned and he found himself examining his surroundings eagerly in the pale evening light. The dimness of his original memories left Spike feeling empty and dismayed. He had the distinct impression that the young man who had lived her had known a life suffused with comfort and security, blissfully unaware that the bogies under the bed were real until the swallowed him and all he'd loved. The most bitter irony was that in his desperate wish to cling to that old life he had cut the final thread and sealed the fate of his family and himself forever.

Pushing away memories he'd rather not explore, Spike stood and forced his mind to return to the present. Every visible inch of the small parlor was covered in a thick layer of dust and he had a sneaking suspicion that if he lifted the dust cloths the furniture beneath would bear little resemblance to actual sofas and chairs. If asked he wouldn't have been able to explain to anyone why he still kept the place and he was sure that in doing so he was condemning this house that had known such life and love to an eternity of emptiness and silence. Ashamed as he might be to admit it, part of him still remembered the silly, romantic dreams of William; fantasies of one day carrying a blushing bride over the threshold and populating the halls and rooms with children. For a brief moment he imagined telling Buffy about the place, perhaps even taking her and the Bit to come see it for themselves, but the idea crumpled against the weight of reality. She would never come here, would never want to, and if she did she wouldn't see the beauty that was once here, only the glorified tomb that it had become. Even now he could see the clear hazel eyes he loved so much leveling him with a look of condemnation and pity. No, he would never show Buffy where he came from.

Dru had never wanted to spend any time here either. She had been uninterested in watch him “play with broken toys”. She had understood the matter better than him and had not appreciated his sentimentality. Life with her had always been about the simple and the immediate. He had chased after what had fascinated her for a second, his inner compass constantly turning to follow her whims like the wind. It had been romantic and adventurous and had led to nothing but Brazil. He would be a fool to believe that it had ever led anywhere else.

Buffy was another matter entirely, steady, grounded, too damn serious for her own good, and very much in trouble. After the incident last night, he was more than a little suspicious of the errand he was running. Rupert, has seemed to leave out more than a few pertinent facts and Spike found himself wondering exactly what the Watcher's motives had been. He was committed though now, come hell or high water, and he would not return to the Slayer empty handed. It was then that he caught the first tell tale whiffs of Jasmine and wood smoke. For a moment he dismissed it as the product of his reverie but the smell persisted, grew stronger, and was alarmingly accompanied by the crackling of a fire. Quietly, he crept into the hallway, his had hovering over the knob of the half opened library door before he pushed it open all the way and beheld her standing stark naked before the bay windows.

It was not something he would've anticipated in even the most far-fetched attempts to plan ahead. But there she was, an undeniable alabaster column, a stretch of long legs and long black hair and long fingers counting the rain drops that tapped against the glass in an increasing frenzy. If she noticed him she gave no sign, but he did not doubt that she was aware of him. He seeming indifference was not due to inattention but simply to the fact that his arrival, though anticipated and sought after, was devastatingly mundane when compared to the maddeningly colorful vistas that currently absorbed her. What was the arrival of an old flame when compared to the fleeting beauty of the storm? It would be useless to try and get her attention now until she was good and ready to give it.

In it's own way it was strangely comforting to know that even as his world tilted on it's axis, Dru would always remain the same: untouched by either time or sanity. She was so predictable for him in her unpredictability and he felt a rush of tenderness for the creature who had created him so long ago. She turned to face him then, her brown eyes sad behind all the madness that glittered there, “My dress was wet.”

“Of course.”

She smiled at him, before executing a sloppy twirl into his arms, “My Spike.” The smell of jasmine in a cloud about her ad her skin, cold and hard beneath his hands unsettled him. Before he could question her though she leaned forward and, with the ease of long practice, sunk her teeth into the sensitive apex of his neck. His groan was impossible to help, as was the involuntary shudder of his hands against her flesh as she fed carefully. Just as quickly as she had initiated it it was over and she stood before him, licking her lips in a delighted feline manner.

“Why are you here, Dru?”

She pouted and made a sound of her displeasure, turning back to the window as if to ignore him, “I've come to say good-bye of course. The stars have told me you're going on a long journey and you won't come back.”

Well then. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand before he could ask her what she meant. Desperate, he reached out and grabbed her only to receive a smack across his face that drew blood, “Naughty boy! Thinking to pull a thread from the tapestry and remake it your own way. Atropos always has the final word.” She wilted instantly, her head turning upwards as her body bowed to the transmissions she was receiving. Her eyes fluttered closed as a low laugh burst forth from her mouth and sent her into a slow dance. Her laughter died away easily into a low hum and she began to sing a tune that turned Spike's blood to ice, “Early one morning, just as the sun was rising I heard a maid sing in the valley below / "Oh don't deceive me, Oh never leave me, How could you use, a poor maiden so?" / Remember the vows that you made to me truly / Remember how tenderly you nestled close to me / Gay is the garland, fresh are the roses / I've culled from the garden to bind over thee."

It had been a favorite song of his mother, one she would hum or sing absently throughout the day and the night. His hands trembled as the memory of her hit him like a ton of bricks and the pain of losing her washed over him again as if new. Before him, Drusilla continued to sing, “Here I now wander alone as I wonder / Why did you leave me to sigh and complain / I ask of the roses, why should I be forsaken, / Why must I here in sorrow remain?”

“Ghosts,” she muttered wearily as she sank onto the carpet, her hands twining through her hair as she moaned, “Why am I always surrounded by the dead?”

There was no answer left for her but the silence.

“It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore.
I am sorry, sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud.
I am lonely, I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are.
And you make it hard.
Remember what we've said and done and felt about each other.
Oh babe, have mercy.
Don't let the past remind us of what we are, not now.
Tearing yourself away from me now, you are free and I am crying.
This does not mean I don't love you.
I do, that's forever, yes, and for always.”
- Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”

* * *
It's amazing how tangled a straightforward situation can turn out to be. If I wasn't the restless sort, I might have never questioned what you wanted me to do. But I've got a curious streak a mile wide and twice as deep. It's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count and even saved my sorry ass once or twice. This time though, it just mucked the whole sodden thing up more.

I used to love doing research once upon a time. Hard to believe? I don't blame you for your doubt, after all you've only ever known a part of me. But once, I was a scholar and a gentlemen to boot. Before your brain bursts from this sudden revelation I'll comfort you with the knowledge that I no longer enjoy it the way I used too. Despite all of eternity stretching out in front of me I just can't seem to sit still long enough to do it properly. So I avoid it like the plague. Except for this once, when it was just me and I had no other options. I'll spare you the boring details; one research montage is pretty much identical to all the others. Just picture it in your mind if you will, me in various stages of attractive dishevelment, growing closer to the truth in proportion to the books and dead library goers piling up around me. All this, of course, done to the tune of some appropriate eighties tunes. Perhaps something by the Clash, or Billy Idol.

Yes, I know, my sense of humor never fails to leave you in stitches on the inside. That's where it counts after all. I bet that despite your stoicism you're dying to let out a chuckle. No? Well perhaps I'll just cut to the chase.

Turns out there was a lot more to the story than I'd originally been told. Surprising, right? However could Ripper the Liohearted have led me astray? Sins of omission are funny, slippery things. That, and by counting on the fact that I'd gladly wade ass-deep in alligators for Buffy. In some ways I really am too predictable. Perhaps the next time around, if there is a next time around, I'll work more on acting like I don't give a rat's ass. I'm not sure it would've made a difference in the end in this case.

Yes, yes, you're tired of hearing about my troubles. You might have wanted to be the cause of them but you never counted on dealing with the fallout. Not that it matters much but I wasn't really counting on finding out too much about this Construct. After all, if it was as arcane as imagined and if the Watcher's coveted it so much then I figured the story was likely moldering in some Council archive. For the most part, I was correct. There was devastatingly little to be found. A few references here and there over the years but nothing specific, nothing to let me know what this weapon of your could or couldn't do. But then, one day I came across a story.

You'd like to hear this one then? Finally, a spark of interest in that tea-addled brain of yours. Well, I was planning on telling you Rupert, old chum, but this is one secret I think I'll keep to myself. Tit for tat, see? I don't show mine if you won't play fair. How does it feel to be on the receiving end for once? You can roll your eyes all you want, but I can see that the curiosity is already beginning to eat you up alive. It's small recompense in the grand scheme of things but there's only so much I can do to get back to you. So you're just going to have to allow me my petty revenge.

Consider yourself lucky. What I'd really like to do to you would make that little episode with Angelus seem like bloody heaven.

It's not the ship that stops me though. I want you dead bad enough, I'd risk the brain damage or scare up some other nasties to do my dirty work for me. No, what really stops me is the fact that Buffy wouldn't like it, wouldn't understand it. And I love her too much to let her down any more than I already have. So, you'll continue to breath and I'll sit here and continue to talk at you while I imagine crushing your skull between my bare hands while feeding your entrails to something appropriately nasty.

It's not perfect but it'll have to do, just like every other damn thing in my long sorry life.

“It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in.
There's an old man sitting next to me, makin' love to his tonic and gin.
He says, "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes.
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes."
- Billy Joel, 'Piano Man'

* * *

It had been a century or more since Spike had bothered to really immerse himself in any kind of research project. Once, the musty smell of untouched books and the texture of paper and ink would have been his own personal heaven.. Those days had long since passed into distant memory and currently Spike found that he was unable to summon the same level of enthusiasm. It wasn't that his mental acuity had faded over the years, in his opinion it had only grown, but Spike no longer relished a purely intellectual existence. When he had been turned he had been determined to carve out a purely physical existence, one in which he could give into and savor all the desires of the flesh that his previous moral existence had ignored. He had become a man of action, not of words, and almost every problem he had encountered since had been solved by fist or fang.

But even he couldn't deny that he want getting the whole story from Rupert. Something felt ... off. It was all too conveniently vague for his tastes. Spike had an active interest in not only finding Eowyn's Construct but being alive enough to bring it back to Buffy. Giles, he knew, might be hedging his bets - he would win whether or not Spike returned and it was a coin flip as to which resolution he preferred. Things between the two men had disintegrated completely over the past several months, any chance of a working relationship smashed against the immovable force of Rupert's dislike. Spike knew that he held a lot of the blame; as if loving the Slayer wasn't bad enough his harebrained schemes to win her affection or some semblance thereof had made him persona non grata with the Scoobies. Spike wouldn't put it past the Watcher to use this opportunity to make sure Spike was unable to bother Buffy ever again.

It was that possibility which was responsible for his current predicament. Scattered around him were books of various sizes and ages, their pages creased from his impatient examination. He felt as if he had gone through every book in the library over the past few days and knew almost nothing more than he had when he started. For all his searching, and had been thorough dammit, he had found only vague references and a plethora of footnotes. All of it useless information that had done little more than reinforce the idea that this thing was dangerous.

The only thing that had provided any enlightenment was the slim, red tome he held tightly in his hands. It was older than the rest and had to be ordered from another archive yet Spike was unsure whether it had been worth the wait. Part of Spike had wanted to believe the story he'd found, but another part of him couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more he was missing, a dark undercurrent that would come back at some inopportune moment to bite him in the ass. It just couldn't be a simple as once upon a time there was a rebellious young girl with a propensity for dark
magic and revenge who had gone out in a patricidial wave of glory that had created the Construct. The Council's interest in the item alone had him second guessing the whole thing and the bit about no survivors coming back from the Anatolian Well had been the cherry on top.

"Find what you're looking for?"

The obsequious voice shook Spike from his reverie, forcing him to acknowledge the aging man before him. Even if he hadn't ever met him before he would've exactly what if not who the man was. It was all the tweed. Spike was fairly certain that Watchers single-handedly kept the tweed industry afloat, "Travers."

The head of the Watcher's Council smiled condescendingly down at the vampire as his eyes landed on the book Spike held, "Come now, you can't be all that surprised. After all, with this particular vein of research you've been pursuing, not to mention the fact that the book you're now holding is the property of the Watcher's Council, we were bound to become directly involved eventually. When I learned it was Ms. Summers newest pet vampire who was poking around I decided it might be best if I came to retrieve or property personally."

Spike cocked a brow in disbelief before sliding the book across the table at the Watcher, "Well then, don't let me keep you from all your important work on the sidelines then. Off you go, why don't you toddle along back to the rest of your children?"

To his disappointment, Quentin Travers did nothing odd the sort. Choosing to ignore Spike's suggestion in favor of sitting himself across the table from the vampire, "I rather think I'll stay and have a word with you first."

Spike shrugged and slumped further back into his seat, watching the mam carefully as he collected his thoughts. After his recent encounter with the goon squad he had a feeling that he'd be smart to keep his guard up despite Travers harmless appearance, “Suit yourself.”

“As you many have surmised, I am here on official Council business.” He paused, his calculating eyes weighing and measuring the vampire, “After our interview in Sunnydale I have come to the conclusion that you could prove to be a valuable asset for the Watcher’s Council to acquire. For all your notoriety, William, you're still very much a cipher to us. It’s a matter which certain members of our group believe should be rectified.” He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, “You are unique among your species and it would be a great pity to let this opportunity such as this to pass us by without seizing it in order to expand our knowledge of vampires.”

Spike was completely floored by the words coming out of Travers’ mouth. Part of him was tempted: it satisfied the lingering vestiges of the man he had once been to be included in a society that, for all its military applications, was essentially a scholarly sphere. It was a world that William, given half a chance, would have flourished in. But is was a dead man's dream and no longer suited what he had become. The scholar was dead; the demon had takenhis place, “Let me get this straight: you want me to work with you at the great and almighty Council of Wankers?”

He didn’t bother to try and keep the derision out of his voice but let it shine through with every word instead. Quentin noticed and there was no smile this time, only a slight tightening around the eyes. But instead of rising to the bait he merely chuckled; a low, warm, nasty sound that grated on the vampire’s ears, “I believe, my boy, that you misunderstand me. I do not want you to work with me or even for me. I merely want you to let us … study you.”

Spike started; a stream of obscenity on the tip of his tongue as he prepared to tell the man exactly where he could stuff his proposal when Travers held up an imperious hand and continued before the vampire could draw the necessary breath for speech, “No need to look so taken aback. Only think of what a creature of your longevity and notoriety could contribute to our archives. Your personal history alone could be considered a great scholarly coup and Lydia is positively salivating to get her hands on you and ferret out all your dark little secrets. And then, of course, there’s what you could contribute about the general history of the Aurelian line and general demon culture and biology." He paused for a breath, his sharp eyes gleaming with anticipation as he eyed the vampire the way a scientist might examine an unusual bacterial configuration beneath a microscope, "The information you could provide would be invaluable to us."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't be a fool. You're already half an experiment with that chip in your head. At least with us you'll be put to some good use instead of wasting away as the Slayer's glorified lackey."

Spike let out a low growl, his face flashing between demon and man as he struggled to get a grip on his temper, "You're treading on dangerous ground, old man."

"Spare me the false bravado. We both know that you couldn’t touch me if you wanted to." Travers rose, removing a business card from his pocket and tossing it carelessly on the library table before Spike, “Consider this, vampire, it's only a matter of time before you wear out your welcome in Sunnydale and what then? Mr. Giles may seem like the epitome of British politeness but he won’t tolerate your presence any longer than strictly necessary and the Slayer … well, you already know what her job description is I believe?”

He turned away, leaving Spike to stare unseeingly at the thick square of white on the table before him. He paused for a moment at the end of the stacks, his voice carrying back in a low tone that Spike’s hearing just barely managed to pick up, “Face it, Spike, you’re little more than an animal that walks and talks like a man. You’re a predator who has lost his claws. Whatever you do now, you will always be at the mercy of others and eventually you won’t even have the little value that you currently do in Sunnydale. And then, when that inevitable day comes, like all useless, toothless dogs you’ll have to be put down.”

Disclaimer: 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' is the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.

"Ain't talkin', just walking, through this weary world of woe.
Heart burning, still yearning, no one on earth would ever know.
They say prayer has the power to heal, so pray for me, mother.
In the human heart an evil spirit can dwell.
I am trying to love my neighbor and do good unto others.
But oh, mother, things ain't going well.
Ain't talkin', just walking, I'll burn that bridge before you can cross.
Heart burning, still yearning, there'll be no mercy for you once you've lost.
Now I'm all worn down by weeping, my eyes are filled with tears, my lips are dry.
If I catch my opponents ever sleeping, I'll just slaughter them where they lie."

- Bob Dylan, "Ain't Talkin'"

Quentin's words echoed over and over in the back of friend; a mocking refrain that dogged his every step throughout the city. He felt disoriented, unsure exactly where he was going as he let his feet guide him through the increasingly empty streets. He stumbled in a pothole, swearing under his breath as he stopped and steadied himself.

There were certain truths that Spike ignored. One, the big one in fact, was the reality of his existence since he had been chipped. Spike's hands shook as his fished his lighter and a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from his duster pocket. Carefully, he lit the cigarette, grateful for the familiar rhythm of his unnecessary breathing, the tang of nicotine helping to ground him to the here and now.

There was truth in the words Travers spoke.

Eventually, he was going to wake up and find the Slayer or one of the Scoobies gunning for him. Didn't matter whether it was the Watcher or the Slayer or Red; eventually Spike would wear out his welcome. He raised one hand and brought it to his chest, covering a scar long since faded. He'd already come so close when Captain Cardboard had shown up in his crypt. Next time, whoever came after him wouldn't be packing plastic.

But what could he do about it? Spike dropped the spent cigarette to the ground before casting an appealing glance up at the night sky. It was at times like this that he envied Drusilla's gift, even a fraction of it would have been helpful. But there were no answers written in the night sky, there was only a spattering of dimming stars and the smooth, unconcerned face of the moon passing overhead.

The thought that it was a mistake to come here hung in the air. He wasn't himself here, there were too many memories, too many ghosts closing about him and muddying things up. Spike straightened up and began retracing his steps back home. The night wind blew blessedly cool against his skin and all around him he could hear faint sounds of life from the sleeping city. The scent of jasmine carried through the night to surround him in a faint caress and blew away.

He didn't belong here any more. He had spent the last week living in a dead man's shoes. He'd lived in his house, mourned his family, remembered past loves but none of it mattered. William, his mother and his sister's were dead and buried. Drusilla was gone and so was the demon she'd loved.

He couldn't escape Quentin's words; he could only accept them and move on. He might not last long in his new existence but he had his purpose, his lodestone: Buffy. He would keep her safe for as long as she let him, whether she wanted it or not. It might not be much; it was in fact considerably less than what he had before. It was something that would never be reciprocated or recognized, he knew that she would try to humiliate him, hurt him, chase him away but if nothing else he would be the one that stayed.

In that small way he could make a difference, leave his mark on the world and maybe prove his worth to the forces of good well enough for them to keep him around a while longer. No matter what Travers said Spike wasn't quite ready to turn in the towel yet, there was a key needed saving, a goddess needed killing and a Slayer needed wooing. He'd be damned if he turned himself into a science experiment today.

Spike felt the last of his doubt fade away as the familiar façade of the townhouse rose before him in the night. It had been beautiful here once and he had been happy, a good man. Somewhere inside him the necessary parts to become that man again still existed, he just had to give them a chance. The night stretched as he settled his plans in his mind, it was time to finish what he had set out to do. There was only one more thing …

Spike turned to his head to study the dark blob which had settled against the wall of the neighboring house. It had followed him quietly from the moment he'd left the library, "You might as well come out, love, the jig is up. I can hear your heart pounding from all the way over here."

The dark blob tensed for a moment before breaking away from the shadows and moving into the glow of a streetlamp, "Should've known it was one of you."

The young watcher swallowed nervously as she struggled to steady her hands, "It's just – I wanted – I –"

"Just spit it out will you? Sun'll be up soon and I don't fancy turning into a crispy critter just to hear you stammer out more Watcher nonsense."

She nodded, "I know you're looking for Eowyn's Construct."

"You and half the Watcher's Council. What does this have to do with you following me around like a tweedy Nancy Drew?"

"I want to help you find it."

That hadn't been the answer Spike was expecting. He turned, letting his eyes meet hers until she dropped them nervously. She was much younger than her years, he thought absently. Her thick red hair was pulled back tightly and a pair of outdated glasses sat primly on her face. The rest of her was equally meticulous: a neutral silk blouse, knee-length tweed skirt and sensible heels giving her the outward appearance of a misplaced librarian. He'd thought the same thing when he first met her back in Sunnydale, "I remember you from the last time the Watchers came to town."

"I was part of the group sent to interview you," she smiled nervously and extended a hand, "My name is Lydia. I wrote my dissertation on you."

Spike just nodded at her absently. She lowered her band slowly and he could see that the nervousness was back. Despite himself he was intrigued by her offer. If it had been any other member of the Council he probably would have sent them packing by now, but there was an air of innocence beneath the thick veneer of Watcher training that he couldn't ignore. It reminded him too much of Red when he'd first met her or of Dawn and how she tried so hard to be more grown-up than she really was. It made him want to trust her.

"Why?"

The question hung heavy in the air between them. Lydia chewed nervously on her lower lip, indecision flickering over her features as she debated her answer. She was like an open book to him; any deceptive arts she'd tried to learn in the Council clearly hadn't taken. Whatever the real reason for her offer, she clearly didn't know if she wanted to share. Spike shrugged and started up the stairs to the house, he didn't have time to play guessing games.

"It's not a weapon."

Lydia's quiet voice froze Spike in place.
She continued quickly, "The book you looked out only contains part of the story. It's not a weapon - it's more like a connection between this world and another."

Spike's world shifted sickeningly. He was dimly aware of a buzzing in his ear as Lydia continued talking. The memory of the last week hung heavily around him and he couldn't help the mocking mantra that pointed out what a waste of time it had all been. Time wasted that he could've spent actually helping Buffy and Dawn back in Sunnydale instead of traipsing around the world on a fool's errand.

"Would Giles have known about this?"

Spike's question stopped Lydia mid-explanation and once again sent her into a nervous silence. Finally, she said quietly, "Yes, he would have had to, all Watchers are familiar with it."

"Fuck."

Lydia flinched as he spat out the curse. He stood almost desperately still, his eyes wild as he let the ramifications sink in. Giles had played him, that much was clear, but what Spike couldn't wrap his mind around was why.

"You are still planning to go after the Construct aren't you?"

Spike let out a bitter laugh, "Now why would I do that?"

"Because, she might not be a weapon but she is an oracle - a direct link to the Powers That Be! Don't you understand?"

Lydia thrust the folder she'd been clutching into Spike's hands. He opened it absentmindedly and found himself staring at a series of grainy photos. As his eyes adjusted to the poor film quality he found himself drawn to a misshapen lump in the center of the photo.

"No one has managed to make it to the Construct and come back alive. Hundreds of Watchers have tried over the centuries but with little success."

Spike could make out the photo now. A body lay like a discarded ragdoll in a shallow layer of water. Its head was bent at an unnatural angle from the rest of the torso so that it was completely submerged in the water, "I still don't understand what this has to do with me."

"It might not be a weapon exactly but the Powers are nearly gods themselves. Help me find the Construct and you can plead the Slayer's case to them through her."

Spike reluctantly acknowledged that it wasn't a half bad plan. Buy there was still something she was leaving out. Spike cast her a sideways glance, "If this Construct is so dangerous then why do you want to go? What's in it for you?"

Lydia stiffened noticeably and for a moment he thought she would refuse to tell him.

"Because I'm tired of being treated like a glorified secretary. Just once," her
hands trembled as she smoothed her skirt absently, "Just once I'd like to do something in the field. Combine that with the opportunity to team up with a vampire of your renown ..."

Her voice trailed off but Spike didn't need to hear anymore.

"We leave tomorrow."

Disclaimer: 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' is the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.

"Tears and fears and feeling proud to say "I love you" right out loud,
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds, I've looked at life that way.
Oh but now old friends are acting strange.
They shake their heads, they say I've changed.
Well something's lost but something's gained in living every day.
I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose and still somehow,
It's life's illusions I recall, I really don't know life at all."
- Joni Mitchell, "Both Sides Now"

Buffy hated hospitals. Nothing good ever came from them. She wasn't particularly fond of the doctors in them either. In her experience they were bearers of bad news of the 'your mom has cancer variety'. They only thing they has going for them was the fact that life in Sunnydale had taught them not to ask too many questions. The ER doctors had taken one look at Tara and clumped her into the rest of the mental instability that was sweeping Sunnydale like the Bubonic. They'd just tsked over her hand before taking her away. No words of comfort, no questions, just a vague promise to release Tara into Willow's care despite the fact that she wasn't family. It wasn't much but it was something.

And so now there was nothing to do but sit and wait. Willow hadn't been able to stand it for more than a few minutes and had let Xander usher her away for some coffee and vending machine food. That left Buffy to enjoy the relative peace and quiet of the waiting room until Tara was released. It was the first chance she'd had for quiet in a while.

She'd counted on passing the time with a harmless game of anywhere but here but her brain had other thoughts. To be specific, Spike shaped thoughts. Not exactly the relaxing fare she'd hoped for.

Not even in her wildest dreams had Buffy Summers ever imagined that she would actually miss Spike once he was gone. It was wrong on such an astronomical scale that it gave her a serious case of the wiggins just considering the possibility that she might want him to come back and soon. Unfortunately, and she would die before admitting this aloud, that thought crossed her mind more often than was healthy. At first she'd told herself that it was because she rested easier knowing exactly what her former nemesis was doing. After all, a Spike left to his own devices was a Spike who usually ended up being a pain in her ass later.

That rationalization had held water for less then a week before she was forced to admit that he'd actually become somewhat useful lately. Somehow, despite all the amazingly unhelpful snark and seriously creepy obsession, he'd become someone she could count on. And not just to keep Dawn safe but to have her back - no matter what cutting criticisms he might be busy hurling at her and her friends while he was doing it. She couldn't help but remember the way he had looked when they'd finally managed to save him from Glory. She didn't like to think about it much but she knew that none of her other friends would have been able to live through, much less endure, that level of torture. Not only had Spike done it, but unlike her friends he didn't even have a reason to.

She was well aware that any other self-respecting evil vampire would have sold Dawn out willingly. But Spike, despite the way she treated him, hadn't. It boggled her mind and not in a good way.

The sound of muted crying brought her back to reality. Dawn had woken up and lay sniffling on the hospital bench. Soothingly, Buffy rubbed circles on her sister's back and made noises she hoped were comforting. She remembered mom doing the same thing for her before -

Buffy pushed the thought away. Now was not the time.

"It's all my fault."

If it wasn't for her Slayer hearing Buffy doubted that she would've been able to understand Dawn's whispered words. She froze for a moment, panic setting in as she realized she didn't know what to do to make it better, and then pulled her sister tighter against her before saying in her best comforting voice, "You know that's not true."

Dawn's head shook wildly, her sobs slowing only long enough for her to gasp for air, "None of this would've happened if not for me! I'm not supposed to be here and everyone else is suffering because of it."

"No," Buffy tried to gather her sister even closer but she skittered like a bird before popping off of the bench, her hazel eyes full of doubt, guilt, betrayal, hopelessness and defiance. Emotions Buffy knew well, ones she'd ways wanted to protect Dawn from.

"Stop lying to me!"

Dawn's hiss stunned her as if she'd been slapped. Her hands fluttered uselessly in her lap as she forced her face to remain calm, her eyes resting on Dawn's face as she waited for the teen's next move. But the shock of her own words seemed to deflate Dawn, she just stood there letting her tears drip down her chin as she struggled to regain her equilibrium. Finally, she moved; took a step away from Buffy and any comfort she could offer.

"I just need to be alone. I'll be back before Tara .." But her sentence trailed off as she rounded the corner and disappeared.

Buffy let her eyes slide closed for a minute, forced herself to take a calming breath and refrain from chasing her sister down. She would give her fifteen minutes and if she wasn't back by then all bets were off. But for fifteen minutes she could allow Dawn the illusion that she was safe. What was one more lie?

The clock ticked by slowly and Buffy felt sleep unconsciousness tugging at her. She hadn't slept in weeks, only fits and starts that could barely be called cat naps. Now, drained of any energy reserves, she let her mind drift aimlessly. Images drifted aimlessly before her eyes. Dawn, Xander, Giles, Willow, Mom - the bovine look that had been plastered across Tara's face when they'd first brought her to the hospital. Pretty dressing for an empty house, just another body really with the girl who loved inside of it already gone. Buffy pushed the thought away quickly. When had she become so hard?

Before she could answer that question her thoughts turned once more and she was remembering the smell of leather and cigarettes and the way her mouth had burned where he'd kissed her for hours after he'd left. She drifted there for a while; a stolen memory that was wholly hers and completely untouched by the Scoobies. She could picture every detail of his face that night; the way his eyes bad darkened imperceptibly, the tenor of his voice, the taste of his mouth and pressure of his body against hers. Yes, she was certain that this was exactly the place she wanted to spend her time while she waited for Dawn -

"Buffy!"

And then things began happening way too fast.