On Tuesday at 4:07pm, in the supply closet, on the 22nd floor of the Wolfram and Hart Building, Spike became human. And it was all thanks to Darrel, the Klaptawq demon from accounting.
Darrel was quiet. Your typical shy, awkward, 18 fingered, dorky accountant. While he kept to himself mostly there was the occasional chat with Irene (who occupied the cubicle across from his) about the weather and American Idol, and friendly discussions with Gene from Acquisitions about—hypothetically—how exactly one would go about destroying the universe.
Gene was the office go-to guy. He had all kinds of funky button-down shirts that really impressed the ladies, and shoes that seemed too hip for anyone else to pull off. But what impressed people the most about Gene were his connections. As if simply working for the most powerful law firm in most known dimensions wasn’t connections enough, Gene knew things, people...or, well, things that W&H didn’t even hear about from a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Gene wasn’t just in the know—Gene was the know.
On Monday, Gene had approached Darrel at the espresso machine, patted him on the back, greeted him in that macho, drinking buddy kind of way, and then slipped something into Darrel’s pocket before he left.
The thing was moving. Darrel cringed and reached a tentative hand into the pocket. It was some kind of worm, or lizard---And that’s when Darrel remembered the friendly discussion he and Gene had shared last Friday.
“You know,” Gene had said “it’s funny. The key to destroying or
controlling any given universe is always in some other universe.”
“So, what are you saying? What I need to destroy the universe is in another one? I can’t do it?” Darrel had asked, dispirited.
“Let me ask you something, Dare. What’s your motivation?”
“Hun?”
“Why do you want to destroy the universe? Do you really hate it that much? Or do you just like blowing shit up?”
“Well, I guess I don’t really hate it. I kinda thought it would be fun, you know?”
“Sure, sure. I’m there with ya, pal. But wouldn’t it be just as fun to destroy some other universe?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Cool. Because I’ve got this guy who can hook you up with a couple Viraslian fire newts.”
“And that’s good?”
“It’s more than good. It’s evil. All you have to do is send those puppies through a teeny tiny portal back to the Viraslian universe, and presto, total destruction.”
“How much?”
Darrel felt around again in his pocket. Yep. There were two of them.
And they were really gunky and gross. And antsy. He would have to do
something with them until he got off work. He needed something to put
them in.
The supply closet was filled mostly with office supplies, but there were also supplies for the break-room which included sugar, soda, salt and pepper, coffee and espresso beans, and for no apparent reason Darrel could think of, Sanka. A big tin of Sanka with a plastic top. It was just the right size, and Darrel figured that no one would miss the outmoded coffee substitute if he were to just dump it. So he emptied the contents of the tin into a garbage can in the corner of the supply closet, and dropped his two slimy new friends in. Just as he was doing this, however, the door opened. It was Harmony—Angel’s exquisite secretary. He fumbled to put the lid back on and turned to face her.
“Hi. Oh, yuk! I hope you weren’t planning on drinking that stuff. It’s like, really gross, and sooo 1990.”
Darrel looked around and grabbed a bag of sugar. “No. Just came for this,” he said, avoiding eye contact, and blushing.
“Whatever. Just don’t jerk off in here, okay? I caught this one guy, a few weeks ago, and now, I’m just deeply scarred. I can’t even talk about it,” she winced.
“What? No...I wasn’t...I...sugar,” he managed, and stumbled back out to the hallway with all the grace of a chimp playing tennis.
“Eewwe,” Harmony shuddered, and began her search for the rare, elusive pink post-it notes.
After 2 minutes she was ready to call it quits, when a low, soft voice sounded behind her, and the door slammed shut.
“Mmm. This where all the action is then?” Spike lay a cool, firm hand on Harmony’s thigh, teasing her skirt’s hemline.
“What are you doing?” She tried to sound annoyed. Really, she did.
“All these pens and staplers and stir sticks really get my motor runnin’ luv.”
“Hey! Who do you think you are? All ignoring me one second, humping me the next? We’re back to the humping again, I see.”
Spike’s response was to slide his hand a bit further up her leg, and kiss her ear. She held back a giggle.
“I was thinking, Harm, that we should just start over.” He wrapped his free arm around her waist, and pulled her towards him. She feigned resistance.
“And, this is what? A first date to you?” she asked indignantly.
“You talk too much,” he said, and stuck his tongue down her throat. This time, she pushed him off of her, violently.. He fell back against one of the shelves, and it broke under his weight. Bags of coffee and sugar, and a Sanka tin, all tumbled onto the floor. Spike looked up at Harmony, shocked, and a little hurt. She was pissed.
“You think you can just fuck me whenever you’re feeling a bit tight in the shorts? I won’t let you use me anymore. I found something when I started working here, Spike. It’s called self-esteem!”
“Harmony,” Spike sighed, his head bowed “I’m a prick.” Harmony only crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “well, duh.” Righting himself, Spike looked her in the eyes. “You really have changed, haven’t you pet?”
Harmony, however, was having thoughts of her own, and oblivious to Spike’s question, she posed one herself. “What’s up with you lately? Every time I talk to you, you’re a different vampire.”
“Oh, I dunno. Coming back from the dead really does a number on your hormones, I suppose.”
“No. It’s something else... Oh! You’re still hung up on the slayer aren’t you! Oo, that pisses me off. What’s so great about her anyway? Well, I will not be your rebound girl! Especially not the rebound of the girl you rebounded off me onto.”
“Buffy was not a rebound!”
“Sure...”
“Ewe.” Spike grimaced, peering down at his feet.
“Ewe?”
Spike pointed at the floor, without looking this time. Harmony’s gaze followed the direction of his finger.
“Ewe,” she agreed.
Next to Spike’s foot was some kind of slimy red lizard. Of course it was one of the Viraslian fire newts, but they didn’t know that. Also, it was kinda squished, and very dead. That much was obvious.
“What the hell kind of office supply is that?” Spike griped.
“Don’t ask me. And I’m not touching it!”
“Well, me neither!” Spike said, coming across sounding a little too grossed out than was appropriate for a menacing, ex-evil vampire.
“You stepped on it!”
As a seemingly unrelated development, the walls started shaking.
“Earthquake,” Harmony sighed with utter disinterest when a puzzled expression appeared on Spike’s face.
And then, a fissure of blue light materialized over his head. He looked at her again, with a question on his face.
“I have no clue,” she said, staring at the blue glow as it grew. And it seemed to be growing down, as in, around Spike. He didn’t seem too happy about it either.
“Harm?” This couldn’t be good. Spike tried not to freak out as he realized that whatever was happening, whatever this light was, had left him unable to move. And it was already surrounding the entire top half of his body.
“Hold on Spikey, I’ll go get Angel,” Harmony said, as if it were a tremendous reassurance. She turned, and dashed down the hallway.
He felt cold, as if the light was actually liquid ice, freezing him in place, like some kind of cave man who thaws out 10,000 years later and learns how to skateboard, and pick up girls in the food court. He was covered by the light entirely now, and he could feel it starting to do something to him, something not right.
There was a loud thud. It felt like someone had stabbed him. And it was strange, because, while on the outside he felt frozen, on the inside, starting in his chest, he felt a terrible burning sensation, as if someone set fire to his heart, and now the fire was beginning to spread throughout his whole body. His skin felt the fire now too, and Spike noticed that the light was fading. At the same time, he got the distinct impression that something was being taken from him, that he was being...violated.
“Spike!” It was Harmony, and she had Angel with her.
“I don’t see any light Harm,” Angel said, as though he were humoring a child who saw monsters in her closet.
“It was here! Spike?”
“Spike?” Angel finally took a good look at him, and knew immediately that something was wrong. Spike was staring straight at him with his fists tightly clenched, but he appeared to be too terrified to move or even speak.
The fire inside of him had dulled to smoldering embers, and something was pounding on his chest, from the inside, trying to get out. He felt as if he were suffocating, as if at any moment, he could die. That’s when he opened his mouth. He gasped for air, and the horrible truth came crashing down on him.
“No,” he whispered before he fell unconscious.
Spike woke up alone. Which would normally be fine, if he had any clue where he was, or if he wasn’t hooked up to loud beeping things, and didn’t have tubes sticking out of his arms. No, then it would be fine. This was not fine. This was anti-fine. Oh, and then there was the fact that he had a heartbeat. That, also, was bad. Spike felt himself start to panic. Oh, he thought, so that was what panicking felt like. He decided that he preferred not panicking, but for some reason, this wasn’t enough incentive to keep his heart from racing, and his lungs from working overtime trying to pump enough oxygen.
He was in a white room. A hospital? And he was wearing a stupid blue smock thing. That would be the first thing to go. The second...
The door to the small room opened and Fred entered, a stupid grin crossing her lips. Spike blamed the nancy-boy night gown.
“Hi there sleepy head,” she said softly, approaching the bed.
“Fred. Get this shit off me would ya?” Spike asked, trying to sound all business, but his voice was hoarser that he expected it to be.
“Oh, of course. Sorry ‘bout that,” she said and began to free him from the tubes and wires. “We just wanted to keep an eye on your vitals.”
“Oh.”
“You know, your vital signs?” she said, still grinning. “’Cause you have ‘em now, ‘cause you’re human!”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Oh, Spike. I’m just so happy for you!” Words flew out of Fred’s mouth like excited, sickly-sweet soda bubbles. “We can’t really figure out what happened, but Wesley’s sure it wasn’t the Shanshu, so don’t worry, Angel’s not mad. And I think he was even kinda concerned about you. But now that you’re awake and we know you’re alright, I’m sure he’ll be a little jealous, but that’s understandable right?”
“Mmm.”
“Spike? You are alright, aren’t you?”
“It’s just...”
“What...what’s wrong?”
What Spike so desperately wanted to say, with some yelling thrown in for effect, was: “What’s wrong? I’m bloody HUMAN! That’s what’s fucking wrong! I feel like I’m going to keel over any second!” He sat up, and clenched the sides of the bed, trying not to hyperventilate. All he said, with a wink and a half-smile to seal the deal, was, “Not a thing, Freddy.”
What was his problem? He wanted to be human, didn’t he? He fought with Angel—he beat Angel—for the chance to be human. Oh hell, he thought, he beat Angel for the chance to beat Angel, plain and simple. It wasn’t about the bloody prize. It would have been the same fight had it been over fucking Super bowl tickets.
“Good. You get some rest, okay? And I’ll go tell the guys you’re alright.”
Fred slipped out gracefully and Spike climbed off the bed, only to fall to his knees, as he held his head in his hands, fighting back tears of confusion. He should be happy, right? This was what everyone would want. What SHE would want. He was a man. A real man. He wasn’t a monster anymore. So why did he feel like a pathetic git? Because, Spike realized, everything that made him who he was—all his strength, charisma and attitude—was from that monster. Without it he would be William, the nose bleed.
There was no way he could do this. Why did Fred think it was some kind of gift from god? Who the hell was it a gift from anyway? Probably thought they were doing him a favor, the wankers. He felt so drained, so tired. He had never felt this tired before. He hated how this heartbeat, this pulse made him feel. Weak, hot, cold, and totally without control. The few tears tapered off and he hiccupped. And again. And again.
“FUCK!”
“Spikey?”
“Harmony. Oh, fucking hell.”
“Hey. Geez, are you okay? You must feel yucky.”
“What?” he looked up at Harmony in amazement.
“Well, yeah. It can’t be fun going from strong and invincible to weak and uh, vinceable.” She kneeled next to him on the floor, and placed her arm around his shoulders without a second thought.
“Humanity: ’S not like I thought it was an option. But now that I know what it feels like? Forget it. Don’t want it. Send it back.” He was shaking.
“Oh, Spike.” He let his head drop into her lap, and she stroked his back, trying to slow his forced, jagged breaths. “You just need time to adjust.”
“I was never any bloody good at being human, Harm, and I’m not about to paddle that defective dingy again. A vampire’s what I am. Even with a bloody pulse. And that’s easily taken care of.”
“What? Easily? How?” He looked up at her with swollen, reddened eyes.
“You can fix it,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Do it. Turn me. Now,” he commanded, baring his neck to her.
“Uh. I don’t think I can,” she said, stunned and apologetic at once. “Bossman would not be happy.”
“And?”
“Hello? I like this job. I don’t want to get fired!”
“Bloody hell, woman! Is that all you care about?”
“And when exactly did my selfless do-gooder twin come to town? Because I think you have me confused with her.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m sorry. But this humanity that the office supply Gods bestowed on your ass? You better get over it, ‘cause it’s not going anywhere if Angel and Buffy have anything to say about it.”
“Buffy?”
“Oh yeah, I was supposed to tell you. She’s out in the hall.”
Spike gulped.
“So, what?” Harmony sighed. “You want me to send her in, I guess?”
“Buffy? The hall right there?” His voice cracked as he pointed towards the door.
“Fine! God!” Harmony left the room in a huff, and Spike raced to put his clothes (which he found neatly folded on the chair next to the bed) back on. There was no way he would let the Slayer see him in a sodding hospital smock.
She walked through the door just as he was buckling his belt. He glanced up, and for the first time, in a very, very long time, he blushed. His heart, now fully functional of course, went pitter-pat. And, oh god, were his palms sweating? This was just revolting! Who would have thought being dead was more comfortable than being alive.
His mouth opened, but no sound followed.
Buffy, also, seemed to be experiencing technical difficulties. She couldn’t manage to move from where she stood at the edge of the room. And she really looked like she wanted to move. Her eyes didn’t falter once from their gaze upon Spike’s body. They scanned him, marveling at every point in space which he inhabited, trying to make some kind of sense of the impossibility that was his physical presence.
He figured she was confused. He sure as hell was. Finally, his vocal chords kicked in.
“Hey.”
She didn’t answer. She approached him slowly, like one would a neighbor’s cat. And she reached her hand out. Before it could land on his chest, Spike clasped it in his own. He knew what she had been aiming for. The heart. She wanted to feel the heartbeat. He wouldn’t have it. Her other hand fell on his cheek—his warm, pink cheek.
“I don’t understand...” she whispered.
“Right there with ya, luv.” Spike turned his head to kiss the hand touching his face.
“This doesn’t feel real. My brain won’t let it be real.” She said, framing the bottom half of Spike’s face with both her hands now. “It needs some encouragement, I think.” This encouragement took the form of a slow, gentle kiss, with tongues slipping in and out of mouths, inconspicuous and sleepy.
“Did that feel real enough?” Spike asked.
“Not real at all, actually.” She slid her hand down towards his chest, and again, Spike headed her off. “Hey!” She wasn’t mad, just playfully annoyed. “I wanna feel your heartbeat. Kinda the main attraction.”
“I know. Just...don’t.”
“Why?”
“Buffy,” he said, half pleading, half scolding. She was being pushy.
“I’m sorry. It’s your body. I just wanted to, you know, share the happy.” She regarded his reaction to her statement with some scrutiny. He was looking away. “There is happy to share, right?” she asked, fishing for eye contact.
“Yeah. Of course.” He had to lie, and it tore him up. But she would never understand. “It’s just, I’m still not used to it. It’s weird. I...feel weird.”
Buffy laughed.
“I guess that makes sense. You haven’t been human for a long time.”
“A few long times, pet.”
“Yeah. So I guess you forgot what it feels like, huh?”
“It’s...different.”
“You think I don’t understand?” Spike didn’t answer, just twitched his cheek. “I understand, plus infinity, Spike. I was a spirit—or a something—without a body at all, let alone a dead one.”
“How did you do it?”
“I had amazing friends,” she explained. She might have easily been referring to Xander and Willow, but by the way she said it and stared into his eyes, he knew she meant him.
“I lucked out in that department somehow too.”
“I know,” she agreed immodestly.
“Shit,” he said, precisely as if he meant not to, slapping his hand up against the wall for the support he suddenly needed in order to stay on his feet.
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Do you feel sick? Are you okay?” Buffy looked very concerned. As though she was only now realizing what kind of shape someone just recently humanized might be in.
“I’m fine.”
“Come on. Sit down,” she said, coaxing him onto the bed. “You’re probably exhausted.” Spike twisted away from her.
“Stop! I said I’m fine!”
“Hey! Okay! Just trying to help!”
“I don’t need anyone’s bloody help,” Spike muttered.
“Spike! What is going on with you? I mean, I know I missed a bunch of episodes— the one where you’re a ghost, the one where you’re not a ghost any more, the one where you’re not a vampire anymore—but I still know that you’re acting all Strange-O-Spike.”
“No. I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I’m just really tired.”
“Alright, lie down then,” she challenged him. “Get some sleep.” Spike did as she requested, and lay down on his side, his arm curled under his head. Somehow, he couldn’t find the strength to argue anymore.
Buffy drew the blanket that had been folded at the bottom of the bed, up over his legs and chest, resisting the urge to try for a feel at the heartbeat again. Bad idea, with the mood Spike was in.
“I’m sorry, Buffy.”
“Shhh.” She ran her fingers across his forehead, and smiled a little at the warmth that they found there. “You’re so lucky, Spike. You can do anything you want now. You can be a real part of this world. Not that averting the apocalypse isn’t, you know, partaking. But you can go out during the day, get a job, have kids. You can be a dad! ...Now there’s a scary thought!”
“What ever do you mean, pet?”
“Oh, just weird images of five year olds running around with bleached blond hair yelling ‘Bloody Hell!’” she explained.
“Sounds lovely.”
Spike’s stomach churned. If he had found it hard to hide his feelings from Buffy in the past, this was utter madness. He had never had to worry about physiology giving him away before now. Because he felt like he was on the verge of throwing up. Kids? A Job? What next, a white picket fence? It was too repugnant to even contemplate. Those were all things she wanted, not him. The only human experience he had ever longed for was to bask in the sun, which, to be honest, wasn’t as alluring nowadays, what with all the death-causing u.v. rays. Nothing, Spike decided, was going to make him okay with this. Nothing.
Everyone important was standing around in Angel’s office. Spike and Buffy sat on the couch, and she held his hand in her lap, while Angel kept glaring at this conspicuously from where he stood behind his desk. Wesley and Fred fumbled through notes and a stack of old manuscripts; Lorne and Gunn hovered.
“So, what you’re saying is, Spike saved this Varsillyant Universe from destruction when he squished a salamander?” Buffy asked incredulously.
“A newt, actually. And yes. I believe the Viraslians wished to thank him somehow, so they bestowed upon him the gift of humanity,” Wesley said.
“Well, isn’t that...retarded. I burn up in the Hellmouth and get booted to LA, then I step on a bloody newt and get turned human?”
“That’s what it’s looking like.”
“Terrific.”
“The gods must be on crack,” Angel added, and sulked out of the office.
“I’d better go speak to him,” Wesley said, frowning, and followed. This had to be hard on Angel. They all knew it. For the past 24 hours everyone had been walking on eggshells around him, trying not to send him over whatever edge he was coming dangerously close to.
“Spike, maybe you should go.” Fred suggested delicately.
“Yeah. Maybe I should.”
Spike left without another word.
“Huh? Hey, Spike, wait!” But Buffy didn’t follow him. She knew him well enough to know that when he walked away, he didn’t expect, or want anyone to chase after him. He needed to be alone. She could deal with that.
An hour later, Buffy found a note shoved under the door of her complementary Wolfram and Hart suite. The paper looked like it had been hastily torn from an old notebook. It was folded in half, slightly askew, and her name was written on the back in a jagged, Victorian script. Instinctively, her heart sank, and fear reigned over her trembling hands as she unfolded it . . .
***I lied to you. I hate this. I can’t do it. I’m a vampire. And apart from the not killing people bit, a damn good one. When I gained my humanity, I lost something. And I don’t want a house or a job or 2.5 kids. I want to be me again. This is not me. Not any more. Not now. Maybe one day. But not now. I just can’t. Maybe I was never meant to be human again. Maybe one day I’ll want it, and I’ll be ready. I don’t know if this makes a lick of sense, but I don’t think I’m strong enough not to be strong. Did you get that?
Remember when I told you that I was a monster, but you treat me like a man? Well, funny thing. Turns out, I’m less of a man without the monster. I need it. Makes me strong, brave, happy. Yeah, happy. Don’t rightly know—***
As a tear fell onto the sad little scrap of paper, someone grabbed it from Buffy’s hand.
“What is this?” Angel growled.
“Angel, no!” Buffy cried, but it was too late. He had read enough. His lip curled in disgust.
“That ungrateful son of a bitch...”
“Angel. What do you think...I mean, he wouldn’t...”
“Of course he would.”
“But, his soul?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone to get turned, Buffy.”
“We have to stop him!”
“Why?” Angel said mercilessly, tossing the letter to the floor. It wasn’t a question, it was an argument.
Buffy stared at him, strong and ferocious. “Because I say we do.”
Angel stormed away, and Buffy knew she had won. She looked down at the letter, wiped a tear from her cheek, and picked it up once again.
***-what that means, but it’s true. And maybe you’re thinking I’m just stupid and scared and that if I wasn’t such a prat I would be able to do this and you’re probably right. Thing is, if I stay like this, I’ll die. And not in the eventually sense of the word. More in the ‘I am so fucking miserable I want to drink myself into oblivion’ sense. I can’t live like this. Ha! I can’t live! So. That’s it I suppose. Just thought you should know. Don’t expect you to like it.
I know I’ve disappointed you, and I’m sorry. I love you, Buffy. But I have to do this.
I am not now that which I have been.***
Three yelling matches and one ex-vampire locator spell later, Angel and Buffy found Spike. It was about 2 in the morning, and he was chugging a bottle of whiskey, sitting hunched over on the edge of the 51 mile stretch of concrete they call the L.A. river. Two stray dogs were fighting over a pile of garbage below, and further down, a group of street punks were shooting up. They didn’t take notice of the Slayer, the vampire and the drunk man looking over them like gods at a crappy simulation of the Big Bang.
“Spike. You didn’t...” Buffy asked carefully.
“Go away,” he muttered, starring into the bottle of booze.
“You’re waiting for one to come to you, aren’t you?” Angel sneered.
“No. Tried. Couldn’t do it. Bolted.”
That was when Angel saw it. The gun. It was just lying there, inches from where Spike sat. For a moment, he thought he could be the hero—he was much faster than Spike now, he could take the gun, punch him out, drag him home, tie him up: He would beat some sense into the brat—but that was only in the few meaningless seconds before he smelled the blood. Or, maybe it was just vamp bait. Maybe it was just a cut? A flesh wound?
No. Angel knew what it was.
They were too late.
“No.” Buffy fell to her knees. Spike stared up at her and blinked, as if she were out of focus. A slow, menacing puddle inched out from under him.
“I’m sorry, luv.”
“Stop saying that, damn it” she whispered.
He fell back, his head dropping into her lap. The bullet had gone straight into his chest, from the look of it. It didn’t seem strange to Buffy or Angel though, that he had not died instantly. This was Spike, after all.
He squinted at her, as if it took more strength to simply see her than it had to fight any demon he’d ever killed.
Don’t let this happen goddamn it, Buffy demanded of whatever force was responsible for this injustice. Why would he do this? Didn’t he know how much it destroyed her to loose him the first time? Why would he go away again? The bastard!
He was bleeding to death.
No. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t ready. He was confused. And she-she was so stupid, telling him he was lucky. Lucky? Oh God, was she deficient? Of course he couldn’t live like a human. He was too big for humanity. Larger than life. And this life—living, period—had taken that away. How could she not see it? Why couldn’t he just tell her? Because, she chided herself, he knew she wouldn’t understand. And he would have been right.
Buffy placed her hand over his heart, and felt it beat a few slow, uneven times before fading away.
Now, with his limp, dying body in her arms, she understood. She had to make a choice.
She looked up at Angel. “Do it.” He knew exactly what she meant.
“Buffy, I can’t.”
“DO IT!” She screamed with the force of a Valkyrie, tears swelling in her eyes faster than she could blink them away. “I DON’T CARE! I DON’T CARE IF IT’S WRONG! DO IT NOW!”
Down in the water-less river, dogs stopped barking, and junkies were momentarily torn from their bliss-filled reveries. Pain filled the air, and it stabbed deeper than any needle.
Angel peered down at Buffy, shocked by rage and desperation the likes of which he had never once witnessed in this woman. He leaned over the almost-dead man, grabbed his neck, and pulled him effortlessly into his arms. He ripped open Spike’s blood drenched shirt, found the bullet hole, and drank.
Buffy watched, trembling there on the blood stained asphalt, as Angel bit into his own arm, and thrust the wound up to Spike’s mouth. The decision had been shockingly easy for her. Years of living by rules and morals invented by other people, doing what was right, what had to be done, because that was her job, everything so fucking cut and dry, so mathematically sound, and it had all meant nothing to her as she clung to him, and watched in horror as his eyes fell closed. She didn’t care if he came back without a soul. She didn’t care if she was creating a horrible killing thing. She wanted a chance. A chance to make things right. A chance to give Spike what he deserved. A happy un-life. But if he died, that would be it—the end of chances.
And so she watched, without any regret, as Spike drank.
She presumed Angel had told the others what had happened. They were nowhere to be seen, though. Had he asked them to stay away, Buffy wondered? After all, this wasn’t going to be easy. Not for Angel, not for her, and especially not for Spike.
He was sleeping now, in bed in Buffy’s suite, on the 23rd floor—sleeping, or whatever state it was that vampires went into after they were turned, and then typically, buried by a grieving family and left in the ground to dig their way out. Unless of course their sire took a particular interest in them.
Buffy ran her hand gently over Spike’s bare torso. There was almost no trace of the bullet wound. Once again, she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that he had attempted suicide. It was just so . . . out of character. She could imagine him speaking on the subject: “Only a pathetic, miserable git with no bloody spine would even contemplate such a thing,” he’d sneer, and emphasize the sentiment by spitting on the ground. Then, she remembered the summer of her death, and wondered if maybe then he had thought about it as a serious option. Sheesh! She was so full of herself!
He looked at peace. More so than she had seen him in a very long time. The last time probably being the night before the big fight, their last night . . . together. It was almost nice, sitting there, watching over him, waiting for him to wake up. The waiting was nice. The waking up part, however? That scared her big time. What was she going to tell him? What was he going to think? How was he going to feel? And most importantly, was he going to wake up with or without his soul?
It might be nice if he just stayed asleep, she decided. Yeah, she could lie down there next to him, wrap her arms around him, and they could just sleep. Nothing bad would happen, no one would cry, and everything would be really peaceful.
Of course, that was the point in Buffy’s interior monologue at which Spike decided to open his eyes.
“Spike?” She grabbed his hands like a mother afraid of loosing a child in a crowd of strangers.
His eyes finally focused on her face. He looked so tired. Weren’t vampires supposed to be extra-energetic when they first woke up? All the ones she had seen had been, anyway.
“What . . . Buffy . . . ‘m not . . .”
“Dead? Nope. Did you really think I’d let you pull a dumb stunt like that?” She asked, wiping non-existent tears away. Her eyes had been drained hours ago.
“What did you do?” he asked, staring down at a scar on his chest, that on a human, would have been months old. He knew the answer perfectly well.
“Technically, it was Angel.”
“Why would he . . .”
“Because I asked him to.”
“Right.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Apart from dead? Fine.”
“Spike, you-you tried to . . .”
“Don’t bloody say it!” he yelled, sitting up abruptly.
“But you did. I was there, Spike.”
“Oh, god.” He slumped back into the bed, and curled in on himself, facing away from Buffy. The idea of it made him sick. How would he ever be able to look her in the eyes again? He had been such a coward. Couldn’t handle being human. Human! Other people seemed to be pretty okay with it—like bloody well everyone alive! Why would it make him want to die? But it had, and he had. So he was a vampire again. That was what he wanted. But he had been too pathetic to even pull that off himself. So he’d bought a semi-automatic and a bottle of Jim Beam, and tried to end it all. Had to be turned by the bleeding Prince of Prats of all people. And she had to ask him to do it. Could his un-life be any more pathetic? How had he let this happen? He curled his arms up over his face, trying to squeeze the horrible memories out of his head.
“Spike, we need to talk about this. You have to deal with what happened,” Buffy told him sternly.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, but I . . .” Spike mumbled from behind his arms.
“You should know that watching you . . .back there. . . it was pain. All pain. Everything inside me was screaming. And there was some screaming from me directly, too. But forget about me now.” She paused, sighed, and put her hand firmly on Spike’s shoulder. “God, I’m not here to blame you for anything, or to lecture you. I just want you to be okay. Knowing that you’re going to be okay, that’s what’ll make me feel better.” She was resting her chin on his shoulder now, and holding his right arm in her hand, trying to make him face her.
Finally, he turned, slowly, as if he were afraid she might disappear if he looked at her, like an apparition seen only out of the corner of one’s eye.
“That person, Buffy? Dunno. Wasn’t me.”
“It’s okay. I know.”
“You . . .” He didn’t expect her to know. He just said it, hoping that she would take it as some kind of metaphor, and accept it. He looked up at her, and she was looking back at him, not just at his eyes, but his lips, nose, forehead, chin. What was she looking for?
“It’s crazy, and I don’t quite understand it, but I think you lost something when you became human-a part of yourself, or something.”
“I did.” It was hard for him to say. It conjured the memory of the blue light, how it burned and ripped a piece of him away. It had felt like a limb being torn off with a dull kitchen knife. “They took it from me.” He said it aloud, and laying the blame, finally, came as a relief. He was angry, and it felt good.
Buffy drew her head back. He looked dangerous all of a sudden.
It was a slow Thursday. Angel sat at the bar, nursing blood-spiked scotch, and wondering if Wesley was ever going to shut up. A handful of regulars were there, mostly Wolfram and Hart employees. His employees. Otherwise, the place was empty. That was good. Angel wasn’t big on crowds.
“It’s beginning to make some strange kind of sense,” Wes said, as he fiddled with his whiskey sour’s swizzle stick. “Spike enjoys being a vampire, I suppose.” He paused, to glance over at Angel, who was signaling the bartender to make him his 5th drink. “But I still don’t understand why you did it, Angel.” He sounded genuinely perplexed.
“What if I hadn’t?” Angel asked, glancing in Wesley’s direction without actually looking at him. “What then? Spike would be gone, and it would be my fault.”
“Why? He shot himself. And you could hardly be expected to- to . . .”
“To what? Watch him die in Buffy’s arms? Watch her cry and scream her fucking guts out? Say no? Say no when she begs me to give her . . . give her what? I don’t know. More time. A second chance. Are those such horrible things to want?”
“No.”
“It was insane. I know that. But I had to do it. If I hadn’t, I would have been taking those things away from her. That’s something I could never do, Wes.”
“Well, it’s a bloody shame Harmony wasn’t there,” Wesley sighed, and cynically swigged down his entire drink. “I’m sure she would have jumped at the opportunity.”
“Yeah. There would definitely have been some jumping of . . . things.”
“You must be wondering-”
“Hmm?”
“All this time, we’ve just assumed that if the Prophecy does turn you back into a human that you would, er, be happy. But Spike’s reaction . . . well, what are the implications?”
“If you mean, will I try to off myself? The answer to that exceedingly obvious question is: no. Spike and I are very different. If you tell anyone I said this I will hurt you—but Spike . . . he’s unique. It’s like his soul and his demon are connected,” Angel grumbled spitefully.
“I see,” Wesley replied, the little wheels in his head turning. You could tell by the way his eyebrows tilted up ever so slightly. “You suppress your demon, and so it plays little or no part in the Angel that we all know, whereas Spike accepts his demon, uses it, and so it’s a huge part of who he is.”
“Pretty much.”
“So when he became human and lost the demon, he literally had a piece of himself ripped out,” Wes continued, examining his empty glass as if it were evidence in a murder investigation.
“A pretty important piece, I guess.”
“It’s no wonder he . . . he must have been utterly lost.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Spike’s demonic visage had surfaced, and Buffy sprang up from the bed and backed away. He crouched there, a hungry predator scanning the room for prey. He wanted to inflict bad, painful things on whomever was responsible. He wanted them to suffer. Not just for hurting him, but for hurting Buffy. Making her see him . . . like that. It wasn’t right. But there was no prey, he realized. Not in this room, not in this universe. And the worst part was that whoever they were, they hadn’t even meant for it to turn out like this. It had all been some massive cock-up. An exercise in Broken fucking Telephone.
He looked at Buffy, who had taken a defensive stance, and fell back to reality. His yellow eyes and bumpy forehead melted away easily. Buffy was visibly relieved.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. She approached him without hesitation.
“Don’t apologize. You’re angry. You should be.”
“But there’s nothing for me to go kill, is there?”
“Nope. Just a smushed newt, and a reference in some dusty old book about some lame universe that expelled them ‘cause they were taking over. We can go burn the book, if you want,” Buffy suggested happily.
“Nah. It’s just not the same.”
They sat there in silence for a while, neither of them looking at the other, neither of them touching the other. Eventually, Buffy spoke.
“Spike, do you . . . your soul, is it-?”
“Yeah. It’s here. That’s weird, I guess, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Weird seems to redefine itself on a daily basis with me.” She peered up at him and smiled.
“Why didn’t you ask earlier? I just assumed you could tell.”
“When you were unconscious, that was all I could think about, honestly. But when you woke up, it really didn’t seem important.”
“Not important?”
“Somehow, even if you had lost your soul, I don’t think I would have had to worry. You would still be Spike.”
“I don’t get it.”
Buffy simply gazed at him with the wise eyes of the woman she had recently become, and pressed her hand against his cheek. Spike stared back at her, intimidated, curious, confused.
“Buffy?”
“Give it time. You’ll catch on,” was her only explanation.
“I wish I had been strong enough. I wish I could have been a man for you, Buffy. I wanted to be a man for you. Instead, I bloody well pissed it away.”
“You didn’t piss anything away! That wasn’t a man you became, Spike. That was a half a person. A shell. It wasn’t you.”
“Well, I’m certainly not a man now, am I?”
“Maybe not. But you aren’t a monster either. You’re you. You’re Spike. You’re the Spike that I love.” She took his hand in hers, and he looked down at it with even more confusion than before. None of it made sense. What was she saying? She’d rather he was a vampire than a human? No. That was ridiculous! Wait. Did she say that she . . .
“I do love you.” She said it, and this time, he let himself believe.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his chest, and kissed him passionately. It was her way of saying: “Spike, you’re an idiot.”
“Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live.”
Robert Southwell
***Footnote: The last line of Spike’s letter is taken from the poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (Canto the Fourth), by Lord Byron. The entire stanza:
~My task is done, my song hath ceased, my theme
Has died into an echo; it is fit
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit
My midnight lamp -- and what is writ, is writ;
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been -- and my visions flit
Less palpably before me -- and the glow
Which, in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.~
COMMENTS WELCOME!
kangarootaboo@yahoo.ca
