TITLE: After Dust

AUTHOR: emg

RATING: R

SPOILERS: Starts after BtVS Season 6, Normal Again and AtS Season 3 Forgiving.

DISCLAIMER: The characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm just playing with them.

SUMMARY: Spike gets staked! That's just the beginning of his troubles. S/B romance, S/D friendship, Angel crossover. Please read and review.

*************

AFTER DUST

 

CHAPTER 1 - STAKES AND LAWYERS

 

Wednesday - Evening

 

It probably wouldn't have happened if he still kept in touch with Angel.

 

But he was still on the outs with the old poof and they weren't in the habit of exchanging friendly warnings. Of course, torture will do that to a relationship. Angel still resented that incident with the Ring of Amara. And Spike had never quite gotten over Angelus stealing Dru and humiliating him for months when he had been crippled. For that matter, Angelus had probably still been steamed about the time back in the Thirties when Spike had helped Darla capture him and they turned him over to the Master. Yeah, Ol' Batface had been a bit rough, trying to starve and torture the git out of being so soulful and mopey, but it had been for his own good. It might have worked if Angel hadn't escaped a few months later. After that Spike had pretty much left him alone with his gutters and rats.

 

Still, a few incidents like that could ruin a friendship.

 

To be honest, however, even if Angel had passed on a warning about Wolfram and Hart, Spike would have probably been too reckless to pay any attention. He had been roaring drunk that night and feeling desperate.

 

It had been rough after Buffy had left him. That Wednesday was as bad as it got. He had dreamed of the Slayer, fighting and laughing and tumbling with him in his bed. Then he woke up in an empty bed and remembered once again that she was gone. He was a soulless monster and she had said, "I can't love you."

 

It's all Angel's fault, Spike told himself. Any chance he had with the Slayer was pretty well screwed thanks to his sire. Every time he had seemed to get somewhere with Buffy he found himself confronting the ghost of her first love. Angel had a soul. Angel had been dark and romantically broody. Angel had turned into a soulless demon and betrayed her love. Even when he had recovered his bloody soul Angel had managed to hurt the girl. He had left her.

 

Underneath the rage bubbled another thought, one that had to be beaten down. Maybe it wasn't his sire. Spike angrily swilled more whiskey. Maybe, when you came down to fundamentals, it was him. Someone, who, no matter how much he changed, no matter how long he shagged her and how mind-boggling the sex, in the end left her feeling as filthy as the grease from the hamburgers she grilled. When she looked at him, she had never seen her demon lover, just a weak, incompetent who had always been beneath her, even before he had been neutered. A convenient shag, not worthy of respect or love.

 

And that was a thought that was beyond endurance. With enough alcohol, he could blame everything on Angel. He tilted the bottle and the last few drops dribbled out, then he hurled the bottle against the wall of his crypt. He looked around at the burned, shot, scorched rubble. So much for pretending he didn't live in a sewer. The broken glass fit right in. He shrugged on his duster. Time to go out get some money. Time to put on a vamp face and demand spare change and scuttle away if anyone dared to fight back.

 

At least he wasn't too drunk when he saw Dawn standing in front of the McDonalds. He stood in the dark, looking at the bright lights and listened to the chatter and laughter.

 

Dawn must have followed her usual Wednesday routine, studying at the library with her friend Janice and then going over to McDonalds for a snack afterwards. The Doublemeat Palace had been closer but Buffy's watchful eye would have cramped the Nibblet's style. Sometimes she and Janice would meet some boys. Back in the summer when he had been looking after her, Spike would arrive and find Dawn in a little group of adolescents, giggling and flirting and acting like a normal teenager. He would give the boys his patented "touch this child and I will drink your blood" look and drive her home.

 

Tonight, however, there were no boys. She and Janice were standing in the parking lot, waiting for Janice's mom to give them a ride. He smiled and watched them, staying back in the dark. His vampire ears monitored the conversation, checking to see that the Li'l Bit wasn't losing her heart to some teenaged bundle of lust and hormones.

Bloody hell, he missed her. For five months he and the wiccas had practically raised the chit and now he was lucky if he was permitted to see her once a week. At least on Friday he had been scheduled to drive her and Janice over to a slumber party across town. If he could scrounge up some spare change he could treat the girls to some ice cream and get to chat with the Nibblet a bit.

 

Janice's mom finally arrived and the girls hopped in the car. He wondered how long it would be before Buffy decided that he wasn't good enough to associate with Dawn. He fought a wave of self-pity and snarled. It was time to go to Willy's and get roaring drunk.

It took an entire bottle of whiskey to beat back the pain into a simmering anger. Most of the other demons in the place knew to keep away, but an Arunga demon stumbled into him and they fought it out in the alley. He had reduced it to an unconscious mound of flesh but was too loaded to remember how to kill the bloody thing. Still, by the time he left Willy's the pain had turned to a much more satisfying reckless rage.

 

Which is why he wanted to kill the Asian bloke he found waiting for him back at the crypt. The bastard was sitting in his favorite chair in front of the telly. The temptation to rip the man's throat out was almost overwhelming. Just wiping the smug look off his face would be worth a week of migraines. Spike switched into game face and, grabbing the lapels of the man's expensive suit, yanked him out of the chair. "What the bloody hell do you think you are doing here?" he roared.

The fellow didn't even flinch. You had to give him credit for balls. "Mr. Spike? Formerly known as William the Bloody? I'm here to offer you a deal."

 

Spike head hummed with a warning twinge. Despite the cool face, the bloke's heart was pounding. He could smell the blood and the lovely scent of fear. A sudden wave of hunger and rage shook him, making him almost dizzy. Then two years of reflexes kicked in. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then began to drag the man to the door.

The man's face still showed no fear. " I take it that you don't want our firm to remove your chip."

 

Spike froze. The offer slowly permeated the alcoholic haze of his brain. "What did you say, mate?"

 

The Asian smiled. "I said my firm is prepared to offer you a deal. In return for a minor service, we are prepared to remove your chip. You will then be free to live the normal life of your kind."

 

One hundred and twenty years of unlife had not made him stupid. "What kind of service?"

 

"I believe you know a vampire named Angel. He runs a detective agency that is involved in a dispute with our firm. We ask that you help us defeat him."

 

"Defeat Angel?" The whiskey roared through him and the sick anger he had been feeling since losing Buffy rose to a crescendo. "Where do I sign?"

 

"Good. My name is Gavin Park and I work with Wolfram and Hart." The lawyer turned and gestured towards the shadows. A small withered woman emerged. She radiated with dark power, some kind of witch probably. "This is Ms. Stanhope, my associate. She will serve as witness and notary for our contract."

 

She leered and shook hands with Spike. He was not particularly sensitive to auras, that had been Dru's department, but he knew bad news when he saw it. If this was what witches turned into when they worked with dark powers, then all of Red's withdrawal pains were worth the effort. He felt like wiping his hand after touching the woman.

 

Park had used the time to lay out a contract on top of the flat sarcophagus in the middle of the crypt. Spike shucked off his duster and knelt down to read the small print. It was surprisingly simple; at least it seemed to be. Spike's eyes were bleary from the alcohol and it was hard to concentrate. "Give me the pen."

 

"Actually," the lawyer sounded a little embarrassed, "you'll have to sign in blood."

 

That got Spike's attention. "Sign in blood? Like a deal with the devil?" That struck his sense of humor. "Righto! If you can find a soul, you're welcome to keep it. Just get this bloody chipout of my skull."

The witch solemnly watched him as he pricked his finger and scrawled Spike in the three indicated spaces. Then she bent over and, muttering, signed the line under his last signature.

Park watched the proceedings carefully. "Mr. Spike, our firm is aware of your species' rather peculiar code of honor. You are perfectly capable of reneging on a signed contract with humans. Ms. Stanhope is laying a geas on you, compelling you to honor the terms of the agreement."

 

The small withered woman actually cackled. All she needed to complete the stereotype of an evil witch was a basket of poisoned apples. She finished the muttering and scuttled towards him. Her hand reached out, touching his cheek. "You'll do as you promised. Do you understand, boy?"

 

Spike recoiled from her hand and tried to scramble to his feet. Her eyes were glazed and black, like Willow's when she was doing her deep mojo. The first awareness of danger filtered through his alcohol-soaked senses. In almost slow motion he saw her lower her hand and reach inside her sleeve. She had a stake hidden inside and now she was raising it and lunging towards him, her snake-like eyes were pinning him in place, freezing him. With effort he raised his hands, shoving her away. She sailed backwards, slamming against a wall and the chip exploded in his head.

Which is why he didn't pay attention to the lawyer behind him. Without changing expression, Park removed a stake from his briefcase and coolly stabbed Spike in the back, through the heart.

 

The tip of the stake protruded through his chest. He stared at it in wonder for a moment. His mind filled with all he was losing. Buffy, Dawn, love, fighting, friendship . . . Buffy.

 

He had seen other vampires staked. He often wondered if they had time to know that they were dying. He discovered that there was time for an eternity of regret before his dust settled to the floor.

 

CHAPTER 2 - DISCOVERY

 

Saturday - Pre-Dawn

 

It was almost a relief to be returning to Spike's crypt. That familiar feeling of anger bubbled through her as she thought of him. I won't hit him, Buffy promised herself. She refused to return to that unhealthy tangle of sex and violence that always seem to overwhelm her when she saw him. Her mind flashed with images of his face, the knowing eyes, the cocked eyebrow, the smirking lips that felt so sweet and . . . She shook the images out of her head. He had hurt Dawn. She was angry. She would forbid him to ever associate with Dawn. But she would not strike out.

 

After 120 years, he was the master of violence. If she lashed out, she was entering his dark world. She knew she would lose her fragile control and once again they would be tumbling together, loving -- no, damn it, fucking each other.

 

But he had let Dawn down. He had promised to drop her sister off at a slumber party tonight, while Buffy worked closing shift at the Doublemeat Palace. When she had returned home at two, after work and patrolling, she found Dawnie huddled on the sofa. She had covered her up, noting the puffy face and dried tear tracks. So the bastard hadn't shown up.

 

Probably she should have waited until morning, when Dawn could tell her what had happened. But she was too angry to sleep and almost automatically she found herself striding to confront Spike.

 

She almost knocked at the door, remembering that she no longer had the right to assume that she was wanted or welcomed. Then her rage bubbled up again. When had she ever had to ask to see him? She slammed the door open.

 

The crypt was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the new moon through the window and doorway. "Spike! Spike!" No one answered. She stumbled across the room to a table where he kept candles. As she did she tripped on something on the floor. The table had candles, but no matches. Of course, he always used his lighter.

 

She finally groped her way over to the battered television and turned it on. The dull flickering light filled the room. She looked over to see what she had tripped on.

 

It was a stake. Beside it was a large pile of dust.

 

She froze. After glancing around, she slowly stepped over to the pile and knelt. It had a coarse greasy texture that she recognized after years of slaying vampires. No!

 

She was standing up now. "Spike, where are you?"

 

She clambered down the ladder, and began looking around frantically. He had to be hiding. Maybe some of the other vamps had come after him. A lot of them were pissed off at him for helping a slayer. The pile had to be some other vampire, because . . .

 

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, but it was still hard to see. The lower chamber was still in ruins from when she and Riley had destroyed the demon eggs. Beyond the overall damage, however, it looked as if it had been ransacked. Boxes were turned over and clothes and toiletries were scattered over the floor. What wasn't burnt was slashed and gutted. She rushed around the small chamber, looking in shadows, corners. He wasn't anywhere.

 

She noticed a large portfolio and scattered pictures and papers on the floor. She picked them up and carried them to the upper chamber where the television gave her more light. It was leather, slightly scorched and battered, but it seemed to have survived to general destruction. She examined it and the pictures. Three were photographs of her. A few other pictures were of cities and locations scattered through time. The papers were sketches.

 

She stared at them. There were six pictures of Spike and Dru. They reminded her of the type of quick portraits artists sold along boardwalks and in tourist areas. The early ones were more formally posed. One showed the two in game face and she wondered if the artist had survived the session. In most, they looked like a young couple laughing, hugging, dressed in the costumes of the decade. In this picture they were hippies, in that one he had his hair in a ducktail. This one had Dru as a flapper and he smirked, wearing a raccoon skin coat. Another was a hilarious caricature of the two of them looking like Sid and Nancy; his hair bleached blonde while Dru looked Goth with black clothes and pale makeup.

 

One picture, older, stood apart. Two men and two women, wearing Victorian clothes, posed stiffly. Angelus stood grinning, his hands possessively resting on the shoulders of Darla and Drusilla. Darla sparkled, reaching up and touching Angel's hand. Dru seemed dazed, her eyes slightly unfocused. In back of her stood a small man dressed in a shabby suit. Buffy looked again, startled. It was Spike, his hair darker and wavy, looking uncertain beside the bigger vampire. The three were a unit, Spike was beside them, yet seemed to be standing alone.

 

She ran her finger gently over the almost unfamiliar features. Her eyes smarted slightly, and then she shook her head angrily. He had to be someplace else, hanging out, getting in trouble. She'd find him at Willy's drinking and playing poker. He would be out in the cemetery somewhere, smoking one of his cigarettes. He had to be somewhere.

 

She climbed up the ladder. This time she noticed his black duster folded and lying on the sarcophagus. She walked over to it, picked it up. In the pocket were a packet of cigarettes and his lighter. Her lips trembled, then she ran out into the night.

---

Spike's eyes jerked open.

 

It was hard to focus. He lay panting, confused. Where was he?

 

He was lying down in some sort of huge wooden box. He turned, trying to figure out where he was and scraped his shoulder on the rough floor. He sucked in his breath at the sudden pain and touched the wound.

 

And froze.

 

Except he wasn't frozen. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. His heart pounded in his chest. And his shoulder was warm. Warm blood leaked onto his fingers.

 

He was alive!

 

CHAPTER THREE - WAKING

 

Saturday - Early Morning

 

Lilah stared at her co-worker and competitor with distaste. "What makes you think it will work this time. Last time we did something like this, it failed. Even worse, Darla came back and killed over a dozen people.

"

Gavin smiled smoothly, looking sleek and confident. He didn't look like a man who had been supervising a ceremony since midnight. "Last time was poorly managed. This time I planned everything. Your team chose Darla, Angel's sire. They had been lovers for a hundred years. Our research shows that this vampire, William the Bloody, hates him."

 

"Besides, William has been bound with blood and magic, not to mention a signed contract. He'll follow orders."

He signaled the two security guards to follow. They stepped carefully over the dust of the five vampires that had been sacrificed in the ceremony. Stanhope was standing by the box.

 

"It is done."

 

"He's returned in human form?"

 

Her mouth smiled, not her eyes. "I followed the videotape of the Ceremony of Raising that you provided."

 

Lilah turned to her colleague. "She didn't use the scroll of Aberjian?"

 

"Or Vocah or a bunch of monks. We had videotaped the old ceremony and Stanhope made the necessary modifications. It was more efficient and economical and," he looked through the box's barred window, "just as effective."

* * *

 

Spike heard the voices and looked around wildly. There was a window up on one side of the box. He tried to get up to look outside, but his body didn't seem to work very well. He staggered to his feet, then his head swam and he fell back on his knees. It hurt. He was weak and everything hurt and he was alive. He bit his lip to keep from moaning, then winced. That hurt too.

Someone was at the window. He peered up and realized he couldn't see very well. Oh God! He remembered suddenly how poor his eyesight was before he was turned. He was back in his old body.

"Mr. Spike?" Every thing sounded different too, duller. He could hardly smell anything. But feeling, that was more acute. He could feel every nerve ending. He could feel his heart, his breath, the rough boards he was lying on, everything.

 

"Mr. Spike?"

 

He tried to answer and his voice was a hoarse croak. That seemed to enough for the other person, however.

"Mr. Spike. I realized you are confused, but we are here to help you. I am sending in two guards to escort you to a bedroom. I imagine that you need to rest."

 

One side of the box creaked and then was pulled down. He scrambled back and cowered against the light, his eyes trying to adjust. Two large men entered, one pushing a wheelchair. He stared at it. NO! He wasn't going to be bound to a wheelchair again. He braced himself and stood up again, holding on to the box's rough side to keep from collapsing. "I can walk," he growled.

The guards didn't say anything, just tossed some clothes at him. Spike looked at the clothes and suddenly realized he was naked. Several people, including two women were staring at him. As a vampire he wouldn't have given a damn, but now he found himself flushing with humiliation. He hastily pulled the T-shirt and sweatpants on and looked up again. The people were still looking at him. The people . . .

 

He was looking at people. Not bags of skin over blood. Not prey. Humans with thoughts and dreams and emotions. For over a hundred years he had been as detached from humanity as a cat is from mice. He had terrified and tormented and murdered uncounted numbers of people. And now the connection was back and the horror of what he had done engulfed him.

 

He was barely conscious of the bodyguards placing him in the wheelchair. They pushed him forward and someone was touching his shoulder, saying something. He turned and found himself staring at the man who had staked him, the man who had destroyed him.

"Is this a soul? Did you give me a soul?"

 

The Asian looked amused. "You have as much soul as any human, if souls really exist."

 

But the witch surged forward, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around until he was looking into her deep, cold eyes. She extended a finger and tapped his chest. "There is a soul there, boy. You feel it burn?" You've played with pain for a century, and now it's your turn."

 

Memories were crashing in on him. The children that he had romantically given Dru as love tokens, screaming and crying as she killed them. The lovers who had ducked into dark places to kiss and had their throats ripped out. Young people cheerfully leaving bars and parties to die in a welter of blood and agony. He was drowning in a tidal wave of memories.

 

Gavin watched the man in the wheelchair slump. His already pale skin had gone gray. "What's happening?" He turned. "Doctor, what's wrong."

 

Dr. Green had come to watch the ceremony, just in case. He stepped forward and examined the subject in a detached clinical manner. "He's in shock." The doctor reached into his medical bag and took out a hypodermic. He felt the specimen's thready pulse and quickly gave him a shot. "Take him to my office."

 

Spike wasn't aware of the shot, only the peace of sliding from the blood and agony into the sweet release of unconsciousness.

***

 

Xander aimed his flashlight at the jury-rigged tangle of wires and shook his head in disbelief. Only being undead had allowed Spike to survive the amateur wiring in his crypt. Obviously electrocution couldn't be added to staking and sunlight as handy ways to eliminate vampires. "I'll have to get the generator out of my truck," he called out to the girls. He had brought the generator and some arc lights from his work site.

 

Buffy watched him climb out of the lower chamber. He looked pale, tired and puffy. She had wakened him, hammering on his apartment door before four in the morning. He hadn't hesitated or complained, just listened to her problem and come up with a solution. She knew he was still in pain over his break-up with Anya, but here he was, helping her. He walked out to the truck, "Hey, Buffy, give me a hand with this." She joined him and together they wrestled the generator off the truck and into the crypt. She stepped aside and watched him as he positioned the lights in both the upper and lower chamber and hooked them up to the generator.

She turned her head and saw Tara gazing at her with sympathy. It was almost too much. She didn't deserve the sympathy. She didn't deserve the unquestioning support. Buffy bit her lip and fought tears.

"This should do it." Xander pulled the starter cord and the generator chugged to life. Then he flicked the switch and the lights came on.

 

Tara pointed and he adjusted the lights so that they beamed down on the gray pile of dust. Buffy stared at it and unbidden, she remembered Spike's face. "Tell me you love me," she had said. His face had looked so hesitantly hopeful. "I love you. You know I do." She had stared in those incredible blue eyes. "Tell me you want me." "I always want you," he had said softly. "In point of fact . . ." Then she had pulled him down and for a few brief moments there had been tenderness and no shame.

 

"There's footprints" Buffy started and saw Xander point to two sets of footprints, in the dust. "And this looks like a knee print. " One set of shoeprints was large, the other much smaller. Are the small ones yours, Buffy?"

 

She shook her head. "I was wearing my tennis shoes. Those have a heel." She looked over at Tara. "Do you think it was vamps?"

 

Tara didn't answer. She was kneeling and whispering by the pile. Her eyes were closed, then opened suddenly. She reached over and touched the top of the pile. "That's odd."

 

She frowned, got up and began examining the crypt carefully. " That way," she pointed towards the hole in the floor.

 

She climbed down the ladder to the lower chamber. Buffy and Xander scrambled after her. Tara was standing over the burnt bed, looking at the toiletries someone had scattered over it.

"Tara?"

 

The blonde witch was quiet, waiting for the Xander to adjust the light. She was still frowning. Finally she tentatively touched the comb. "Buffy, do you know if Spike ever lost any hair in his comb or left any hair or fingernail clippings?" She turned and looked at the slayer.

 

Xander snorted. "Considering how much peroxide the guy used, it’s a wonder he wasn't bald."

 

Buffy shook her head. "I don't know. Why?"

 

Tara looked at the two others. "Something feels wrong. I- I mean really bad. You know I'll never be as strong as Willow, but I am good with auras. Everything gives off a kind of radiation and I can see it. It's really ugly in here, especially around the dust. Someone sprinkled something on it that feels like dark magic."

 

Buffy grasped eagerly at the explanation. "Magic. So there was magic and the dust isn't Spike."

 

Tara's eyes were sad. "I'm sorry Buffy. But I think the dust is what's left of Spike. I could feel traces left of his aura. But someone has been handling his comb and they put some sort of spell on the dust." She shook her head, looking sad and a little confused. "It feels like the type of spells that are used to control or enslave people, but if they were going to do that, why would they stake him?"

 

CHAPTER 4 - EXAMINATION

 

Saturday - Late Afternoon

 

He looked across the Bronze at Buffy, seeing her as he had that first time. She was dancing, alive and golden. She was laughing, surrounded with friends. Spike stood, cold and alone, worried sick in his gut about Dru's weakness, and he hated the slayer, hated her life and joy, the way she effortlessly moved among friends. He wanted that warmth and hated the way it made him feel, as if he, the Big Bad, was some damned orphan child outside in the cold. She had everything, strength, youth, beauty, friends, life and he wanted to possess her, to kill her and drain the warmth into his cold body.

 

And now Spike was feeling the warmth. He was pinning her against the wall, ramming himself deep inside her as she moaned with pleasure. Her legs were around his waist and her hands tangled in his hair. Now her mouth lowered itself to his and they were kissing with her warm breath on his face and his tongue probing her sweet mouth. He was warm and wanted and it was wrong.

 

"You came back wrong!" He was standing in the dark, yelling at her, and her eyes were wide and wounded. He hit her and now Spike could see her flesh bruise. Tears of shock and pain were filling those hazel eyes.

 

Which turned brown. He was standing in China, seeing the Chinese slayer walking through the bloody streets of the Boxer Rebellion. Now everything was in slow motion. She was a meek, obedient girl, following the orders of her elders and searching for vampires to kill. Around her, her world was dissolving in fire and war, torn by the evil of mankind, but she still dutifully hunted non-human monsters. An hour ago she had wept by the body of her Watcher, a stuffy Englishman, who the Boxers had slaughtered as a foreign devil.

 

Spike reached out and struck her, watching her flesh bruise. Her eyes said she was in despair, she wanted death. He grinned. He could deliver death. They were fighting now, a glorious dance of death and pain. His eyebrow stung where her sword slashed him. Then he was on her, drinking her blood, drinking her pain and despair. Her eyes were dying, flickering brown, then hazel.

 

And with a cry he realized he was drinking Buffy, killing her. He let go, but she crumpled to his feet, dead.

 

And she looked up at him, her skin dark, her face proud. But her deep brown eyes had that familiar look of despair and death. He had read the little blurb, buried deep in the back of the newspaper that her brother had died in a drive-by shooting and had known that she now belonged to him. She fought gloriously, strong and beautiful. He snapped her neck and stripped the long, black duster off her body. He strode off, then looked back at his glorious victory and saw Buffy lying dead in the subway.

 

So he ran back, sobbing, gathering her in his arms. He held her in the dark and pressed against her, whispering, "You belong in the Dark with me." She moaned and his hand reached up her skirt, pushing aside the panties. They were looking down at the dance floor of the Bronze, where he had first seen her. "You don't belong with them." The friends that had surrounded her and protected her were far below. He looked deep into her eyes, drinking the despair.

 

And he lowered his head and ripped out her throat.

 

And screamed. He was sitting in a bed, bathed in sweat, breathing hard with his heart slamming in his chest. Spike looked around wildly, then the memories came back and he realized that he was alive and still a prisoner.

 

Other memories poured in. He remembered allowing Dru to take his life and his soul. He remembered the pride and the glory of killing slayers. He remembered loving Buffy and the wonder of her entering the dark to give him her body. These were the best memories of his existence.

 

They tasted like ash.

 

The years of killing flooded his mind and he rocked in the bed as the pain and guilt washed over him. He had slaughtering people and before that stood aside and let Angelus torture and torment the helpless. Then the memories switched and Spike remembered torturing Angel.

 

Angel. He blinked. He had envied and admired his sire, then felt hatred when Angel had left to grovel in the gutter and eat rats while moaning about his sins.

 

Something cold was entering him, the cold, desperate will to survive that had driven Spike for over a century. The lowest vampire in a tiny pack, despised and ridiculed by all but his mad Drusilla, he had risen to power and had a name that vampires across the world had known. He was William the Bloody, the vampire who had killed two slayers. When the Initiative had left him chipped and helpless, he had slaughtered demons until the laughter had died and the others eyed him with fear and hatred. He couldn't kill people, so he drank pigs' blood, warmed in the microwave with spicy flavors and nibbly Weetabix. He couldn't kill the slayer, so he had loved her and for a few brief moments possessed her body.

 

Angrily Spike rubbed his eyes. He wasn't going to let this crush him. He wasn't going to grovel. The last time he had given in to despair, he had been slaughtered in an alley. He wasn't going to let these bloody bastards control him. If he had escaped from the Initiative, he could damn well escape from a bunch of sodding lawyers.

 

He staggered over to the door to his room, testing to see if it was locked. It wasn't. It opened and he saw two men sitting in chairs by the door. One stood up, towering over him. "You going someplace?"

 

Spike considered making a break. A quick survey of the hulking guard convinced him that he wouldn't make it. So he toughed it out. "I think its time your bosses told me why I'm here. Tell them I'm awake."

 

The other man stood up. He too was a bruiser. Spike surveyed Tweedledee and Tweedledum, impressed that so much muscle power had been hired to control one ex-poet. Then he noticed Tweedledum was pushing a wheelchair. "Sit." He started to protest and was firmly placed in the chair. They pushed him down the hall.

 

They entered a doctor's office. The doctor, a balding heavyset man, got up from behind the desk. "Mr. Spike, I'm Doctor Green. I'm glad to see that you are up and about. You gave us a scare for a moment."

 

Spike nodded, biting back the remark that they were still scaring him. Tweedledee and Tweedledum stayed in the room. Did they really think he was going to be able to overpower anyone in this weak body? On the other hand, if the doctor had a scalpel, it might come in handy. He decided to keep an eye out for opportunity.

 

"Before we can proceed further, we should make sure you have recovered from you, ahem, previous experience. I'm sure it was somewhat stressful."

 

"That's one way to describe being staked," Spike commented dryly.

 

The two Tweedles kept him from nicking anything useful. As they glared, the doctor poked and prodded. Since his last visit to a doctor, over a century ago, medicine had come up with a turn-your-head-and-cough routine. Also doctors now took blood. He gloomily contemplated the irony of humans draining him. However, doctors nowadays seemed endlessly fascinated with body fluids. He was given a flask and told to give a urine sample next time he went to the bathroom. He made the doctor repeat that one since it seemed like such a ridiculous thing to want.

 

The most interesting part of the exam, however, was when the doctor called over one of the bodyguards. "Try to hit him." Spike winced then realized that the command was for him to hit the giant, not the other way around. He hesitated, then punched the man in the arm. His head remained remarkably free of pain. His knuckles hurt like a son of a bitch. The bodyguard didn't even flinch.

 

He turned and stared at the doctor. "No chip?"

 

The doctor nodded. "It was dusted with your first vampire body."

 

"My first? What are you talking about?"

 

The doctor looked embarrassed. "You appear to be in good health, Mr. Spike. Are there any questions."

 

Spike had tilted his head, studying the man. Finally, reluctantly, he admitted, "I'm going to need some glasses."

 

The doctor was fascinated. "Really! Did you have vision problems as a vampire?"

 

"Not really. Demon vision, y'know."

 

The doctor had studied Spike, rather like a technician examining an interesting lab rat. "I wish we knew how that works. Unfortunately, vampires don't leave cadavers. Even when we collect specimens from living creatures, the samples turn to dust."

 

Spike's restrained a shudder. "Sorry I can't help you there. I just know that I seem to have the same lousy eyes I had before I was turned."

 

"Well, that won't be a problem much longer. But while you are here, I would appreciate you filling this questionnaire on the differences between your human and demon body. Can you read or should I read these out loud to you?"

 

Spike almost snarled that he had attended Oxford, thank you, and was probably more literate than the doctor was. Then he decided that it wouldn't hurt to have his enemies underestimate him. He had signed a contract so he couldn't claim to be totally illiterate but he hung his head and confessed that he had trouble with big words.

 

The session seemed to last forever and it was a relief when the bodyguards returned him to his room. They stopped at the doorway. Spike stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it and shuddered as he considered the phrases "your first vampire body," and that his eyes "won't be a problem much longer," Dear God! He thought, They're going to turn me back into a vampire!

 

It was strange, he really shouldn't mind. He hated being so weak and he missed his keen hearing and sense of smell. Bloody hell, he missed being able to see anything clearly. He had been a vampire for 120 years and should be grateful if they returned him to his old body. Dying might be painful, but he had done it before and could cope.

 

But he didn't want to be turned. Slowly it had dawned on Spike. If he were turned, then the demon that inhabited his body would use it to murder people. He remembered the trail of death he left behind and nausea swept him. The thought of going back to murdering people, ripping out their throats and swallowing their blood sickened him.

 

It would be wrong. He almost heard Buffy's voice saying those words. And for the first time he realized what she had been talking about all those months, all those years.

 

He couldn't go back to being a vampire.

 

CHAPTER 5 - DRUSILLA

 

Saturday Evening

 

He fought the rising panic. I can do this, he told himself. I've had a century of escaping mobs and vampire hunters. I got Dru out of Prague. I escaped the bloody soldier boys at the Initiative. Hell, I even got away from Glory and she was a god. These people are sodden lawyers. They're used to rules and laws and regulations. I've never played by the rules. I can do this.

 

His breathing slowed. He ran his hand nervously through his hair and noticed the moisture. Puzzled he felt his face and then remembered. Sweat. Humans broke out into cold sweats when they were afraid. He was human and would be sweating like a pig for the rest of his life, however long it lasted.

 

He grimaced with distaste. The room had a small adjoining bathroom and he stepped in to wash his face. He started the water, looked up and for the first time in 120 years saw his own reflection.

 

He saw the same face he had died with, the soft weak face of William the Bloody Awful Poet. Vulnerable eyes, weak mouth, soft sandy hair in waves about his face. If anything, he looked worse than old William, unshaven and dressed in a cheap gray T-shirt and sweatpants. He closed his eyes in disappointment. For 120 years Spike had left this man, this face, behind and shaped himself into something fierce and respected. None of that showed, only the weak face of a bloody fool who had sniveled his way into the arms of the first vampire bitch who would accept him.

 

Then the anger came. He squared his jaw. He might not look like Spike, but he still had his mind and memories. A surge of grief arose as he remembered the blood and pain he had caused, but he fiercely beat it back. He would use the memories and anger to fight his way out of this captivity, to escape the lawyers and the witch who had destroyed him.

 

Then his memory slipped again. He was huddled in the corner of an abandoned house. Angelus looming over him. William's face and his shabby suit were covered with blood. He had botched his first kill and now Darla had to break the neck of the man before the neighborhood heard the screams. Angelus battered his face, breaking his teeth, his nose, reducing him to a bloody whimpering pulp. Dru was wailing, begging him to spare her Sweet William.

 

"We can't afford a stupid vampire in this pack," his sire had stormed. "Do you understand. Most vampires don't last a year because they are stupid." Angel grabbed his hair and yanked his face around, staring deep into his eyes. "We are demons in a human bodies. We have human minds. We can kill people because we use those minds when we hunt. If you just stay demon, if you don't use that mind, you are useless. Think, dammit!"

 

He had looked at his sire through puffy eyes and tentatively tried to use William's mind. It hurt to use such an alien brain, one that loved and admired beauty and felt pity and kindness. Then Drusilla was hugging him, licking and kissing the blood off of his face. "Your anger is beautiful. It glows like a cup of lightning." Angel shoved her away and she cried in fear.

 

His anger flared, then he realized how deep it was. It was not just the anger of a demon, but the anger of a man whose shabby genteel poverty had left him stranded on the fringes of society. It was the deep and clever rage of an intelligent man who was mocked and despised by fools.

At that point, William the Bloody had looked up at his sire and smiled through his split and bleeding lips. "I can do that. In fact, I want to do that." He remembered the laughter and mockery at his last party. "My next kill will be much better. But first I need a railway spike."

 

He was still looking at the mirror, noticing for the first time how cold his eyes were. He had been hunting for Spike's anger, but Spike had been using William's anger. Spike the demon had been shaped by William the human, with all his anger, deep romantic love and hunger for respect. He might have been a good man, as he had once told Cecily, but he had always carried the potential for evil.

 

And he still had the potential for evil. Having a soul didn't make that any different. He touched the demon anger, his own anger, and shaped it into a weapon. Someday he would have to cope with the consequences of his years as a killer, but not now. Now he had to find a way to escape.

 

He stormed to the door and threw it open. The two guards were startled and started to get up. He glared at them. "Where's dinner. If you wankers are going to kill me, the least you can do is give me some food. I bloody well haven't eaten all day."

 

The guards looked at each other. "Get back inside and we'll get you something," Tweedledee rumbled. Spike swore a bit and stepped back inside.

 

Within a half-hour, Tweedledum entered with a tray. Spike grabbed the tray, took one look and started complaining lacing his complaints with the obscenities that he had acquired in a century of travel. As soon as the guard was out of the room, he hurled the tray across the room.

 

The bed was next. He tore the sheets off the bed. He ripped the pillow open, and wads of foam flew around the room. It was only when he yanked off the mattress and tipped the bed over that one of the guards finally came in the room.

"Stop it."

 

Spike closed in on him. "Or what? You'll kill me?"

 

The guard looked bored and punched him. Spike flew backward across the room and slid down the wall. He looked up, holding his bleeding nose. The guard towered over him. "Do I have to hit you again or will you stop making a mess of things." Spike nodded and the guard left.

 

Spike muttered under his breath. Damn, his nose hurt. Everything seemed to hurt more in a human body. He stumbled into the bathroom and attempted to staunch the bleeding. He yanked off his T-shirt and shredded it, using it to soak up the blood. It was convenient having the reflection, so he could straighten his nose, but he could tell that he would have a couple of shiners if he lived long enough to see tomorrow. William the Bloody Poet was getting bloodier by the moment.

 

He glanced out at the chaos of the bedroom and gave a grim smile of satisfaction. With luck the mess might keep his jailers from noticing that he had nicked the utensils. Unfortunately they weren't metal, but with a little luck he might be able to come up with something useful.

When he finished, he had contemplated his work. They were pathetic really. How in the bloody hell was he supposed to defeat a vampire with these puny weapons. He really didn't stand a chance, but at least he'd try to go down fighting.

* * *

 

Waiting was the hard part. He waited in the bedroom and then, when the guards took him to another room and strapped him to a chair, he found himself waiting again. One wall had a darkened window, no doubt where the doctor and others could watch their lab rat get killed and turned by a vampire. He threw them the double-fingered salute. Behind him was a door, where his killer would enter.

 

And she came. . . Slender and beautiful, fragile and deadly, Drusilla, his dark princess entered the room.

 

Drusilla had pulled back her hair and wore it in ringlets. Her long dress was dark and Victorian. His heart ached as he realized that she had dressed up for this evening. She was trying to look like she did back when she first turned him. For her, killing him would constitute a romantic evening. Her eyes glittered with passion and mad joy.

 

Part of him wanted desperately to give in. It had been so much easier when they had floated through Europe, laughing and killing with no cares. William the Bloody, killer of two slayers and his mad beautiful bride. The guilt and the pain of mortal life would be forgotten.

 

"Drusilla, my love," he breathed.

 

She leaned over him, gazing at his bare chest, his tangled hair. "Spike," she breathed in a husky whisper. She reached down softly, then with a flick of her nail, slashed open his chest. She had killed a slayer with those nails.

 

He winced slightly but continued to look deep into her eyes. "Have you come to take me back, pet?"

 

She smiled and leaned over him, her fingers crawling across his head like a spider. "No plastic to lie to you with its nasty blue shocks. No electricity to tell you that you are not a bad dog." Her face was close to his now and he felt like he was drowning in her eyes.

 

He looked downward at the straps that bound him. "They trapped me in this body, Dru. How can I be a killer in a human body?"

 

Her fingers wove themselves in his hair and she yanked his head up, exposing his throat, tearing the hair by the roots. His eyes teared involuntarily with the pain.

 

She licked the tear and sighed. " And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

 

He blinked, then remembered. Back in the alley, the night he had first met her, those had been her first words. He had been huddled on a bale of hay, tearing up his poetry, sobbing like a fool over that bint, Cecily. Then he had lifted his eyes and seen Drusilla in all her dark beauty.

 

He remembered his line, "Nothing. I wish to be alone." God, he had been such a prig.

 

Her eyes widened with pleasure. She let go of his hair with one hand and stroked his face. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." She carefully drew her nail slicing down along his jawline. She laughed with joy and licked the blood off her fingers. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head."

 

Her eyes were heavy lidded and a touch of blood was still at the corner of her mouth. She still aroused him. He groaned slightly, then nodded down to his hands. "They have me tied up, luv. If you turn me now, they will drive you away and keep me. Help me get loose."

 

She shifted to vamp face. He held his breath. Then she looked down at his hands and smiled. "You are my puppy. We don't need their nasty leashes." She reached down and casually snapped the leather straps. One, two, three and he was free. Then her cold hand wrapped around his throat and casually lifted him up. She kissed him, her fangs lacerating his lips and her tongue dancing in the blood. He moaned and his knees almost buckled.

 

"Do you want it?" Her voice was low and husky.

 

Over a hundred years ago, he had whispered "Oh, yes! God, yes! And signed his own death warrant. Looking deep into her mad eyes, he longed to do it again. He ached to yield his mind, his soul and his life to her. "Yes," he whispered and she could read the truth in his eyes.

 

She tilted her head and buried her fangs in his neck. Spike cried out in pain as his body bucked against hers in twisted ecstasy. He felt his life flowing into her and his hand clutched her hair, helplessly drawing her closer.

 

The small thread of sanity left in his mind guided him and he reached into his sweatpants. Drusilla detected the movement and chuckled deep in her throat. His hand moved past his groin to the small plastic weapon he had bound to his thigh with a torn strip of his T-shirt. He pulled it out.

 

Drusilla's eyes were closed as she sucked and ran her tongue through his flowing blood. He held the weapon up for a minute, despairing in its ridiculous shape. A small cross made of plastic utensils bound together with a strip of cloth from the T-shirt. His lips silently moved in prayer.

 

He knew her body from one hundred years of love. He knew where every feature was. His head was swimming and he was dizzy from blood loss, but he knew where to guide the cross made from the sharpened plastic knife. He slammed it into one of her bliss-closed eyes.

 

She screamed in pain and bewildered betrayal and dropped him. He fell heavily, then scrambled to his feet. He stumbled out of the doorway.

He was in a dark alley. Looking far to the right he saw a street. There were lights, traffic and people. He staggered towards it, adrenaline fighting with blood loss.

He heard shouts behind him now. The people on the other side of the observation window must have seen what happened and now they were coming after him. As he held his hand to his throat, he could feel the blood running through his fingers. He prayed he would reach the street before they caught him or that he could die now and remain human.

 

They were getting closer. The street was in front of him. He took a final exhausted dash into it. Then he was in the street, surrounded by cars, people that could see him.

 

"Stop!" He tried to flag a car down. "Help me! Stop." No one was stopping. He could see the dark figures of the bodyguards, getting closer. He reeled dizzily and one of the cars brushed him, sending him sprawling. His head slammed against the pavement and the last thing he saw was a bus coming towards him.

 

CHAPTER 7 - ANGEL

Saturday Night

The splitting headache woke Spike up. He groaned and weakly reached back and touched the lump. It was probably a concussion, he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. At least he didn't seem to be bleeding any more; the bandage on his neck was dry. He wondered if he was dying. Humans were pretty fragile and if pain was any indication, he should be dropping off any minute. Ironic. He had gotten into this whole mess in order to get rid of the chip and here he was, still stuck with a blinding headache.

 

It was hard to keep his eyes open. The black eyes that he had half expected when the guard had broken his nose seemed to be developing right on schedule. He rubbed his face and for the first time noticed the wool hat. Oh yeah, he had been trying to pull it on earlier. When it touched the lump, his head had exploded and he had fainted. Fortunately he had been huddled in a dark closet and no one had seen him.

 

He was beginning to remember where he was. He had wakened up in an ambulance. Two attendants had been working on his neck and he almost bit one in his original panic. When he had realized where he was, he had croaked out an apology. It took a moment or two to persuade them to not strap him down. He had watched in groggy fascination as they stanched the bleeding in his chest before he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

He had wakened again on a hospital gurney. Someone had inserted an IV into his arm and he looked up dreamily at the blood bag. He wondered vaguely what flavor it was. Then he remembered the lawyers. They would probably be tracking him. If he stayed here, they would find him. He yanked out the IV and struggled off the gurney. The room spun and he almost fell to his knees. It took a few tries but he finally staggered into an elevator and rode to another floor. He remembered trying to find a disguise and looking for someplace to hide.

 

He obviously had succeeded. Here he was, huddled in a closet. And apparently he had found some clothes to drape over the blood covered sweatpants. He had a cap, a coat and, he winced in discomfort, a pair of shoes a bit too small for his feet. He sniffed the coat. Essence of street people. It was rank, but if he was trying to hide, nothing was more invisible than a homeless person. He couldn't remember picking up the clothes, but his instincts still seemed to be working. For once he was glad that his human sense of smell was duller than his vampire senses.

 

It was time to escape. Cautiously he slipped out of the closet into a dark, empty hospital room. Two steps later, he wondered if he was going to be able to stay on his feet. The concussion and blood loss had left him feeling lightheaded. He took a deep breath. It looked like skipping out of the hospital and hot-wiring a car so he could drive back to Sunnydale was out. Go to plan B.

 

What the hell was Plan B? The room had a connecting bathroom and he stumbled and washed his face, trying to clear his head. He stared at the laundry mark on the towel.

 

L. A. General He was in Angel's territory. Back in the beginning of this whole mess, some lawyer had wanted his help to fight Angel. It was time to call the Ol' Poof and find out what the devil was happening. If they were mad at Angel, why had they come to Sunnydale and staked him?

 

He shuffled through the halls until he found a nursing station. At first he tried chatting one of the birds up, then realized that with filthy clothes and a face that looked like it had been in a meat grinder, his masculine charm might not be at its best. He tried the pathetic routine, (which actually matched what he was feeling at the moment) and talked her into giving him a telephone book and let him use a phone.

 

He found the number and a few moments later heard a clear feminine voice. "Angel Investigations. We help the . . ."

 

"Let me speak to Angel," he interrupted.

The voice hesitated, then, "Who shall I say is calling?"

 

What was he supposed to say now? If he gave his name, there was enough bad blood between them that the Angel would never come to the phone. Considering that the Poofster had set Dru and Darla on fire , he probably wasn't in the mood for a family reunion. "Tell him that it's . . . Randy Giles and this is an emergency."

 

There was silence on the other end. Finally, "Angel speaking."

 

"Hi, Peaches."

 

When Angel spoke again, his voice was filled with loathing, "Spike?"

 

"Some of your lawyer friends made me human. What the hell is going on?"

 

The other end was quiet. For a panicked moment, Spike was afraid that his sire had hung up. It was a relief when Angel spoke again. "What are you talking about?" He could hear his sire's deep distrust.

 

"I told you. I 'm human. If your lawyer friends catch me, I get to go back on an all blood diet again. I need a little help here."

 

"Where are you?"

 

"In a hospital. LA General."

 

"I can be there in an hour. I'll meet you in front of the main entrance."

 

"Right. "

 

"Spike . . ."

 

"Yes?"

 

"If this is a trick, if you're working with Wolfram and Hart, I'll kill you myself."

 

Now the challenge was to stay conscious for an hour and make it to the lobby. He stumbled through the halls, quietly cursing the tight shoes. There were a few signs posted but they were hard to read until he got close. His eyes were lousy to begin with and the swelling made it worse.

 

His eyesight was good enough, however, that when he went down the elevator, he recognized the hulking figure of Tweedledee standing in the lobby. He hastily pulled the hat a little further down and retreated. The Wolfram and Hart people had arrived.

He tried three different exits, so that he could circle the building and approach the main entrance from the outside. Two had goons guarding them. The emergency room exit had two goons and the witch hovering around them. Finally he decided to risk the direct approach. Most people didn't notice the homeless. Maybe he could slip by.

Tweedledee (maybe it was Tweedledum, he couldn't really tell) was walking away from the lobby doors towards a drinking fountain. Spike shuffled inconspicuously forward. He wished there were more people around but it was late and only the emergency room was crowded. He reached the door and stepped through, breathing a sigh of relief. Angel was nowhere in sight.

 

Then a huge hand grabbed his shoulder. "Gotcha." He heard Tweedledee's deep chuckle.

 

Spike tried to twist away. He tried to fake an American accent, make his voice higher and different. Anything to make the bodyguard let go or at least loosen his grip. "Hey! What'cha doing. Lemme go! I didn't do nothin'."

It was pretty pathetic and not surprisingly the guard didn't let go. Instead he twisted Spike's arm behind his back, threatening to dislocate the shoulder. Then, holding the smaller man helpless, he took out a cell phone. "This is Schiller. I found our escapee right by the main entrance. At least I think it's him. You might want to send someone to verify." He twisted the arm a little harder and Spike promised himself that if he did get turned, this bastard would be the first item on the menu. The two moved over to a shadowed area.

 

After several moments of prolonged pain, a dark haired woman in a business suit stepped out. She spotted the two in the corner and came over.

 

"What do we have here?"

 

"I think this is the subject we're looking for."

 

She took off the hat, gazing at the tangled hair. "Take off the coat."

 

The goon let go of the arm, clamping the neck instead. He stripped off the coat, leaving Spike shirtless in the cold, clad only in the blood streaked sweatpants. The lawyer's eyes searched the blonde's body, smiling as she gazed at his muscles. She reached out and touched the slash on his chest. "It's our boy." She flipped open her cell phone. " The subject has been captured and identified. Send transportation to the main entrance.

 

A moment later a dark car pulled up in front of the trio. Spike struggled and swore as his arm was twisted even more. The door on the driver's side opened. Angel stepped out. The vampire started around the car and saw the woman. "Lilah!" he shifted into game face.

 

Spike took advantage of the woman's distraction and lashed out with his foot. Caught off guard, she tumbled backward, dropping the phone. He twisted, trying to escape the bodyguard's grip. Suddenly Angel lurched forward and the guard let go, backing up hastily.

 

"Spike, get in the car," his sire growled.

Spike scrambled over to the car and let himself in. As he looked back, he saw the vampire walk over to the woman, kicking aside her cell phone. He towered over the fallen woman, bloodlust in his demon visage.

 

Spike looked on, puzzled. Was this Angel or had he reverted back to Angelus? He looked deadly. The woman looked up, a small smile playing on her face. The vampire glared down at her as she gazed defiantly up, then he spun and returned to the car, slamming the door. They drove away.

 

Spike rubbed his arm and watched the speedometer climb. He considered saying something, then gazed at the ridges on his sire's face and decided, for once in his long existence, to keep his mouth shut.

 

CHAPTER 7 - AT THE HYPERION HOTEL

 

Late Saturday Night

 

The adrenaline slowly drained out of Spike's body. As the car sped though the dark, he began to drift off to sleep, dreaming of death and blood and guilt. He awoke with a start and swore slightly, under his breath. Angel turned and glared at him; nothing much got past vampire hearing. Spike shut up. After that he was afraid to fall asleep again and sat fidgeting, trying to stay awake. At one point he turned on the radio and started to search for some good music, only to have Angel abruptly turn it off.

 

Finally his sire parked the car in front of a hotel. Spike had barely opened his door, when Angel grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the hotel lobby. He was thrust into a chair and the tall vampire stood glowering over him.

"What are you doing in my city?"

 

Their entrance had not gone unnoticed. A tall young Black man and pretty young woman joined them. "Who's this?" the man asked.

 

"An enemy from the past, Gunn. An enemy who has no right to be here."

 

Spike looked up at his glaring sire and the two solemn people. Any rational individual would be afraid but he was feeling too exhausted to be rational. Instead his old reflexes kicked in. Back in the old days, when they both had been in the same small pack, one of his joys of life had been taunting his sire and watching him explode. Of course it frequently resulted in Spike getting beaten to a pulp, but it had been worth it to watch the fire works.

 

So Spike found himself smiling in spite of himself. Everyone looked so virtuous and earnest. Once again the Angel boy was master of a pack with his followers hanging on his every word.

 

"So you've collected some minions, Peaches. What do you call yourself, the Soul Squad?"

 

The humans weren't in on the joke; they didn't know how mindless and expendable a minion was to a master vampire. But Angel stiffened and looked twice as uptight. Score one for me, Spike told himself and smirked at his sire.

 

"They aren't minions," his sire thundered. "They're partners and friends."

 

"Partners," Spike drawled. For the first time since the bloody lawyer had staked him, he was enjoying himself. "That's sounds safe enough." He looked up at the two humans. "Just don't be family. Angel's family has a way of being killed."

 

The next thing he knew he was being yanked off his feet by his neck. Angel was choking him, his face only inches away. "What do you know about Connor. Is he dead? Has anyone . . ." To his amazement, his sire's eyes filled with tears. The hand that was holding him started to shake and then he was released. Spike crumpled to the floor. Angel turned away abruptly. The girl stated to touch the vampire's shoulder and he shrugged her away.

 

Gunn was kneeling over Spike and for a moment looked every bit as fierce and deadly as the vampire had. "If you know anything about Connor, you better tell us now," he growled.

 

Spike shook his head in bewilderment. "Who's Connor?" His voice choked and he lifted his hand to his neck. It was bleeding again. He tried again. "I don't know any Connor."

 

Gunn turned his head. "Fred, get Lorne. He'll be able to tell us if this guy is lying."

 

Spike tried to get up, but Gunn kept him pinned to the floor. Angel turned around, watching. Spike gazed up at the vampire, bewildered. His sire's face was stricken, fighting between rage and some sort of unendurable pain.

 

The girl, Fred, came back leading a green demon with horns. "What do we have here?" the demon asked softly.

 

Gunn's voice was cold. "One of Angel's old enemies. He's been with Wolfram and Hart and says that someone killed Connor."

 

Remind me not to have a sense of humor around these guys. "I don't know any Connor." He looked at the horned demon. "If you're some sort of truth detector, tell them. I don't know who they are talking about. I was with the lawyers, but they bloody well tried to kill me. And I certainly don't know anything about this Connor bloke."

 

The green chap, Lorne, looked at him quizzically. Finally he spoke again in that gentle Nancy-boy voice, "Does anybody else notice that he's bleeding."

 

Spike was holding the bandage hard, trying to stop the bleeding. He noticed Angel's nose twitch like it used to do back in the old days when he smelled something appetizing. Yeah, someone noticed and he looks hungry. Then the girl knelt down and removed the bandage.

 

"That's a vampire bite," Gunn gasped.

 

"No kidding," Spike commented dryly. He looked over at his sire. "Dru wants the happy family back together." He was cold and he found himself shivering as the blood seeped between his fingers.

 

Angel coldly assessed him. "He'll live." The vampire helped him up and pushed back in the chair. His eyes flicked yellow for a moment and Spike could see his nostril twitch at the scent of human blood. "Lorne, we need to know if he is lying."

 

The demon sighed. "I'm not a mythical lie detector. I'll tell you if he knows about Connor or if he is a danger to us. But what his aura shows is his path and his own private business.

 

Angel nodded and then turned and looked Spike intently. "Spike, no tricks. Why are you here? Why are you involved with Wolfram and Hart? Does this have anything to do with Connor?"

 

Spike groaned. "I'm here because I was trying to get away from the bleeding lawyers. I got involved with them. . ." He stopped, remembering the beginning, some sort of contract he had signed. He glanced at the demon and realized he would have to tell everything. "Because I'm a soddin' idiot. I was drunk, they offered to take my chip out if I signed a contract. They said they were in some sort of dispute with you and I agreed to help." Bloody Hell, he thought. All of this shit is my own damn fault.

 

"How?"

 

"I'm supposed to call them." He saw the disbelief in his sire's face. "That's all. I don't remember all the bleeding details, but it all came down to calling them on the telephone. Nothing else. I don't know this Connor person that you're talking about. I don't know how the call will hurt you or help them. I don't even remember what the call is supposed to be about. I just know that as soon as I signed the contract they staked me. Then I find myself in a human body and they're trying to kill me again!"

 

The room was quiet.

 

Then, "Sing something."

 

Spike stared at his sire in disbelief. "What!?"

 

The tension around him broke slightly. The girl, Fred, explained. "Lorne can read people. But they have to sing first."

 

"You're kidding, right?" Spike looked around and it was obvious they weren't. Here he was, bloody, battered and cold and they expected him to sing to them. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single thing to sing. Finally some ghost of his long distant Victorian childhood emerged and he started. "Long live our gracious Queen."

 

Fred gave a little giggle and only Angel kept from smiling. Spike felt himself blushing. He had forgotten that particular curse of an English complexion. He stopped the song. "Sod this."

 

The demon was looking at him intently. "I need a little more. You can hum if you're embarrassed."

 

Spike scowled, then hummed a few more bars.

 

Lorne glanced around. "He's telling the truth." He turned to Angel "He's as much a pawn of the Power-That-Be and their prophecies as you are. Why not give the boy a bed and let him rest."

 

The two humans glanced at Angel and the vampire sighed. "Fine, let's put him in the room we used to keep for Wesley. And Fred, could you get the first-aid kit. We don't need him bleeding over everything."

 

Spike got up slowly. He was unsteady on his feet so Gunn grabbed him and half supported him as they went to a room with a bed. Fred joined them, with the first-aid kit and he sat on the edge of the bed as she bandaged the wound on his neck. They gave him a warm washcloth and he wiped the blood off his shoulder and chest. Finally he lay down and they left. As he pulled the blankets up, only his sire remained.

 

"What was that crack about my family getting killed?"

 

Spike closed his eyes wearily. "You killed your family after you got turned. Remember? You hated your family. Remember? I was being sarcastic and telling them that it's not safe to be related to you."

 

"No it isn't." Spike opened his eyes, surprised. His sire sounded sad, almost defeated.

 

Against his better judgement, he felt a stirring of sympathy. "What's going on, Angel? If you wanted me dead because of the Ring of Amara incident, all you had to do was leave me in the hospital. Why the questions? Whose Connor?"

 

He sire stood by the door and studied him. Finally he spoke. "You aren't the first member of our line they've done this to. They brought back Darla. Then when she finally wanted to remain human, they had Drusilla kill her and turn her. She . . ." Angel couldn't meet his eyes. "She suffered and now she's gone. Connor is her son." There was a pause. "He's my son."

 

Spike stared. "That's impossible."

 

Angel shook his head. "I know. But I have a son. And because he's my son, the child of prophecy, he's been kidnapped."

 

"You thought I was involved?"

 

"Wolfram and Hart, especially Lilah, were involved. I thought maybe you . . . Never mind. Get some sleep." Angel turned away. Spike watched him leave, stunned. He suddenly realized that somewhere in the last few minutes they had stopped being enemies. For over a hundred years, his rivalry and hatred of his sire had been one of the mainstays of his life and now all he could feel was pity.

 

Lorne entered, bringing a mug and some pills. Wordlessly Spike took the mug. "Hot chocolate?"

 

"Hot chocolate and some aspirin. It'll help you sleep. Sorry, but we don't have little marshmallows."

 

Spike took a sip, cautiously watching the demon. How much had the demon learned about him?

 

The demon sat down in a nearby chair and watched Spike take the medicine. Then, when he was almost finished with the drink, Lorne commented, "You know, LA isn't really the right town for a Victorian gentleman."

 

Spike choked. "What did you read?"

 

"Relax. I pick up psychic vibes, usually pretty vague."

 

Spike eyed the demon distrustfully. "How vague?"

 

Lorne smiled. "Enough to know that you've been given what you have only dreamed of having. You were a monster, now you are a man. Someone called you a soulless demon. Now you have a soul. Its time for you to go back home."

 

The demon smiled as Spike stared at him with open-mouthed amazement. He got up and took the empty cup and started to leave. He seemed to struggle with himself, then turned.

 

"There's a phone over there on the dresser. You really should call her now. You don't have a lot of time." The demon looked at Spike almost sympathetically, then left the room.

 

Spike sat stunned. He turned and looked across at the phone. He took a deep breath then got out of bed and went to the phone. It was time to call Buffy.

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