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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."





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