Without the loud banging of Buffy and Dawn going through their morning routine to rouse him, Spike slept late and did not wake until Giles called his name. He rolled over, shaking away sleep, and blinked at the man standing next to him.

“Mornin’ Rupert,” he greeted, stretching, then winced and gasped as his wounds protested. “Ow!”

He touched his black T-shirt where the bandages were underneath and his fingers came away stained with blood.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

Giles sighed. “Well, I was about to tell you that I was headed to the Magic Box, but it seems we need to attend to your wounds beforehand.”

He didn’t protest as Giles helped him take the shirt off, revealing the blood-soaked wrappings.

“Oh dear. Well, let me get some bandages,” the Watcher said, frowning at the sight.

“Got enough for a job this big?”

“With Buffy Summers as my Slayer, do you honestly have to ask that question?” the man replied, heading for the bathroom.

“Point.”

Giles returned with several packages of gauze bandages and a pair of medical scissors. Then he cut away the soiled dressing to reveal the still seeping stab wounds.

“Good God, Spike, I thought you said that you were healing.”

“I am. Just healin’ from the inside out ‘s all. If you look, they’re not as deep. Don’t go all the way into my chest anymore. ‘S just surface bleeding now. Been a lot worse before this. Buffy helped change ‘em. Didn’t want Bit and Joyce seein’ all the blood.”

Giles frowned and used gauze pads to staunch the wounds. “That was probably wise.”

“Why did you take me there, anyway? Not that I minded bein’ cared for by Nurses Summers, but I was shocked to wake up in Joyce’s basement.”

“We knew that you were seriously injured and would require care. We also knew that, with her infatuation with you, if Dawn wasn’t able to see you during your recovery, she would most likely sneak out to find you. It was a matter of insuring that Dawn stayed safe and wasn’t haring off to the cemetery,” came the reply.

“Hmmph. Kinda like goin’ into a burnin’ house to fetch the kid’s hamster coz you know if you don’t do it, the kid will,” Spike observed.

Giles flicked him a glance. “Precisely.” He padded more gauze onto the wounds. “There. I think I’ve got the bleeding stopped.”

“I think so too.”

Giles pulled out the wrapping and began dressing the gauze in layers of bandages.

“What are your plans for today?” Giles asked him.

“Swing by my crypt and get the box I have there so I can go to that Warren git and order the bloody bot. No help for it, the wanker’s gonna leave town soon. Maybe go see Joyce. I promised her I would pop in today but I’m feelin’ knackered.”

“Probably from the blood loss. I do have two packages of blood in the refrigerator from the last time you stayed here, and I’ll bring more home this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Watcher.”

He reached for his bloodied shirt, but Giles grabbed it first.

“This is ruined. I’ll loan you one of my old sweatshirts for now until we have time to stop by your crypt.”

“I’ll prolly go back there tonight. Another day of vamp healin’ and these should be just nasty scratches.”

“If you think that’s best” Giles commented, going to fetch a sweatshirt from his bedroom.

He brought back an old Manchester United sweatshirt and handed it to Spike.

“Man United, Rupert?” he questioned, looking at the insignia.

“It was a gag gift from an old classmate. Why do you think I don’t care if you bleed all over it?”

Muttering under his breath, Spike carefully pulled the sweatshirt on and covered the bandages while Giles heated him a mug of blood. He gave the man a thankful nod when Giles handed him the warm cup.

“If you’re sure you won’t need anything, I’ll be off. If you have any troubles, call the Magic Box.”

“Thanks, Rupert. If I’m not here, don’t worry. As I said, I have to go out.”

“Do be careful. Vampires are flammable in sunlight, you know.”

“Oh dear, are we really? Good thing I’ve got my trusty blanket then,” he replied, wide-eyed.

Giles shook his head and gathered his coat. “Have a good day, Spike.”

“You too, Rupes,” he called as Giles left.

After the Watcher had gone, Spike went back to sleep. He awoke late morning, ate the last bag of blood, checked his bandages to make sure he wasn’t sieve-Spike, and tidied himself up a bit. Then he took the blanket and his duster and made a dash for the sewers. The effort hurt his wounds so he had to rest a bit before making his way to his crypt and then to the robot geek. It took him a while to get there. The trip was the most walking he had done since the incident with Drusilla and he kept getting lightheaded. He got there just as Warren was packing up to leave. Luckily, he’d changed into his usual black on black and was able to intimidate the git into making the Buffy-bot for him without too much trouble.

Business with the loser who would try to take over Sunnydale completed, he headed for the gallery. Unfortunately, when he got to there, Joyce’s assistant informed him that Joyce had gone home. He rested at the gallery for a while, perusing the new acquisitions, then made his way back to the tunnels. It was slow going for him and he hoped he would get to the house before Buffy or Dawn came home, but he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. As it was, he knew it was already after one and he still had a ways to go.

Over an hour later, he finally arrived at the manhole on Revello. He listened carefully for sounds of traffic before pushing his already exhausted body out of the tunnel and making a quick run for the front porch. Blessedly, the door was unlocked so he zipped in, fighting back the wave of dizziness that hit him, and slammed the door shut. Safe. Leaning against the front door, he pushed away the vertigo and stumbled for the kitchen where he hoped blood bags were kept in the refrigerator. He found three and he was so hungry that he drank two of them cold.

It was only after he regained some sense of balance that he noticed the stillness of the house.

“Joyce?” he called.

There was no answer.

Furrowing his brow, he turned up his vampire hearing and listened. No heartbeats, no living sounds at all. He wondered if Joyce had decided to go out.

‘Maybe left early to pick up Nibblet. I hope she wasn’t waiting for me to get here and thought I stood her up.’

He took a step out of the kitchen into the hall and the smell hit him. Vomit. He looked down to see a wet spot on the carpet.

‘Fresh.’

Concerned, he sniffed the air, trying to uncover any more clues as to what was going on and a new scent assailed his nostrils, once he knew far too well and did not want to ever smell in relation to a Summers: death.

Half-panicked, a sick feeling in his gut, he traced the smell to the living room couch, the same couch he had lain on just the day before and bantered with Joyce and the girls. The scent was all over the cushions, intermingled with Joyce’s unique odor.

‘No…’

More scents assaulted him: Buffy, Giles, strangers, the antiseptic tinge of medical supplies… and he could feel his senses becoming overloaded.

“No… nonononononononononono. Oh god, no,” he gasped to no one, then switched to gameface and roared. “NO!”

His only answer was silence.

It took him hours to stagger his way to Sunnydale General Hospital. It probably wouldn’t have taken him quite so long if he hadn’t collapsed in a sobbing heap in the tunnels and vomited up all the blood he had drank. By then he was soaked in sludge from the sewer, covered in his own vomit, and couldn’t stand his own smell let alone subject anyone without vampire senses to it, so he had to go back to his crypt long enough to clean up and change clothes.

The sun had almost set by the time he finally crawled up the tunnel that led to the hospital basement, and his legs barely supported him as he struggled down the hall. He was numb, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, using the wall to keep him upright.

“… still examining her…” came a fragment of Giles’ voice to his sensitive hearing and he locked on to it, tracking its location.

His movements seemed leaden, his mind not fully inside his body, as he followed Giles’ voice to a waiting room down the hall from the morgue. He came upon a scene of Buffy, Dawn, Giles, and the Scoobies all sitting forlornly in the sterile, too-bright room, and stopped in the doorway, unable to force himself to go any further. If he did, it would mean it was real and not a nightmare from which he could not wake.

“Spike!” a tearful Dawn called, and barely had time to register her movement before she was in his arms, hugging him. The pain was excruciating. He gasped, staggered and she let him go, horrified that she had hurt him.

“Oh God. I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she apologized, bursting into tears.

He reached for her, needing to comfort her in spite of his pain. “’S’ok, Sweet Bit.”

She came into his arms, gently this time and he held her loosely, but his eyes were on Giles, naked and pleading as the man came over.

“Rupert?” he managed, his voice small.

Giles took off his glasses, wiped his eyes and shook his head. “Spike, I’m so very sorry.”

“But… we had ‘er on blood thinners. She said the Coumadin was making her gums bleed so she was taking aspirin instead…”

“We don’t know the exact cause of death yet. The medical examiner hasn’t finished his examination.”

“But we just saw her yesterday. She was fine. She smelled fine.”

Giles looked at him with sympathy. “From everything we know so far, it appears to have happened very suddenly. I doubt there was much warning.”

“I don’t understand. I did… I warned…”

“You did everything you could, Spike. There wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

‘But there must have been. She’s still dead! I must have missed something… How could I have missed something?’

He looked to Rupert, begging to understand. “But…”

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Spike. It’s not your fault.”

‘But it must be. Otherwise, Joyce’d still be alive.’

Giles raised his eyes to see the doctor standing in the waiting room doorway.

“Doctor,” he said, calling attention to the man’s presence.

Buffy looked up sharply, a half-terrified look on her face, then she stood and approached stiffly. Dawn pulled herself out of Spike’s arms and faced the physician.

“Okay, I've examined your mother's body…” the doctor said.

“Can we see her?” Dawn asked.

“Dawn. Not now,” Buffy admonished.

“The on-site report seems to be more or less accurate. Your mother did have what looks like an aneurysm, a sudden hemorrhaging from a ruptured arterial vessel near where the tumor was removed,” the doctor explained.

“Shouldn't we have known about that, that it was a danger...” Buffy said.

“Sometimes these things are detectable and sometimes they're not. Joyce was aware of the possibility of a rupture, and the effects. She didn't even get on the phone, so clearly this was very sudden. She may have felt a little nausea and probably passed out as it happened. I doubt there was much pain, and even if someone had been by her side…”

Cold ice washed through Spike as realization hit him. ‘An aneurysm, not a blood clot. But Bit told me it was a blood clot! I know she said it was a blood clot! Oh, God! And I pushed to get her on blood thinners and that made it worse! It *is* my fault! It’s all my fault!’

“-- it's doubtful this could have been dealt with in time,” the doctor was finishing.

“Well, thank you, Doctor...” Giles said.

“You're sure there wasn't a lot of pain?” Buffy blurted suddenly.

“Absolutely. I think we can be almost positive about that,” the doctor said with assurance.

‘Liar. She bled to death from internal hemorrhaging. And she couldn’t soddin’ clot her blood coz I was a wanker and pushed for her to be on blood thinners. Oh God, what have I done? Joyce… Oh Mum, from wherever you are, can you ever forgive me for screwing it up so royally?’

“What, ah, what needs to happen now?” Giles was asking.

“Well, there will be some forms, and some decisions you'll need to make...” the doctor replied.

“Buffy, why don't you let me handle those as much as I can,” Giles told Buffy.

‘Good. Good old Rupert’s takin; over. He’s got it. He’ll take care of it. Don’t need me. I’m a useless waste of space who just killed Joyce Summers. Oh god oh god.’

“We will need you to sign a couple of release forms…” the doctor was saying to Buffy.

Buffy was looking overwhelmed and shocked. He wanted to reach out to her, to tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, choking him as the guilt crashed down.

“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” Giles interrupted, then addressed Buffy, “I’ll figure out which ones you need to see.”

Spike looked up at Giles, his vision alternating between black and red, and he began to pant heavily. It was all hitting him now: the helplessness, the reality of his failure. Rupert was filling the role of reliable father-figure, just as he always did. And him? He did what he always did when faced with the futility and uselessness that was his existence.

He ran.

Giles found him in his crypt hours later, piss drunk, half-naked, and screaming the refrain from Depeche Mode’s Blasphemous Rumours at the top of his lungs.

“I don't want to start

Any blasphemous rumours

But I think that God's

Got a sick sense of humour

And when I die

I expect to find

Him laughing!” he roared in gameface.

He’d ripped open the stab wounds with his nails to make them bleed again and poured an entire bottle of whiskey on them, just for the benefit of the added pain. The look on Giles face when he came in convinced Spike that Giles thought he’d gone completely crackers.

“Spike! Spike, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

He turned his head to look at the Watcher, his soul and demon wailing in his head.

“Kill me! Kill me, Rupert!” he cried, pointing towards the weapons chest where he kept the stakes.

Giles stormed over to him and slapped the bottle of bourbon he still had in his hand, sending it smashing to the floor. He gave a manic giggle at the sound of shattering glass.

“No,” Giles refused. “I will not.”

“Kill me! I’m an evil monster! I killed Joyce!”

“You did not. Joyce Summers’ death was not your fault.”

“But it was! It was!” he insisted, looking up at the man, begging him to understand. “I got it wrong, Rupert! It was a bloody aneurysm! Not a blood clot! And I pushed to get ‘er on soddin’ BLOOD THINNERS!”

“Which you told me yourself that she wasn’t taking because she didn’t like the side effects,” Giles replied vehemently.

“It doesn’t matter! Don’t you see! I still got it wrong and she’s still dead!”

He saw Giles attempt to keep his temper. “Spike, some times these things are just meant to happen and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Then why send me back here?! Why give me a chance to make it right if there’s nothing I can do in the first place?!”

“Maybe to help you learn what you can and cannot change. Just because Joyce still dies in this timeline, doesn’t mean you should give up. You have to believe that there is a reason why this has happened.”

“What? Now you’re tellin’ me to believe there’s a bleedin’ higher purpose to all of this? You told me that before when they shoved this damn chip in my brain! It’s was bollocks then and it’s bollocks now! I’m a useless waste of space who deserves to die! Kill me you spineless bastard! KILL ME!” he screamed, lunging for the man.

The chip fired, blinding him with even more pain and he howled, falling from atop the sarcophagus and crashing to the floor.

“I don’t have time for this, William! Buffy and Dawn need me. And I can’t be coddling you!” Giles scolded.

He began to laugh maniacally at the cosmic joke that was his unlife. He didn’t see Giles storm over to the refrigerator, pull the bag of ice he kept there for mixed drinks out and stomp back over until the bag was dumped on him, covering his naked chest with frozen ice cubes. He yowled and sputtered from the shock of cold.

“Pull yourself together and stop this nonsense! We need you. Buffy needs you and Dawn needs you,” Giles ordered.

The words only made him laugh more.

“God damn you, Spike,” Giles seethed, cracking at the seams.

“Already damned, Rupert. Now send me to Hell!”

It looked like Giles might actually do it. The man’s face went red with anger and his fists clenched, but then a new figure came into view and he calmed as Tara laid a hand on his arm.

“Tara?” Giles said, surprised.

“It’s okay, Mr. Giles. I’m here to help,” Tara answered.

“No no no no no,” Spike protested, trying to crawl away as Tara approached him.

“Spike…” the witch whispered.

“No, Glinda. Get away. Get away. I’m evil. I destroy everything I touch.”

She ignored him and knelt by his side, one hand coming around his head to press a sachet to his face.

“Breathe. They’re calming herbs: chamomile, marjoram and lavender,” she said gently.

“Vampire, don’t need to breathe,” he said, but needed to inhale in order to speak, and the fragrant scent filled his nostrils. Its effects were immediate and he began to calm down. Aromatherapy was so much more powerful on vampires because of their heightened sense of smell.

“Shhh. Just breathe,” Tara soothed.

“Tara. Oh thank god,” Giles said.

“I thought you might be coming here and suspected that you could use my help, so I followed you,” she admitted.

“It was a foolish thing to do, but I’m glad you did. I admit that I am at a loss and out of patience.”

“Buffy and Dawn are your primary concerns. I understand that. It’s okay. I can take care of him,” she assured.

“I need to go check on Buffy, but I don’t want to leave you with him. It’s too dangerous for you to walk back alone.”

“Willow knows I’m here. I have a spell. I can call her if I need…”

“Don’t leave me with her, Rupert,” he begged. “I’m evil. I’ll hurt her. I won’t mean to…”

“Hush,” Tara said. “You’re not evil, Spike.”

“But I am…”

She stroked back his hair tenderly and looked him in the eye. “I can see your soul, Spike. I know you won’t hurt me.”

“But I killed Joyce.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was. I got it wrong.”

“You did everything you could,” she insisted.

“But it didn’t work. And I tried,” he told her, the grief coming up as his rage faded.

“I know you did, Spike.”

“I did. I swear I did. I tried, Glinda. I tried so hard,” he repeated, needing her to understand.

“I believe you.”

“I did. Really I did…”

“I know.”

The anger was gone and only despair was left, and he couldn’t hold it back anymore. It swelled in him, rushing up like a storm surge, and came pouring out. As it crested and broke, Tara took him into her arms and held him as he cried.

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