CHAPTER 1

There were days when even the outrageous phallic symbolism of Nelson's Column failed to make him grin. Fortunately, today was not one of them.

He'd been in London for four months now. The long summer days and his lack of a legal identity or paperwork had made it hard, at first, to make a life for himself. But his persistence had paid off, and he'd picked up first some labouring work and, more recently, a job as a night watchman. All cash in hand, of course - but it paid the rent on his mews basement and left enough for smokes and a bit over.

No one knew who or what he was, of course. He'd hidden that well, and had kept clear of the local demon underworld. No one would expect the Big Bad Vampire to be working night security at a meat packing plant - but it suited him nicely. All the blood he could drink, and as much solitude as he could take.

Maybe more solitude than he could take. Truth be told, he missed them all. He'd written to Clem once or twice; he'd figured he owed it to the demon to let him know he was okay. Clem had passed on the story of Tara's death (who would have thought that would leave such a hole in his heart?) and Willow's attempt to destroy the world. Part of him longed to return, to try to heal the pain of those left behind in Sunnydale. He knew they would never let him do that though. He had never been one of them, and there was too much history between them to be healed just like that. They'd stake him as soon as see him, and he figured he was a little more useful alive. Well, un-alive or whatever the term was.

He'd sent the Bit a birthday present. He'd picked up a brown leather jacket from the market, and a Paddington Bear from Harrods; he figured she was too young for one and too old for the other. He'd had them shipped to her signed "Rupert Giles". Chances were, they'd never know it wasn't the Watcher who'd sent them.

He'd written to Giles once, anonymously. A few weeks after he arrived in England, he'd even got as far as the station in Bath before sanity reared its ugly face and he took the next train back to London. There was no reason to suppose that Giles, or any of the Scoobies, would refrain from staking him on sight. In fact, Giles would be more likely to give him a dusty end, if Buffy had told him the whole sordid story. He wasn't sure whether the Watcher would recognise his handwriting, so he'd typed a note in the packing plant office and mailed it to him, giving details of the Karkhur demon nest at Mornington Crescent. Next time he'd checked, they were gone, so he assumed his message had been received.

"Move on," Buffy had told him. "You have to move on."

But his attempt at that hadn't felt so good - for him or for Anya, if the truth be told. The sex had been functional and bittersweet; it had served more as a reminder of what they couldn't have than a celebration of future possibilities. Of course, neither had predicted that the Scoobies would watch the whole thing courtesy of the three morons. It had pretty effectively put paid to any hopes she might have had of reuniting with Xander. He was sorry for that, even though he firmly believed that Xander had never treated her as she deserved. He'd not known how to make it up to Anya, and knew that anything he tried would be futile. He still had a soft spot for her; he knew how hard it was to be the eternal outsider. He'd picked up a couple of interesting items in Africa, and kept an eye out around the local markets for anything he could add to the Magic Box's inventory. Books mainly, but sometimes an amulet or other item showed up. He'd never signed a shipping note, but he figured she - of all people - would know who they were from.

***

He'd slipped into a routine almost by accident. Monday to Thursday nights found him at the plant. During the day he'd sleep, write letters he'd never post, read, and watch the telly. He didn't have a Television licence; trust the Brits to make you pay over a hundred quid just to own a set. Even a soul didn't give you the right to be a bleedin' ponce.

After he finished up Friday morning, he'd head for Bermondsey Market and take a quick look through the stalls before the crowds arrived, then hurry back to his basement flat before sunrise.

Friday nights, he'd treat himself to a few drinks at the local pub, pretending not to notice the barmaid making eyes at him, and keep a bit of an eye on the clientele. You'd think the local vamps might have noticed that Friday nights at The Prince of Wales were not the healthiest times for hunting, but still they kept coming. Back in the day, there were a couple of customers he might have even eaten himself, but for the most part they were a dull bunch of twits that'd give anyone indigestion: typical city pub clientele consisting mainly of lawyers, accountants and the odd office party.

Saturdays, he tried to get to St Margaret's. He'd never tried going into the church itself, but he'd found his mum buried there, beside his own grave. It looked different from above ground. "Beloved son and devoted brother," read the epitaph.

The plot was well-tended, but he'd never tried to track down who cared for it. Sometimes he talked to his own mum, sometimes to Joyce. He'd left flowers a couple of times, but mostly he just liked to sit and think. Sometimes, he took a notebook and scribbled things down - a first-hand account of the things he'd seen and done. There was a note in his room to send everything to Rupert if he didn't return one day. Perhaps they would be of interest to someone.

On Sundays, at first, he had roamed. He'd visited old familiar places and haunts - from life and from death - taking in the old and the new. He tried to never visit the same part of town twice. One night, inspired by some deviltry, he'd taken a walking tour of "haunted London". Four pounds to listen to some hack actor scare a bunch of tourists had been worth it, until a couple of newly-minted vamps had decided to have some fun with them. He'd seen to them, of course, then quietly sniggered at the tourists' whispered "How do they DO that?"s. The duly grateful tour leader evidently knew rather more about the underside of London than his practised patter suggested, and Spike often went along now. He'd even learnt a few things himself, although he'd had to restrain his smirk at some of the more glaring errors in the tour of "Victorian London". The guides knew and accepted him these days, and were always ready to shout him a pint or three at the end of the tours, when he'd join the tourists for a drink before escorting them ("I'm just going that way myself") back to their hotels. They were generally a friendly bunch, and he liked the company.

Tonight, though, he had more on his mind than the tour group. As the small group approached the church, he lit another cigarette - as good an excuse as any to avoid the occasional awkward questions about why he wasn't going in.

There it was; the glimpse of orange in the churchyard, the feeling of familiarity or recognition. Casually, he stubbed out his cigarette, then stepped back into the shadows.

He moved silently along the front of the church, stopping in surprise when he saw her. She looked older and sadder, and her hair had grown, but otherwise she looked much the same as when he had last seen her. She was talking urgently, in an undertone, to an older couple. They'd apparently reached an agreement, because they shook her hand then turned and hurried away. Spike stepped out of the shadows.

"Hello, Willow."

She jumped, then whirled around.

"Spike," She said, clearly startled by his presence.

At least she wasn't reaching for a stake or her sunlight spell.

"What are you doing - ," they said together.

Spike arched an eyebrow. "Ladies first."

Willow looked around anxiously. "Have you been here long?"

"Just got here," replied Spike. "The people I'm with went into the church, but that didn't seem such a good idea for me. You know, vampire and all."

At least that raised a smile.

"That looks better," he smiled. "So what brings you to these distant shores?"

"I don't know how much you - " She paused, looked down, not knowing how to begin.

"Enough," replied Spike. "Clem writes sometimes." He stopped, uncertain how to continue.

"Oh," said Willow.

"I was sorry to hear about Tara," Spike said hesitantly. "She was--" He swallowed. "Well, she was one of the good guys."

Willow smiled wanly. "She was everything that was good about me. I miss her so much, I--" She stopped, then swallowed. Her mouth twisted as she struggled to retain control.

"I know," replied Spike. He looked up as the tour group filed out of the church. "Listen, you doing anything now? I need to go with these people but you could come along if you'd like to. The tour's nearly over."

"I'd like that," Willow smiled.

***

So here they were. Trafalgar bloody Square. At least the pigeons had gone off to roost somewhere.

"I'm not really ready to talk about it." Willow looked away, her eyes shuttered, and Spike decided not to press. "After what happened, Giles brought me back here. There's a coven in Devon who run a rehab program; it's kinda like Betty Ford for the magical. They teach you how to control the magic, instead of just stopping cold. So I can still be Wicca!Girl, although I seem to have lost most of my powers. I'm more Sabrina than Samantha these days." She pulled a face. "They say in time I might be able to get them back. They're still there, it's just I can't access them anymore. But for now, it's classes, group therapy and once-a-month weekend leave. My parents think I'm at Oxford on an exchange program."

She stopped, frowned a little. "But what are you doing here?"

Spike opened his mouth, then closed it again. Apparently doing fish impersonations, he thought to himself. "I just needed a change," he said. "Came over here to clear my head, get some perspective. I don't think Buffy really wants me around Sunnydale."

Willow looked up. "You might be surprised," she said. "Buffy's changed a lot. She's even started taking Dawn patrolling."

He looked up, surprised at that, then shook his head.

"Besides, I've got some things to work out, love. You're not the only one who needed a break."

Willow looked at her watch. "Look, Spike, I need to go or I'll miss my train. I'll be back in a few weeks. Can we meet? It's good to see a familiar face. I mean Giles visits, but I always feel he's there to check up on me rather than just to see me."

"Sure," he replied, scrounging in his pocket for a piece of paper and jotting down his address and the number of his cell phone. "Just give me a call."

He watched her walk away, hands in his pockets, one toe scuffing the ground. Mentally revising his schedule. It would have to be Friday.

... Continue to Chapter 2 ...