Part One


The red and blue cruiser lights flashed so brightly it hurt his eyes. Too many hours in the desert had dried them intolerably and as his foot slid heavier on the gas, Giles prayed under his breath that the police car screaming toward him wouldn’t catch how fast he was driving, spin in its tracks and pursue him instead of the nasty it was currently chasing.

He was a fool.

He paused at that thought, but no amount of time could give him the reprieve he needed to deny the truth. He was a bloody fool for taking his slayer to the sacred place when they were at war. Her fear that she was losing something of herself in light of all the tragedy that fell around her had touched him, but in reality, it had never been his job to be touched. It was his job to train, to guide, to instil the instinct in Buffy that she didn’t always have on her own to protect the world.

Yes, he was a fool. He’d cowed under the girl’s fear and had taken her out of one crisis and into another. He’d stood, shaking his ridiculous gourd while Buffy wandered into the barren landscape—without a bottle of water or an energy bar to keep her going. He’d expected the process could take a day—or possibly two, depending on how worthy the guides thought her plight. But by the second night, Giles panicked. He’d lost her and his only hope now while he sped back to Sunnydale for backup was that the silly girl had at least found the ability to love that she was so sure she’d lost. That she might reconnect with something and came back to them in her right mind.

As he roared back into town, Giles was hit with a premonition of doom—or it might have been the streak of black that hit his bonnet and ended splayed in the road more than a dozen feet from where he managed to screech to a stop. He was smart enough to stay in his car and fumble in the glove box for his stake and cross, but once he saw the brilliant hairstyle of the vampire struggling to stand he threw it back to the floor and exited in a rush.

“Spike! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” His harsh tone completely disguised his relief at so quickly finding the backup for which he’d returned, not immediately processing that the vampire was obviously struggling to stay conscious.

Spike didn’t even bother to offer a reply, barely raised a brow—that was immediately understood by Giles as disdain for the inquiry before he promptly passed out. That was when Giles was able to really look at his road kill—the vamp had definitely seen better days, looking more thrashed than the watcher had ever seen him.

A rush of concerned voices from behind him had Giles pushing his tired legs to a stand, his weary eyes beyond relieved to see the children that were always there in a fix; this fix being rather more alarming than usual. When his eyes rested on Buffy he almost collapsed in relief, but he quickly recovered, burning irritation making his eyes glint in the darkness. As they drew closer, however, he could see that his anger was misplaced, as this girl was no more his slayer than the vampire in an unnatural repose on the roadside.

“We need to get out of view fast…like yesterday,” Xander panted as they finally caught up to Giles’s car, the lot of them collapsing against it like their puppet strings had been violently severed. Except the girl that was Buffy—but not. She stood with the most serene smile on her lips. It was a smile Giles didn’t think he’d ever seen the real Buffy display. Her gaze fell to the vampire that stirred with a raw moan and she fell to her knees at his side, cooing with concern in a way that would have Giles spluttering in horror had he even for a second believed this girl was his slayer.

“Oh, Spike,” oozed from her lips as an efficient rather than a tender hand rapidly flicked across his peroxide cap. She turned to Giles, her eyes seeming to flicker in a rather startling manner as she processed the situation. “You are Giles,” she stated automatically, as if he had no bloody clue who he was. “You are my Watcher. Please help Spike.”

One perturbed glance at the Scoobies confirmed his worst suspicions. They’d all lost their minds.

The why of it all mattered not to him for the moment. What mattered was getting Spike relatively useful so he could help search for Buffy, and for that to work, they’d have to get out of the middle of the main street of Sunnydale.

“Right then,” he said in his most inspiring voice. “Let’s get it done then.”

He all but shoved and pushed them into his small car, completely ignoring the illegalities of it all in his drive to be somewhere less conspicuous. And when he got them there, he’d think better on how to explain the mess they were in—and work out where the other Buffy fit in.

~*~*~*~

Giles pulled off the road into the exact spot he’d parked when he’d brought Buffy here two nights before. It was a disconcerting déjà vu. He still wasn’t certain he’d made the right decision to bring Spike along, but his choices were limited. He couldn’t send anyone else out after Buffy; Spike was there only chance, despite his worrying condition.

It was more than a little disconcerting to find the cougar waiting exactly where Giles had left it. Though they stood in the blackest pitch of the desert, the moon—glowing almost spitefully in the sky—leant so much light that for a moment Giles worried about Spike’s flammability. Particularly as the vampire looked like he barely needed a legitimate streak of sunlight to cart him off to his rightful place in Hell.

“Friendly beastie, I hope,” he croaked and Giles winced. The vampire wasn’t really up for use as a bloodhound right now, but beggars couldn’t be choosers in such slayerless circumstances and he refused to feel guilty. For all he knew the vampire had revealed all their secrets to the hellgod and retrieving Buffy would mean nothing to the carnage they would return home to.

“I must confess that I ran to the car trying not to squeal too much like a slaughtered pig to actually notice if the animal planned on spilling my blood.” Giles contemplated said animal and noticed its calmness. He accepted his own slowing heartbeat as trust that this guide was here to relay something crucial rather than cart either of them off for its family to feast on.

Spike hobbled forward and again Giles swallowed a lump of regret that had risen in his throat. The vampire hadn’t even offered his predictable snark about accompanying him to the desert. As soon as Giles had confided that Buffy was missing the Scoobies had exploded into a cacophony of activity. Spike had pushed himself to unsteady to his feet—collapsing comically onto a passing Xander and being shoved back to vertical abruptly as if he were covered in maggots. He’d lurched toward the door with a directive for the watcher to, “get his arse into gear and get us back to the desert as fast as bloody possible.”

Giles was too relieved to feel resentful, helping the sagging figure into his car and detouring only once for blood before abandoning every other problem so as to focus entirely on Buffy. Spike was finishing off another bag of plasma as he stared at the enormous cat, reading the animal in ways that Giles assumed only ones with a claim to the nature of the beast were able.

“I think it wants me to follow it somewhere,” he said at last and Giles felt his insides tighten. Did he want to be left alone again, to worry and panic when hours lead to yet more hours and still no Buffy appeared?

The sleek animal turned soundlessly and Spike took a step toward it, then another before Giles grabbed at his arm.

“I think I should come with you,” he announced with urgency, quickly following after the animal but pulling up short as the great cat stopped and turned to glare at him.

“Think this one’s mine, Rupes,” Spike said with a pained smirk and once again, he put one foot ahead of the other and slowly followed the cat into the unknown.

Giles watched them go, agitated as hell and again cursing his lack of foresight to bring along food. He felt sure his gourd was well past its use by date, and he’d been too flustered by the surrounding disasters to think of his stomach while he was hunting down an ally to rectify his foolhardy mistake.

The night turned to chill and Giles thought there was nothing left to do but to make himself comfortable for what promised to be a long night. He had brought a blanket at least, anticipating a need to cover Spike from the sun if this search wasn’t complete until the breach of a new day. Getting back in the car and struggling to find some small comfort inside, he snuggled up under the blanket and diligently turned to thinking happy thoughts.

They took longer to appear than he’d hoped.

Part Two

Buffy had no doubts that whoever had decided to make the desert a place of sacred Slayerly intervention was somewhere warm, safe and laughing their fat ass off. She’d never been encased in such darkness before; never had the space around her seemed so empty and silent. It was eerie in a way she wasn’t used to—not without evil waiting around a mausoleum, or hiding out amongst a crowd of normals at the Bronze. This place was empty, frightening in its capacity to force one to think—and get lost.

So lost that Buffy despaired of ever finding her way back.

Figuratively and literally.

Seeing the sudden futility of walking aimlessly—and suspecting it was doing little more than drag her further to a place she couldn’t be saved—Buffy abruptly halted. Closing her eyes, she sought out something—a sign that might help her locate a path to somewhere rather than the road to nowhere that she currently followed.

Lids flying open, Buffy deflated. There was nothing. A big fat nothing in a big fat wasteland of stark uselessness. It served her right for not focusing on the large cat leading her to the rendezvous of her life. Served her right for getting lost in the mess that was her existence, staring at the moon and wandering completely away from where the gentle kitty had been leading her.

If she wasn’t so mad at herself Buffy had the suspicion she might cry.

Hugging her brown suede coat to her sides, hands in deep, extra toasty pockets, Buffy contemplated her current fix. She’d been out here forever now and unless Giles had more faith in her slayery abilities not to starve to death, she was kind of hoping he’d gone home for reinforcements.

Home. The place where an evil hellgod was dwelling, biding her time till she grew smart enough to work out what Buffy was really protecting above all else—thus finally locating the precious key to open up dimensions and lead her to her true home. Which could happen at any moment, and here was Buffy, indulging in her own fears, her own melodramas and getting so lost in the freaking desert that she was no help to anyone.

At least Spike was there if the gang got into any trouble. As much as he groused, Buffy knew he’d protect Dawn. She didn’t know how she knew—didn’t even know if she much cared for the why, if his fake love declarations meant her family was safe. The important thing was that if anything happened to her, Spike would be there to take up the slack.

Her legs tired from wandering aimlessly for what felt like days—and probably was—Buffy sidled up to a huge rock and plopped down on it, misery bearing heavily upon her shoulders.

She couldn’t ignore the possibility she might die out here, that she may never return to Sunnydale, but as soon as she’d thought it a chill settled over her. What if she wasn’t there at all anymore? What if she followed her mom to Heaven and left Dawn all alone? Buffy trembled at her weakness. Sure, she was exhausted emotionally, and physically she could definitely benefit from a week in the sun where monsters were too afraid to go, but to apathetically accept leaving this world behind and succumbing to death, was that really what she wanted? Was she doing anyone a favour but herself?

Not that thought mattered. Not when the thought of being warm, encased in love and feeling finished almost enticed her to stay in the desert forever. If she was less devoted to her duty, Buffy had little doubt she’d do just that. Giving up was a small step to take when on a losing streak, that just about everything that meant anything was drifting away without any hope of becoming fixed and certain.

At least, it certainly wouldn’t be hard at all if there was a TV somewhere for her to while away the time until the vultures came to peck her bones clean.

Buffy pouted. Who was she kidding? Her own death wouldn’t be a gift to anyone, let alone herself, and if she could just get passed this funk she might actually see the plenty there was left to live for. In a daze she peered out into the darkness, searching for that one thing to give her hope. The scenery was as silent and dark as it had been for hours and she re-entered her own mind for further introspection. Maybe that was the whole point of this sacred gig, anyhow?

Suddenly Spike’s guilty smile and unruly white curls flashed into her mind and no matter how Buffy struggled against feeling the image in her heart, it settled there and she acknowledged that Sunnydale meant more to her than just her family and friends. Her memories of the place were strong and Spike made up a number of them. He’d entered her life as an enemy and made the transition to would-be lover and while Buffy dwelled on how deluded he was, she refused to even contemplate how flattered she felt.

No one had ever chained her up and professed to love her so much that they’d kill their maker for her, and while that thought should have been completely deranged, Buffy felt her lips turn up in the barest of smiles. It was kind of cute in the way that anything vampiric and soulless could be when true evil had been sidestepped thanks to an Initiative chip in his head.

Once the thoughts of Spike tumbled into her head, Buffy found herself quite incapable of stopping the onslaught. It wasn’t quite the answer she’d been looking for while freezing her ass off in the desert but it sure beat lying down and giving up. She had her pessimistic moments but truly she believed things had a way of working out. Well, sure, her mom didn’t seem to be on that list and while Buffy tried to close her heart to the ache of fresh grief, she remembered all the things in her life that had worked out for the best.

Angel.

His leaving her had almost broken her and she wanted to hurt him for believing he had the right to take that decision out of her hands. In the long run, he’d made a home for himself in L.A. and was doing pretty well there—even if he did have Cordelia and her cleavage hanging all over him. He was saving people, helping people, and wasn’t that what they were all about?

It suddenly hit Buffy how right she was with that. Giving up her boyfriend for the greater good of the human race seemed entirely okay all of a sudden. She had her own greater good to worry about—keeping Dawn from opening any mysterious doors to dimensions that were likely to converge on them and kill them all. The fact that Angel wasn’t at her back hardly felt like a loss anymore. Not when Spike was so devotedly filling in his overly-bulky shadow… filling it in kind of nicely if she wanted to allow herself the truth.

Spike had always been there, she realised. Right back to when she needed something unusual and unpredictable to fight against Angel. He’d been the one to give her a way to fight, a way to save Giles, a way to save the world by defeating Acathla and putting everything ahead of her love for Angel. If she’d truly loved him, could she have done that? If he was the absolute love of her life wouldn’t she have chosen to follow him to eternal hell than to merely run away? Giles and everyone had thought her brave…courageous, but she’d been nothing but a coward. She’d chosen her own life over Angel’s. Sure, she’d cried, convinced herself she had to kill the only man she’d ever love to do her duty, but the truth was, she’d done her duty. No thought, just instinct.

It had hurt to be kissed by a recovered Angel only to shove her sword through his chest, but it was the dream that hurt—a dream she’d been living off for years. Angel had never truly been there for her, never fought with her or protected her when he was supposed to. How could a relationship based on nothing but the physical be ultimately satisfying? It had no chance and the realisation felt like a ton of guilt and sorrow lifted from her shoulders.

Buffy giggled. Another example of things working out for the best. If she was about to perish in the desert then it surely didn’t hurt to have an epiphany. Especially one that left her heart a whole lot lighter.

So it stood to reason that she would turn to contemplating what might eventually fill that brand new space. There’d been no room for Riley—she couldn’t help but understand that now, and while the guilt did sting a little, Buffy refused to beat herself up about it. There had been a lot going on for her right from the moment she’d first met the solid and sturdy TA and while he’d grounded her in a way no other man could have, he’d failed to replace Angel in her heart and mind. It was confusing why that was—it wasn’t like Angel had been in their face the entire time. But he had been there, and Buffy had been incapable of shutting him out.

Until Riley had left her.

She was racking up quite a boyfriend body count.

It dented her pride that she’d lost the fight for Riley. What it hadn’t done, and probably should have, was dent her heart. Granted she’d had the loss of her mom to contend with, but not having Riley in her heart to begin with made it a whole lot easier to heal. Now that she’d ousted Angel she was a new, full-hearted Buffy, ready to commit if ever she saw the opportunity for moving on.

If she survived this perilous and useless search for answers.

Part Three

He hurt. Every bloody cell in his very old body was crushed beyond repair thanks to one overly diligent hell bitch. He felt he would never stop spitting up blood despite the impact of her fists quitting hours ago. The blood good ol’ Rupes had been feeding him had turned sour in his gut and maybe that’s what gave Spike that tinny taste in his mouth. Hard to tell as his lips were torn and dry. He was trying not to lick them—trying not to imagine himself lying quite still on his bier in his nice uncomfy crypt. He needed to recuperate from being the bitch’s pin cushion—shuddering at the psychological memory of her filthy fake nails poking through his guts—instead of traipsing through a desert without any kind of map.

Ordinarily he’d whiff the air and pick up the Slayer’s scent—even in the great beyond of sandy uselessness—but it being broken was putting a bit of dampener on that option. As much as he thought he loved the bint, he wasn’t about to court extra pain on her behalf. He was hard pressed even thinking of Buffy past his goal of finding her. It was difficult to shift his focus from the ribs scratching together, the burn in his gut and the mangle of flesh and bone that he guessed was his face. Well, if nothing else, now he knew it didn’t pay to poke fun at a bint’s hairdo—or the size and balance of her ass.

He chuckled and got a glare from the cat in response. “Oh, bugger off,” he said. The cougar growled in warning and Spike grinned as best he could past the scabs breaking open on his lips.

His boot struck a pebble and down he went, falling hard into the soft sand. Spike lay there for a while, wondering how he was going to get up when the call of a good, long sleep was so strong, but once again the cat growled before it padded its way to Spike and started licking his face and nuzzling his broken ribs.

A roar of agony burst from within and Spike launched upright, his shaking finger waving at the animal. “You bloody did that on purpose,” he accused, tears of pain in his eyes. He could have sworn the bastard grinned, eyes glinting with humour in the moonlight. Spike felt a nasty urge to rip its head from those powerful shoulders, but he wasn’t sure if the chip would fire or not. Especially as the animal was a vessel of the Powers That Fuck Everything Up.

“Do that again and I’ll see if your mystical blood might not repair a thing or two,” he promised melodramatically, and quivered a little at the glare the animal aimed at him. The cat seemed to consider him no threat, however, and with what Spike assumed passed for a grin, it turned its sleek yet lethal body back the way it had been heading and picked up the pace.

Spike moaned, stumbling slowly behind it while gently tugging at his hair. He’d pull harder except for it felt loose and he was terrified he’d end up with bald patches. He was far too fine to risk losing his locks over some wanker of a puss that didn’t know he was a little under the weather and probably far from being up to par for a recovery mission.

He’d swear at Giles if he didn’t know that, under it all, it was urgent he found Buffy and brought her back to the warm bosom of her watcher and friends.

Only, he had other bosoms on his mind as soon as the old fashioned word tumbled through his head. Tits. The size of ripe plums and juicy enough in his imagination to make his bruised mouth water.

The cat growled in disgust, its great lumbering frame stalling for a second to stare him down until Spike got the point.

“Right. No lurid thoughts about your precious Chosen One then. I’ll just think about the bloody Queen then, shall I? Not like I need anything enticing at all to make me forget about the pain.” Spike knew he was whining and was a little ashamed of himself, not to mention impressed as hell the cat could read his thoughts. Still, probably didn’t do to think of the Slayer naked and servicing his needs when he was out in the middle of nowhere trying to find her before she died.

As flippant as he’d meant that phrase, it suddenly hit him hard in the gut. Spike may have been many things—a ruthless vampire that killed women and children indiscriminately, a bloke who enjoyed a good game of pool as much as turning and twisting the Scooby’s minds until they snapped—but the one thing he wasn’t, was stupid.

He loved Buffy. It might have been difficult for him to categorise that love, to explain it to himself or to her—and not a hope in hell did he have in making anyone else understand it—but it was enough for him to be certain what he felt was real. He wasn’t just obsessed. Sure, he’d done everything he could think of to ingratiate himself into her life—helping at every opportunity, babysitting at every turn—but despite views to the contrary, it wasn’t solely to get into her pants. Not that he’d say no if that lucky stroke was ever offered. He knew that his feelings were genuine enough that if Buffy wasn’t around anymore—if he failed to find her in time and she died in this sandy hell hole, he’d be gutted in a way he’d never been before. Not even being dumped by Dru would come close to the coldness that already crept into his dead heart at such morbid possibilities. Never having the Slayer punch him in the nose again, or hearing her whiny, over-confident puns as she did her job and saved all the unknowing idiots of the world from his kind, quite measured up against the degree of pain he was wise enough to expect should anything happen to the shortass blonde that had captured his heart good and proper.

Still, Spike could feel himself wilting. He’d mended a bit with the blood Rupert had pumped into him but it wasn’t enough to do the job a good old-fashioned rest would have done. A little respite from the do-gooder mentality Buffy’s friends were slowly instilling in him with their brave devotion to their leader was very much in order.

Jesus Christ, he was feeling revoltingly poetic all of a sudden, reminding himself too much of the git he’d fought himself to bury as deep into his missing soul as he could. There was no place in this desert for William. The prat wouldn’t have had the first clue how to find Buffy—how to save her even if he did.

“You won’t mind if I take a load off, yeah?” He didn’t wait for the beast’s consent, spying the first convenient boulder and parking his arse on it.

Fuck he ached. From the tips of his hair to his littlest toenail. That Glory bitch had worked him over like no other before her. Her fists had felt like buildings smashing into his face, her finger a burning lance as it gored into his belly and searched him for something he knew wasn’t there.

He was all too aware the punishment had been completely voluntary on his behalf. Sure, the hellbitch knew he wasn’t her bleeding key. She was a vicious, cruel mistress of the world she’d been banished from, and Spike knew from experience that that kind of background was hard to let go of. Was bloody impressed if the truth be told. Still, he knew who the key was and he’d have saved himself several worlds of pain if he’d been open with her and handed |Dawn over on a silver platter.

Except, he couldn’t.

Months ago he’d have ratted on the Scoobies without a second’s thought. Now, though, he was in love with the one woman in the world who’d never love him back. Handing Dawn over would have killed her and while that fate lay ahead of Buffy some day, be damned if Spike was going to help it along.

Sitting might not have been the best idea, Spike thought as his head throbbed so hard he thought it was going to split down the middle. The Power’s guide sat at his side, a little closer than Spike should have been comfortable with, and seemed to be waiting patiently for him to gather the strength to haul himself once again to his feet. Weakness lived in his veins, however, and before Spike could infuse enough will into his bones, his eyes fluttered shut. Sleep was his enemy, but it was hard to fight what his body craved so badly. Hard to resist when deep down Spike knew it was what he needed to do in order to find Buffy.

The flames warmed his face, waking Spike with a jolt and all too familiar fear of being turned to dust. Being flammable didn’t have any perks whatsoever when he was left defenceless in the desert. Giles had cast him off into the wild blue yonder without so much as a blanket to stave off the beginnings of the sun. Not that it would have saved his skin for longer than a minute. The sun showed no mercy when it exposed a vamp—could get under almost anything and turn him to ash given long enough.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the glare of the biggest bonfire he’d seen since possibly his last days in Prague—the ones where he’d barely escaped with his and Dru’s existence intact. He was sure there should have been even more heat behind the flames and while he sat and wondered about singed limbs and smoky hair, an image began to materialise and he gasped in pained recognition.

His face softened and his eyes teared up in wonder, his lips falling slack around a silent cry for forgiveness. She smiled at him, the way she always had and he knew without being told that she’d always forgive him, no matter what evil he committed in the world.

“I understand, William.” The gentle smile was one she’d bestowed upon him throughout his human life; it was the smile of a mother who could do nothing but love the insipid sop she’d borne to the world—no matter how pathetic his contemporaries had thought him.

Weariness exhausted him, but still an urgent need to hold his mother once again in his arms overwhelmed him and he stumbled to his feet, one arm outstretched for her while his boots struggled to find traction in the sand.

Her own hand was held up to hold him at bay, to implore him to step no closer to the flames.

“This fire might indeed be symbolic, William, but it will still turn you to ash. The Powers are far less merciful than I, my sweet.” There was no judgment showing in her eyes and Spike shook with the wonder of it.

“Why?” he asked, his voice cracking in a way unseemly for an evil creature of the night. “Why are you here?”

Her love for him shone in every part of her face: the gentle turn of her lips, the rosy blush to her cheeks, the soft light of acceptance that sparkled in her eyes. Spike wasn’t sure he cared why she’d appeared to him, pinching himself belatedly and howling when the pain added to his woes. He wasn’t dreaming. His mother really was standing behind the blaze conjured up by the Powers, showing him the love and devotion he’d only ever received when he was William; when he was her son.

“Because you’ve taken your first steps and this night will ensure you stay firmly on that path.” Her voice cracked with emotion, but rather than sadness, all Spike could see was pride. In him. He was sure he was reading her all wrong; none of it made a lick of sense. There was nothing about him that should have inspired such parental approval.

Puzzled, he watched his mother closely as he tried to nut out this confusing declaration in his head. After what felt like hours he admitted to himself he was coming up with absolutely nothing to explain this elaborate hallucination, and shrugged, an embarrassed grin tickling at his lips.

“You got me,” he declared. “If I’m supposed to walk some particular path to find Buffy, one of your almighty poofs up there will have to light it up like the Yellow Brick Road or I’m not sure I’ll find it.”

“William!” The reproving tone did everything to make him sheepish, regretting at once his use of Spike-speak when conversing with his mother. She relaxed, and once again that look of indulgence flourished where there should have been disgust and hatred. “Your journey is one of discovery. We cannot force you upon it, but we can enlighten you of the consequences should you choose not to follow it.”

He had no time to panic in the split second his mother stood before him and then disappeared as visions of events he’d never seen—but had heard of some—battered his senses.

The ugly mug of his great, great, great grandsire—the Master—as the sodding short-sighted nit sank his diseased fangs into Buffy’s throat and left her to drown in a puddle. Spike’s body froze, despite knowing old batface was dead and little more than scattered salts of the earth.

Buffy, stabbed with her own stake as the Eighties reject vamp made off with a spectacular story to tell. Spike felt the pain this time like he had the first, though not with a searing zap to his head. This time it felt like an ice cold lance to his heart. The thing may not beat but it felt well enough. Felt love for the Slayer, as much as he wished it didn’t.

And then calamities he’d never known made a private viewing in his head, warning him of future hurts the past couldn’t hope to surpass.

A brave, stupid swan dive off a tower built by mentally challenged followers of Glory; it left Buffy a mangled corpse amongst the building materials left scattered about the ground. A cry of horror tore from Spike’s throat. He collapsed to his knees, the scenes of death and near death overwhelming his senses, his body suffering every crushing loss as if it were happening right in front of him. As if he had the ability to prevent it all, but for some completely cracked reason, chose not to.

And, impossibly, when he’d felt like he’d lost it all, she was back, broken and in pain, but alive. His first relieved gasp died in his throat as the horror continued and Buffy was attacked—humiliated in her bathroom—and he was the cause. Wounded, Spike sobbed, the pain of his own evil attacking him internally and leaving him gasping in anguish as he reconciled his love to this cowardly act of force.

And then a gun in the daylight—a place he couldn’t have saved her even if he’d wanted to. Not against a human—even if that human was evil and deranged on levels Spike would once have recognised and appreciated, if not rewarded.

“Stop,” he screamed, the pain of these revelations breaking him to the ground. “Bloody stop.” His voice broke and against his cracked lips he could taste the bitter tears of his loss.

Anne, his mother, stepped forward, sympathy and knowledge sweeping over him from eyes that matched his own.

“You love her.” It wasn’t a question and Spike was grateful he wasn’t really required to answer. He nodded, unable to tear his gaze from her, desperate to be offered a way to stop these events from ever taking place, for a world without Buffy, he discovered, was a world where he didn’t wish to live.

Eventually the silence was too much and Spike pleaded for the answers. “What can I do?”

He felt her loving touch on his cheek and closed his eyes, even while he knew she was on the wrong side of the fire to touch him for real.

“You’ll know, William. Love is your gift.”

And then she was gone, leaving Spike to muddle through the horrific thought that occurred to him as her words settled in his head.

Buffy didn’t see his love as a gift; but she would his soul.