The Blood Is the Life
by Nan Dibble

Chapter 13: Consolations and Confrontations

Friday afternoon, Dawn spotted Spike where they’d agreed to meet: by the Pizza by the Slice concession. Dawn hung back by a freestanding booth (coincidentally selling watches) to observe him for a few minutes.

It was so unusual to see him in a good counterfeit of daylight with people all around, just like a regular person. Almost. Because he stood out like a panther in a snowdrift.

First, of course, there was the duster. With the duster unbuttoned--she’d never seen him button it because it was all about the style, after all, and nothing to do with warmth--and therefore flapped wide, he took up three people’s space on the bench. Sitting with his right leg crossed over the other knee, left hand loosely gripping the ankle, foot bouncing idly as he looked around, watching the people: most of the time in blank boredom but sometimes focusing on someone as they passed, his head turning to follow them out of sight, eyes alert then and speculative. Hunting. She figured it was automatic, but it was fun to watch him doing it, knowing what it was, when the passers-by didn’t have a clue they were being sized up as potential snacks by a daylight vampire.

She noted what caught his eye. Highschool kids doing the mall hang-out thing, like she was--male or female, singly or in groups, though if the number was over three, he lost interest quickly. Otherwise, pretty equal opportunity. Women alone, naturally. Young stud-muffins all full of themselves, preening at their reflections in shop windows, especially those who affected semi-grunge. They amused him immensely. No interest in the droopy-pantsed teens or twenty-somethings: he dismissed them at once or scanned right past them. Obviously too unfashionable to consider eating when there were better pickings around.

He watched a couple of young guys who looked like migrant workers, leaning back against a store-front, for quite a long while, eyes gone cold and face expressionless. Dawn suddenly realized they were vamps too when they noticed Spike, apparently met his evaluating gaze, and skittered off rapidly, dodging in and out among people, losing themselves as fast as they could. Spike thought for a while before he’d processed their presence and resumed the scan.

Then his face changed. Not vamping out or anything, just…different. Brighter. He was watching a tall, long-legged girl talking animatedly with a friend as they moved slowly along, clogging traffic and oblivious to those passing around them. Blue and white striped tights, wide bands; blue jumper over a white mock turtleneck; flats; braces; long straight mouse-colored hair to the middle of her back. Not very like, he’d have been in doubt no longer than a second, but he kept watching until the girl and her friend entered a store, still talking.

That was almost sweet, Dawn thought. If anybody had bothered the Not-Quite-Dawn girl, she was certain they’d have had Spike in their face in less than a heartbeat. The look had been affectionate, protective. Not at all the way he looked at food.

When he got out a cigarette and started fiddling with it (the mall didn’t allow smoking except in two deliberately unpleasant designated areas, assuming patrons with the filthy habit were quite capable of stepping outside…into the sunlight…to indulge it), Dawn made a deliberately abrupt gesture, hiking up her backpack. His eyes found her immediately.

He bounced up and joined her in quick, long strides, inserting the unlit cigarette back in the pack.

Gesturing, Dawn mentioned, “Here’s watches…?”

“You see anything that looks good?”

Dawn gave the display a favorless scan. “Nope. This is the cheap stuff.”

“Well, what’s first: pizza, or that top you had your eye on?”

“They won’t take plastic for pizza.”

Spike dug in the duster pocket, glanced to either side, then flashed the top edges of green bills for just a second. “Figured how to use the machine. Without breaking into it, even.”

“Remarkable. The top, then. So no one else gets it.”

“Right you are. Lead on.”

Dawn kept her choices at Gap Teen moderate. The coveted yellow top with appliquéd flowers around the neck, two pairs of Anne Klein tights in candy pastels, and another top in Spike’s-eyes-blue, very plain otherwise, but she just liked it. She stuffed the backpack into the bag and handed it into his custody after he’d paid. Then they traipsed off to look at watches. He glowered at the prices but seemed to like the notion of never having to wind or otherwise tend them, considering everything now ran on batteries: he’d never bothered to notice.

The first store had nothing acceptable. Everything too beige and respectable. Roman numerals were apparently beneath contempt. The second store, y-clept Jentz, was more trendy. They agreed on a digital: no hands at all but a big display, pulsing silver on matte black, that included the date and the day of the week. It had alarm functions she doubted he’d ever use, and could be backlit with a button for nighttime. But Dawn thought what Spike mainly liked was the band: three-inch-wide black leather dotted with steel studs. The square wafer-thin watch was set into it with broad flat loops and hidden cross-pins at top and bottom: slightly recessed into the leather, nearly flush with its surface.

Pushing the duster sleeve back, Spike fastened the watch to his right wrist and tried it out, banging it against the display case to test it against impact and rough handling. To the relief of the salesgirl, it survived, as did the display case.

Spike held his arm up, turning the wrist at different angles to inspect the adornment. “Catch the light,” he remarked dubiously.

“This from the guy with the shocking platinum hair conspicuous from a block away at midnight,” Dawn pointed out.

“There’s that,” Spike admitted, briefly returning the salesgirl’s nervous smile. Playing to the audience. He asked the girl, “What d’you think, love: does it suit me?”

“Oh, yes!”

He liked that, flashing a glance to Dawn. “You think it’s OK, Bit? Looks right an’ all?”

“Definitely Big Bad but not so punk as to be retro. Kind of Early Industrial or Depression Chic. Hint of Art Deco. And it even tells time!”

“Hush yourself. You want to make fun, you wait till the next place. This is just the warm-up. Have to put on something of a show, Saturday.”

He stopped that explanation abruptly, eyes going shuttered and evasive. Because of Michael: she knew. She said nothing. Didn’t want to bring everything down getting into that.

From Jentz, Spike led her off to a leather shoppe (so designated) y-clept skins (all lower case, in neon) where she acted as his mirror for a pair of skin-tight black kidskin pants, just slightly boot-flared at the ankle (“None of that hippie crap.”), and assured him numberless times that they weren’t (1) “poofy” or (2) anything in the least slightest bit whatever at all like anything Angel might conceivably wear/have worn in this life or any other. Leather was practical, Spike informed her: wouldn’t curl, fold, or show small blood stains and was much better protection than denim, which was why it was so popular with bikers and other such non-poofy folk. Dawn nodded and agreed just as attentively as if she didn't know it was a lot of hooey, he just liked the look and wanted a compliant audience while he talked himself into it. The price was not discussed or even mentioned, probably from embarrassment. The store fortunately did take plastic.

They chose a studded belt to (subtly--hah!) echo the watch band, and accessorizing put them over the line into to ensembles, everything matching. They debated but ultimately decided against a vest: leather overkill, given the duster and all. The salesboy duly admired the duster, good workmanship on the seams, coat like that would never wear out, and gamely swallowed his disappointment about the vest.

The jeans went into the shopping bag. Spike wore the new pants and new belt and looked around surreptitiously to catch the effect, see if people noticed. Finding that they did, he walked with fresh bounce in his step, pulled-back shoulder strut, returning to the pizza-by-the-slice place.

It was always fun, shopping with Spike. He took it all so seriously. Sometimes Dawn thought he was the vainest creature alive (or whatever). And now, she didn’t have to worry about either of them being caught taking the patented Spike five-finger discount.

“Have to do the hair now,” Dawn decreed, gesturing with her slice, and then was in haste to capture the sagging string of cheese suspended between slice and mouth. “Haircut, first. The place next to the Beanery is walk-in. Gimme ten dollars and I’ll collect you in half an hour.”

That brought the reflex action of shoving both spread hands through the hair. No orange tomato-streaks: he was a neat eater. Excessive early training, probably. Victorian, and all. “Looks bad, does it?”

“No getting away from it, Spike--bad. And not good bad: bad bad.”

They synchronized watches, which Spike seemed to enjoy, insisting she adjust hers to match his, then agreeing what constituted half an hour. Then he forked over the ten without argument and went off to see to the shearing. Dawn finished her slice and the remainder of his, once she’d picked off all the cracked red pepper bits. Disposing of plates, most of the napkins, and her cup still sloshy with ice, Dawn wandered off to the chain pharmacy and selected black and indigo nailpolish (she preferred the indigo, but probably wouldn’t be able to talk him into it, traditionalist that he was) and a new haircolor from L’Oreal that promised highlights. How you got highlights on bone blond she couldn’t quite envision, but anything should be better than helmet-head. She disdained getting gel. She had some standards.

She still had ten minutes to kill. A small display of twisty blown glass figurines reminded her of The Glass Menagerie, which she’d recently read in school. And sure enough, there was a unicorn. Unicorns were uber-kitch, but still. Literary and everything. Lips pursed, she looked at the glittering fancies, brightly lit on their mirrored shelves, and pushed the button that made the display revolve.

Unicorns, she decided, were depressing. But not as depressing as the dragon on a lower shelf she’d bent to inspect. That made her stomach knot up.

She paid and dragged out to collect Spike at the Kόffewer.

Spike said at once, “What is it?”

“Did the guy freak when he couldn’t see a reflection?”

"They do vamps in back. Fitted out special," Spike replied shortly, undistracted. "What's wrong?"

“Don’t want to talk about it. C’mon, what’s next?”

He took her arm and made her sit on the nearest bench, squatting on his heels before her. He just looked up at her, waiting.

Words, she could have batted back. The waiting undid her. To her utter disgust, she burst into tears.

Somebody banged into Spike with a stroller. He shot upright, glaring, then dismissed the incident, drawing Dawn to her feet again and steering her to the nearest "alleyway" that led to a door marked "Employees Only." From the trashcan-sized object on wheels and the mop tipped against it, standing outside, the door would be a closet with janitorial supplies. Likely a favored place for dumping drained prey. The left wall was lined with lockers.

The side of Spike’s duster was a concealing wing she could hide within and bleat against his chest while he patted her head and made soothing noises.

Wiping her eyes and then blowing her nose on a wad of leftover napkins, she shook her head. “Didn’t mean to do this. It’s so dumb. And so useless.”

“What is, love?”

But from his flat, restrained tone of voice, she figured he’d guessed. There was a lot of that going around.

“Michael,” she admitted, flinging out a napkin-clutching fist. “A couple of hours after you called, the other night, he called. I thought it was you again and had super put-downs all ready, that time of night…. But it was Mike. And he was all wound up, ranting and raving about this terrible cock and bull tale you’d tried to sell him…. And through what he said, I could hear what you’d said. Hear your voice even. You’d told him. I didn’t say you could tell him. But never mind, that doesn’t matter. Anyway, then I told him. That it was true, that you’d said what was true and had to have trusted him to tell him something like that. I think he was drunk. He wouldn’t believe me, to start with. But eventually I made him. And then there were…other things. And I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore. Which he then admitted was the marching orders you’d given him, so he wasn’t supposed to be even talking to me in the first place. And then I hung up on him.” She swallowed hard and scraped her eyes again with the napkins.

“What other things.”

“Just…things. Oh hell, you know it, there’s no point in my trying to be all coy about it. I told him I knew, all right? About him being the damn sniper.” She pulled away to stare him in the face, finding him all reserved and watchful. “It wasn’t that hard to figure. All I had to do was wonder why you’d never once tried to go after the idiot. Never once speculated who it might be. Never once took it seriously or even were very mad about it. It was because you knew. You knew…and still put up with it. And then all I had to do was think about who you’d know who was a specially good marksman. Somebody warped enough to think that peppering you with lightweight .22 bullets every few days was some sort of prank. Which was how you treated it. Not a long list, Spike. Had be a vamp. Had to be Mike, the ex-mercenary. When did you know?”

He leaned against the lockers. “I kind of thought it might be,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t sure till we got back from Oregon and I asked about borrowing the bike. I looked at the mileage. I knew what it’d been before. Saw what it was then. About right for the trip up and back. So I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!”

“Didn’t think it was important. Just a stupid damn prank, like you said. Getting his own back, being annoying, for what I’d been doing. Blowin’ up at him, like I did, on that patrol. Things since.” He spread his hands in a vague gesture. “Keeping track of what you two got up to, together. Holding him down other ways when I thought he needed it. Just the usual.”

"You wanted to protect him. And me."

He shrugged, looking aside. "Wasn't no big thing."

“Well, you’re a bloody idiot, Spike. Something like that, that he was goddam shooting you and then running off laughing…! That’s something I think I had a right to know! Do you understand? Nobody hurts you and gets a free pass from me! That’s not a prank, Spike: not to me! You never, ever keep something like that from me again. Not now, not in a hundred years, you hear me?”

She was shaking with fury but let him gather her in. No more pats, though; no more soothing noises.

“It’s just vampire games, love. Nothing for you to take all serious. No great harm done.”

“I say it’s serious and I don’t play by vamp rules. Think how you’d feel if the target had been Buffy.” He didn’t say anything, so she pursued, “Would it still have been games then?”

“What I’m hearing,” he said, “is you’ve pretty well decided. Is that so?”

“Yeah. It’s not worth it, Spike, feeling this way. All torn up inside. It’s too hard. I’m never gonna speak to him again, so it’s so dumb to miss him! I will never, never forgive him, and still miss him! It’s so dumb!”

“Yeah. Sometimes, it seems that way. Come on, now: cry into some ice-cream. Your sis swears by it, and she should know. And you been known to indulge a time or two. I been reliably informed that chocolate cures damn near anything. What d’you say?”

She'd been determined not to be dumb about this. She was still determined. She inspected and approved his haircut and showed him the color she'd chosen. Dry-eyed, she oversaw and pronounced on the selection of a silver ankle chain for Buffy, who wouldn't wear rings because they interfered with her grip on a sword and might catch in things, fighting. The chain had a tiny death's head on it, with ruby eyes. And it was completely practical since silver was a soft metal that would break with a strong tug and therefore couldn't hang up on anything or hobble her. When that trinket was bought and safely stowed, Dawn consented to go for ice-cream.

**********

Vamps didn’t get ulcers. The doings didn’t work that way. But Spike had good reason to know vamps got headaches. Migraines, even. All that thinking, that’s what it was. Going over things, and then over them again, rubbed something raw, like a blister, or wore it out with overstrain. And because the rubbing and the strain were intangible, they didn’t seal up and heal right off, like a knife wound, say. Only stood to reason.

Bloody unnatural, that much thinking. Stood to reason there’d be a price.

Not being able to sleep for being beleaguered by the fucking dreams, Pallas Athena in full kit nattering on about turning it all loose now, letting it go smash, probably was in there someplace, too.

Heading back to the factory through the pipes, toting the bundle of goods left after surrendering the shopping bag to Bit for her spoils, Spike fought back the impulse to phone the witch and have her come do the warm whoosh thing with her hand. But she wasn’t his on a string, to yank around anytime he wanted for just his own convenience. Didn’t have to have the soul to lay down a set of ground rules for himself on how to treat people who deserved well of him and then keep to it. Could figure it out perfectly well himself. Over and over and over…. Fucking hard, was what it was. Even had to remind himself he had a goddam watch now, to think to look at it. Six eighteen. Who the hell needed to know it was eighteen, or thirty, or forty-one? Nuisance, that’s what it was, for all it looked decent, and it did: Bit had said so. Little bint behind the counter, too. Must be so, then. He had witnesses.

Also had the second worst headache ever, cranking away behind his eyes.

In lieu of Willow’s hand, Spike broke into the back of a convenient pharmacy and selected a bottle of what he used to steal to beat back the chip-induced head-bangers and dry-swallowed four. Left ten dollars as soul-duty, leavegeld for the conscience he’d set aside, so that was all right.

He reviewed the agenda. The mall with Bit, that was done. Spend a couple hours on the fresh document, something easy in proto-Farsi by a nit setting out what he claimed was a spell to produce the Universal Solvent. Have to ask Red for a site that had a dictionary, check up on all the bloody chemical names so he could get the equivalents right, or maybe he could Google it for himself, he’d learned that. Anyway, one of the easier ones, not up to much more just now. Too much on his mind. After that, meet the Slayer for patrol, over in District 4 by the high school, give those cousins a fright and a flash of his new kit. Which he likely should change out of, in case it got damaged and wasn’t fit to wear tomorrow. At those prices, wasn’t like he could just go out and knick a replacement, like you could with jeans.

The cell phone in the duster pocket buzzed.

Bloody hell.

He pulled the phone out and took a seat on the walkway. “Yeah.”

“Spike, I just thought I should warn you. I know about the soul.”

Fuck. Anya.

Spike set down the bundle and rubbed his eyes. “What about it, pet?”

“You’re right to be cautious, I don’t blame you a bit. I don’t believe this line is even secure.”

Spike shut his eyes. Either it would go smash, or it wouldn’t. The important thing was to keep going as best he could, as long as he could. “Don’t believe all that many vamps go in for spy gear, love. A good number severely challenged by radios. Light switches. What d’you want?”

“Why, to warn you. Like I said. To another demon, at least one inclined to notice, it’s perfectly plain. Except that it’s so normal. For a vampire, at least. It’s the norm, not to have the vibrating soul-signature. So likely no other demon would notice or remark on it. But you remember, I noticed right away, that you’d gotten it.”

“Certainly do. Punched you a good one in the nose for it, too.”

“Oh, I understand completely. You weren’t ready to have Buffy know that yet, so you hit me as a diversion. I don’t forgive you, but I understand. I was surprised, and when I’m surprised, I can forget all about tact and just blurt. Xander’s criticized me for it. Many times. Many, many, many--”

“Anya, I’m a bit caught up in things just now. S’pose you could get on with it? Make your point?”

“The point is not that I know: the point is that I’m being rudely pressured to tell Buffy about it. I assume she doesn’t know, or why the pressure? I’ve taken precautions, of course. I don’t like being interfered with. And I’m not surprised, so there’s no blurting issue. I’ve known for some time, after all. But I have to assume that if I’m being pressured, others are, too. And I thought you’d appreciate being put on your guard about that.”

All Spike could find to say was, helplessly, “Yeah.”

“What have you done to annoy the Powers this time, Spike?”

“What they told me. No quicker way to piss somebody off than to do exactly what they say. Could be, they figure I might stop being so cooperative here, all biddable, an’ figure I’d be the better if they hung a sword over my head, rattled it a little.”

“I assure you, I’m under no influence now. As I said, I’ve taken precautions. And by the way, Willow expressed herself pleased at the ingredients and spell components I’ve provided her. For your smell, that is. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get fresh civet, this time of year?”

“Nope. No idea whatever. Well, I guess it’s good of you to warn me, here. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I gave the usual professional discount. I’m sure you wouldn’t expect special treatment, just because we’re friends.”

Leave off, shut your yap, you clattering bitch. “Never expect that, no.”

“That you’re incorporated now only means I have to provide proper invoices in duplicate, and I’m used to that: I’ve been incorporated for years.”

“Super for you, that.”

“Well, I have to go now. There are several important things I’m neglecting, talking to you.”

She rung off.

Spike put the phone away and waited for the pills to kick in.

His chances of continued existence, hanging on Anyanka’s tact.

Dawn on the outs with Michael, in a way the lad was bound to blame on Spike. When everything hung on Michael. On his being anything slightly more evolved than a total fuck-up and drama queen asshole. Was that a lot to expect? That the people around you be minimally sane and not screw the bloody pooch, against their own interests, every time they got the chance? Had to put a serious talk with Mike on the agenda. Midnight, maybe. Should see to it Mike got a phone. But likely he’d be at Willy’s, drunk off his ass and feeling sorry for himself, running off his mouth about it like he did. And Willy’s had a phone. So that was all right, then.

Shoving to his feet, Spike wondered what would be next to go pear-shaped, sidewise, and out of true.

Avoiding the array of bear traps that had already startled several vamps intending unauthorized entry, and the tripwire that would dump about a hundred gallons of diluted holy water down the pipe, Spike shoved himself out on the factory floor.

Turning on a light and the computer--screen bothered his eyes with no other light about: he could detect the flicker--he was still on the agenda, running only something like fifteen minutes behind. And the pills were doing their work: the headache had backed off. Traded that for swimmy and faintly nauseated, but that was a decent trade.

Fuck. He’d forgot Rona.

Unable to reach Rona direct, he was talking to the lab machine, naming here as the mark for the evening delivery, when Benny came and stood, waiting to tell him something.

“What?”

“Couple guys in a truck. They smell right.”

No what?

The guys proved to be Dogboy and that Harris, lounging by Harris’ truck. Waiting awhile, by the look. In the back of the truck were a Morris chair with intact cushions, that Spike remembered from Harris’ parents’ basement, an old Zenith console color TV, and a satellite dish. As Oz popped a beer and handed it to Spike, Harris said, “This is apology, deadboy. You won’t see it often, so appreciate it now. I heard what happened after I…dropped you off, the other night. Willow says I have seriously impacted my karmic debt to the universe at large. Which was not at all what I intended. Frankly, I don’t know what got into me that night. This place, maybe. All the happy memories. As in, not.” Xander surveyed the factory grimly. He finished his beer and crushed the can. Looked around for a garbage container, shrugged, and pitched it off, overhand, into the weeds. “So where do you want it and why is that little creep staring at my neck?”

“’Cause you smell so nice. And he can’t have any. In the back, I guess.”

Spike drank beer and blankly watched Harris and Oz go back and forth, emptying the truck. Couldn’t suss it out at all, why Harris would do such a thing of his own free will. Unless it wasn’t.

Pulling out the phone, he punched a speed dial. After a dozen or so rings, got Bit on the weapons chest phone. He was interrupting supper, which grieved him no end. He asked for Red and presently got her.

“Red, got Harris here--”

“You like the smell? Is it working? That’s test batch #6, and the only problem so far is that it wears off too fast. I’m gonna try--”

“Red, you set a geas on him or something? He’s civil, and that can’t be right. He’s brought me a fucking Morris chair.”

“So he raided the parental units. He said he would. Lightning raid, avoid contact at all costs. Good.”

“Explain it to me. Slowly. In a fragile state of mind here.”

“Naturally: post-mall. We have our ways of finding out these things,” responded Willow, with cheerful menace. “Xander wasn’t himself. Well, he was, but…not hmself himself, you see? And after the fact, it was pretty clear that our valued associates whose names begin with P had been, not to get too disgustingly graphic, messing with him. I’ve put a stop to that. I do not like my friends being messed with! I’m thinking Buffy might benefit--”

“No. You leave her be. She has her own deal with them, and it’s not to be interfered with.”

“Are you certain?” He could practically hear her eyebrows wrinkling.

“Real certain. Limits, Red. Got to remember limits.”

“Yeah. Well. I guess. I have a problem with that sometimes. So I’m told. Say--when do I get to see the pants? Purely academic interest here, you understand.”

“Can’t deal with that now, Red, sorry. Gonna have to blow off the translation as it is. Find some way to get to it tomorrow…. Tell Buffy…. Never mind. See her soon enough for myself. Patrolling.”

“All right. Anything else? Because my parsley pasta is getting cold.”

“Go get your parsley pasta.” Spike saw headlights turning in at the drive and cautiously approaching among the potholes, bobbing up and down. “Here’s my dinner, too. Thanks. About Harris. He’s always been like that…but not so much lately.”

“He was my friend first, you can’t have him. And neither can they. Nobody likes being played. Running now!”

“Right.”

The truck was empty now except for the satellite dish and a clump of rope. Harris came back and collected those.

Spike asked, “You going up on the roof with that?”

“Yep.”

“Gonna climb a metal roof…with rope.”

“Watch the master at work. Watch and learn. Or not, as you please.” Shouldering the dish, with an armload of rope, Harris tramped away toward the uphill end of the building.

Rona pulled up in the lab truck and cussed Spike out for not telling her the delivery mark in a timely manner. Again. “I got a life, too, you know! And I warn you, if I ever find you under my bed again, you’re getting a faceful of something you won’t like even a little, Spike. I got me a taser, too. You’re getting real creepy, you know that?”

Spike said nothing, just accepted the cool box, set down the beer, removed the bags, and passed the box back to her. She got in the truck and drove off.

As Spike shifted enough to bite through the first bag, Oz wandered up, looking after the lab truck’s bouncing brake lights. Waiting until Spike had drained the bag, Oz remarked, “She works for you.”

“Works for the Wankers’ Council, actually. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Oz faced around toward him. “Leaving tonight. Stayed to lend Xander a hand, but….”

“Assignment?”

“Gig in Sausalito, but not for another week. It’s…just time to move on. Good to see everybody again.” A sharper glance, and then away. “Glad you got the chip out.”

“Yeah.” Spike bit open the second bag.

“Couldn’t live like that, myself. Helped me get out of the Initiative cage, too. Never thanked you.”

“No need. Wasn’t all that much help, really. Figured to double-cross you Scoobies once I was inside, but that didn’t quite work out. All for the best, I expect.”

“Yeah.” Oz smiled his sweet, thoughtful smile. “Scoobies. Yeah.” He wandered off.

Spike checked the watch: almost seven thirty. He wondered if he’d be really stupid to ask Harris for a lift to District 4.

**********

They’d run across a trio of Smanthar demons--like Fyarl, but less slime--among the tombstones. Buffy had done for one and Spike was dancing with the another, keeping his distance a bit because, well, slime, and he hadn’t changed out of the new pants after all, not before Buffy had seen him, and it came down on him suddenly how hopeless this all was. What a stupid thing it was to think he could stand against the Powers and accomplish anything worth the having. Nothing made sense because there was no sense to make. Like the worst parts of the Never dream. Just cored him out, left him empty of everything but despair.

He let the axe go and stood there. The Smanth, not believing his good fortune, lost no time in ramming a wrist-spar into Spike’s chest. Spike continued to stand there. Didn’t hurt much actually, not compared to everything else. Didn’t matter. A Smanth spar was organic, but it wasn’t wood. But maybe with a few more tries, the Smanth would do enough damage that it wouldn’t matter. Spike looked down and poked at the hole incuriously.

“Spike! What are you-- Spike!”

Leaving her opponent, Buffy slammed into the other Smanth as it was bringing both wrists up into Spike’s belly. So the combined tear was pretty superficial. Lot of blood, though. But that wasn’t gonna get the job done either. Axe was an awkward weapon to off oneself with. Stake, now--exactly the thing. Wavering, Spike tried to pull the stake out of the back of his pants, but that just twisted him around. He fell on his side.

Buffy was pulling at him, trying to get him to sit up. Must have done for both the Smanthars, then. Good. He wouldn’t have wanted her to get hurt, just because he was a waste of the space.

“Spike, what’s wrong with you?” Buffy demanded frantically, stripping off his shirt. Wadding it, she tried to stop the bleeding at his belly, which really didn’t signify. It was the hole in the heart that was the bad one, he thought distantly.

“Can’t get at the stake,” he explained, but she made no move to help him with it. Noticing the one Buffy had stowed, the same as he did, he reached for that instead. But she slapped his hand away before he could get the stake loose. Didn’t want him to use her stakes. Well, she was the Slayer, after all. He had no right to pinch her weapons. Or even touch her, if it came down to that. He pushed her away. Not all that hard, wouldn’t want to hurt her, but had to make her know he should be let alone. Unworthy. Disgusting. Undead soulless thing.

Spike got to his feet, stumbled a few steps, then pitched over again. Head slammed into a tombstone and he was gone awhile.

Heard her talking, but nobody to answer that he could make out. Breathing hurt, so he quit, wondering what had got him started. Didn’t need to breathe. Didn’t need anything, except to be gone, finished. Tried, but still couldn’t pull his stake free: damn tight pants. Should have known better than buy them, no matter what Bit said. Just playing him, playing along….

Bit. If he went, she was likely gone, too. So he shouldn’t….

Puzzled, vaguely alarmed, he got an elbow under him and pushed up. Toppled crooked against the tombstone. Head hurt like fury. Thought he’d taken pills for that. Well, it seemed to be back, any road. What was it he’d been thinking about Bit? He tried to call up the agenda, but that only made him dizzy, made his head hurt worse.

Right. Just be gone, that was what he was supposed to do. Maybe something on the agenda. Couldn’t bring it to mind just now. Only knew it. Deep. Strong.

Holding the belly wound, that was already sealing, not losing blood quite so fast now, he pushed to his feet and then slowly straightened. Could do that, it seemed. And he’d rather go standing up, facing into it.

And he’d sooner it was the Slayer anyway. What she was for, wasn’t it?

She turned and looked at him, made a face like he’d scared her somehow, and came running back to grab him, steady him. Made it easier.

He patted his chest. “Put it there, Slayer. Hole already started for you.”

“Ohgod. Ohgod. Spike, don’t do that! Lie down, here. Where’s all the blood coming fr-- Oh!”

His head went floaty and he was no longer certain he was standing. But that was no excuse. Well, he knew what would do. Not wait, not let it come to her from outside--serve it up himself. He’d be glad to be rid of it. Never was worth shit at keeping secrets. Such an effort, holding them in….

“Lost the soul, Slayer. Or set it aside, like. Same difference anyways. No better now than when you first laid eyes on me. And somewhat the worse for wear, besides. Now you go ahead, do what you should.” He reached, tried to find her stake, to set it in her hand, but she wouldn’t let him. No telling why. Women were unaccountable.

“Shut up, Spike. Just shut up. Willow’s coming, just wait until Willow comes, all right? Hold onto my hand. Hold onto my hand, Spike.”

But that would have meant touching her again, and he wasn’t to do that, for all he wanted to. Let go one inch and he’d be at her throat, mustn’t do that no more: he’d decided. But the strange thing was how she wouldn’t touch him. Hold his hand, yeah, but not take the stake and do what she should, even though he’d told her. Must not have said it clear enough, though he’d thought….

Lost some time there, he supposed. Everything all thick and heavy and dim. Had a watch now, didn’t he? But couldn’t get turned around to check it, see where the time had gone.

Some way Bit was there, pulling on him. That was all right, then: she could tell Buffy about the soul. He thought he’d said it to her, but she seemed to take no notice, saying, “Spike, you’re being played. Don’t let it. Don’t let them.” Which made no sense at all.

And Buffy saying, “Order of Taraka, Spike!” Which made even less. If there could be less than no sense. That was hard to figure. But she was crying, the Slayer, and that couldn’t be right. He reached up and touched her eyes, concerned. Which some way made her cry worse. He couldn’t see why she wouldn’t just get on with it, get it over.

“No vamps in Sunnydale,” he explained. “Zero count. Everybody content with that.”

She’d remarked on how dead Restfield was, making a joke of it, watching to see if he was gonna make objections to her patrolling through his territory. Complaining how he’d made her life all boring, nothing around to fight. That had been before the Smanthars, of course. And he’d explained how it was all proceeding well, vamps doing each other at a great rate, each group turned in against itself in smaller and smaller factions, sorting for mastery, they way they did, but seldom on such a scale, citywide. Fledges gone soonest, like dandelion puffs. Gingham Dog and Calico Cat, would just slaughter each other down to hardly nothing if let be at this stage, just a few remnants left…remnants; revenants…something or other like that, anyways, that she could dispose of in a few serious sweeps. And then there’d be none and the Powers all pleased and all, just like they wanted. Like she wanted.

But she wouldn’t do him, and he couldn’t understand why.

Lost some more time, and Willow was there, maybe had been before but he hadn’t noticed, anyways here now and chanting in a loud voice, strange smells around, aside from the lily of course, deathsmell, always the lilies left after the funerals and the sleeping in the ground.

“The hell with this,” Willow spat, “I can’t track it. Can’t block it. Here.”

Willow did something, and the suicidal anguish flicked out, just like that. Breathing wasn’t so bad now. The holes were sealing. Spike blinked and breathed, held between his two darlings, trying to make out what’d happened.

“Spike?” Dawn asked in a tiny small voice, reaching out and patting his face with her slim, soft girly fingers.

“Can’t make it out,” he explained.

Willow’s face came into his view, all anxious and angry. “You’ve been cursed, Spike. Somebody’s set a curse on you. Who’d have something of yours, something personal it would have to be? Spike?”

“Thinking. Yeah. Boots. Lost m’boots. Set ‘em out, had to have my hands free, see? Couldn’t carry ‘em too. But when I sent to look, they were gone.”

Buffy leaned in, eclipsing Willow, frowning thunderously. She pushed her hair aside, baring the mark, leaning in until she was all he could see. “C’mon, now. Not gonna have any argument about this. C’mon, Spike!”

She pulled at him but he held himself from it. Had promised himself not to feed from her without the soul. Would be a terrible thing, to do that. Not exactly sure why anymore, but knew it was, just the same. Could be she wouldn’t know, but he would. And must not do that. No.

And all the while, his demon frantic to get at her. Get at the blood. Frantic to change and take her. An accustomed, expected thing.

No.

He turned his head away, and yet it was there, right against his mouth. Couldn’t escape it. In his mouth and his throat, so strong and good, hot from the source, and he hadn’t the strength to not take it. The change ran through him and he bit down. Round, soft arm. Not pulling away. Hand patting at his face, telling him it was all right, that’s what she was for, to do for him and be with him always and it was Dawn, that he’d sworn he’d never do that way, must never mark her, not right that she should be just for him, should be for herself, whatever she wanted--

“This is what I want,” Dawn told him, steadily patting, untroubled and unafraid. “Told you: I decided. Always be here for you. So this is all right, now, Spike. It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t. Could never be right between them again. Feeding, he wept.

**********

Vampires were wonderfully resilient, Dawn thought. Here was Spike, practically eviscerated, a hole in his chest you could put your fist into, blood everywhere from the collarbone on down, barely able to lift his head or focus his eyes; and fifteen minutes later, he was on his feet and shrugging into the duster, telling Buffy he was fit to finish the patrol now, if she wanted.

Looking up from overseeing Willow bandaging Dawn’s arm, Buffy made a noise like a laugh--surprised into it. “I think we’re all patrolled out.”

“All right.” Spike turned and started away.

“Spike?” Buffy called after him. “Come home. Just for tonight. At least get cleaned up. Spike? Where are you going?”

He didn’t look around or answer.

“Tie it,” Dawn told Willow, and trotted after Spike the second it was done.

Buffy in a fight was hell on wheels. But when it came to guys and emotional stuff, Buffy wilted, backed off, hid, and moped at the first harsh word. Caved, basically. Not Dawn. Dawn prided herself on being relentless. What she couldn’t outrun or outfight, she could outlast. She was the unquestioned possessor of the Summers family title for stubborn.

She wouldn’t have cared if Spike were crazy, heartbroken, and bleeding from the eyes: he wasn’t getting out of her sight.

He was hard to spot: the duster was good camouflage, dammit. Then he passed in front of a pillar with an angel perched on top. Dawn had him then, and soon caught up, even if at arthritic antelope pace, chugging along. Spike was even slower.

“Go home,” he said without looking at her.

“Got my taser!”

“Go home.”

“Make me.”

He did look around then, and she was surprised to find him game-faced, although she shouldn’t have been: he obviously needed the extra oomph, the extra acuity, to stay on his feet and keep going. He glanced at a tree as if he was thinking about what he could use to tie her to it. And she’d resist, prevent that, by tasering him. Only he’d take the taser away from her first, or try to. She already had her hand on it and could hit him right through the cloth of her pocket. Move and countermove: she figured they were both playing it out in their heads like reverse checkers. And either in his scenario, he lost, or he just gave up on it as too much work, because he left the tree in peace and continued on without further objection to her trailing along.

A few minutes later, Dawn realized why: reaching the wall, that he went up and over, even though he had to take a running start, and that she couldn’t have climbed without a ladder and a boost on her best day.

Oh.

She called plaintively, “At least tell me where you’re going!”

No answer, as she expected. Decisively out-maneuvered. And in a bad mood, as now, Spike was frustratingly impervious to wheedle.

Instead of racing back and maybe finding the SUV gone and herself stranded, Dawn sensibly got out her cellphone and called Buffy. “He got away from me,” she reported. “Over the wall.”

“I don’t think he wants company,” Buffy responded hesitantly.

“The hell with what he wants,” Dawn shot back, momentarily forgetting the sisterly protocol about strong language. “He absolutely positively shouldn’t be alone. His enemies already had one crack at him tonight. Want to give them another? The deathwish curse is still active: Willow’s locket is only deflecting it. What if something happens to the locket? And he’s majorly freaked: do you trust him to do anything whatever sensible for the rest of the night? Because I know I don’t! And what if--”

“All right, all right. Point made. Come on back.”

It took longer than Dawn liked to locate him, because although they had focus material galore in the shirt completely sodden with his blood, Willow didn’t have with her a map or the magicked powder needed to do the spell. They had to return home for that. When Willow set the map, with its glowing red dot, on the now-empty den table, Dawn lifted her head triumphantly because it confirmed what she’d said all along--Willy’s.

Spike was having himself a sulk and a drunk. Celebrating his failure to be as dead as he’d wanted and being bullied into feeding from insistent underage Dawns with blood powerful enough to get him on his feet, enabling him to get to Willy’s so he could drink himself off them again. About par for perverse, Dawn figured, when one was dealing with vamps.

She worried about him sometimes. More, lately. He definitely needed looking after and adequate supervision.

Willow opted to stay behind to research what she’d need to counterspell the deathwish. Revived by nearly a whole bottle of orange juice, Dawn was going even if it meant she had to call a cab and pay for it out of her allowance. But she didn’t have to: Buffy gave in fairly easily. Still shaken by Spike’s just giving up like that, Dawn thought, punching phone buttons as Buffy started the SUV with the usual grinding of gears. And probably by what Spike had said.

After eighteen rings, Dawn reported vexedly, “He’s not answering.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“Worth a try. Go downtown.”

“What?”

“Go downtown. By the movie house would be good. Collect some of his vamps.”

“Oh.” Buffy turned left at the next corner.

Dawn tried phoning again. This time, she got the message that his cell had been turned off. One surprise right after another.

“He just said that,” Dawn offered cautiously. “To get you to stake him. About the soul. Provocation.”

Staring anxiously at the road, Buffy didn’t say anything. Rather than make things worse by protesting too much, Dawn shut up about it.

They hit downtown at a good time: the theater had just let out, and that was the dinner bell for vamps. Dawn rolled down her window and stared hard, directing, “Go slow. Go slow. Slower!” until she spotted faces she knew. “Stop!”

Mary and Dora lounging by a street light, looking like a pair of hookers. But sex wasn’t what they were trolling for, with their chalk-white faces and their glittering eyes.

Dawn jumped out, clutching her taser in her pocket because she didn’t have her smell on, forgot, couldn’t think of everything, and ran right up to them, blurting. “Spike’s hurt. At Willy’s with no backup. Get whoever you can. If they get him, they’ll come after you next, so don’t mess around!”

They both considered her curiously for a second, as if she’d just arrived from Mars…or they had. Then Dora put her head back and let out an ultrasonic screech that made Dawn clap both hands over her ears. Both hands showing, and empty. Mary vamped, smiling because they could have had her then, and they all knew it, and maybe next time they would, and Dawn didn’t think she’d ever forget that cold-eyed fanged smile, but this time they let her escape back to the SUV and slam the door. As Buffy pulled out, Dawn held onto the door armrest with both hands. That way, they didn’t shake as much.

“Vamps are creepy. Sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed.

Because she was looking for it, Dawn spotted Mike’s motorcycle in Willy’s parking area (she refused to give it the distinction of calling it a parking lot, since it wasn’t paved). Lateish on a Friday night, it was pretty parked up: Buffy pulled around in the back where there was less chance of the SUV being run into by some drunk demon pulling out, but a whole lot better chance of running into assorted nasties on the hunt, drunk or otherwise. Buffy opened the rear door and leaned in to collect her sword and, after locking up, stood a minute, checking out the immediate area, before she was ready to move. Dawn didn’t nag and stayed close, knowing a fight could break out any minute, out here or inside, and if one did, she was only a liability and her smartest action would be to get under cover fast. Second smartest action would be to run like hell and hope whatever was chasing was too drunk to catch up.

Inside, there were no fights currently in progress and the noise level was down enough to permit actual conversation if you shouted, even with the sound system banging away. If the rectangular room had been a boat, it would have listed heavily to port because the crowd was pretty much elbow-to-elbow on the right, in front of the bar, whereas the more open area to the left, where most of the tables were, seemed to be a place nobody much wanted to be.

Spike was there--William the Bloody in literal fact. He’d made no attempt to clean up. Was in fact making a point of showing off his ensanguined torso, having pushed the duster off onto the back of the chair. He therefore looked like he’d come straight from a slaughter…one he’d done, not one attempted against him. Showing, Dawn realized, that he was still there. Presenting the fact of himself, of his survival, to anybody who cared to come and look. Putting himself on display.

It would have seemed a further instance of suicidal foolhardiness except for the two Lorchine demon carcasses in a heap on the floor to the left of that table. The adjoining table had been reduced to kindling, along with several chairs. Presumably from that kindling, Spike had several pieces of wood fit to do duty as stakes lined up on the table before him, ready for the next go-round. His garrote lay in a neat coil. Also on the table was a fair-sized knife Dawn was pretty sure she'd never seen before: likely collected from the Lorchines. So there’d already been some action. But she and Buffy seemed to have arrived between challenges, assassination attempts, or whatever: two vamps had pulled up chairs not quite to Spike’s table--just out of easy reach--and were talking, arguing. Spike, vamp-faced and drinking from a bottle, didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

Behind Spike’s table, back in the corner, Mike was playing solitaire. His head lifted, golden eyes taking in Buffy and Dawn standing against the wall just inside the door. Then he attended to the cards again, shifting the stacks around, giving no sign of interest in anything else. Dawn didn’t know if he was potential backup, potential assassin, or potential audience placed conveniently to have the best view of whatever violent eruption came next in Spike’s vicinity. She thought it quite possible he hadn’t decided either.

Dawn didn't find it hard to suppress the twinge she felt, seeing him. He'd shot Spike for fun and she didn't tolerate that sort of thing. Not even a little.

Mike also had a bottle but wasn’t nearly keeping pace with Spike in the drinking department. Then again, he might have started sooner.

Each of the two front tables nearest the door was occupied by vamps. Three at one table, four at the other. Mostly they were glaring at their table-mates and talking loudly.

A fight broke out at Spike’s table between the two vamps there. They both came out of their chairs, snarling and slashing. One got hold of one of the convenient stakes and stabbed the other deep enough that the stake was consumed in the dusting. Straightening, the survivor said something to Spike, who nodded indifferently and replied, “All right.” Dawn couldn’t hear it, but saw him saying it plainly enough.

It seemed that the front tables were a sort of waiting area. As the survivor left, the three at the table farthest from the door got up, righting or bringing chairs as needed to range themselves around Spike’s table. Two started putting their case while the third sat sullenly silent.

It seemed a kind of court where any of the participants might suddenly do execution on any of the others. Vintage vampire, Dawn thought.

Since things seemed momentarily quiet, she took the opportunity to slide past the empty table, along the wall, and back to where Mike was finding solitaire such a fascinating occupation.

Dawn said, “Do you know what happened tonight?”

“Thought you weren’t talking to me.”

Dawn gave him a You Idiot look. “I’m not. This is for Spike. Somebody set a deathwish on him and he tried to get Buffy to stake him.”

Mike looked up briefly. “Looks like she didn’t.”

Dawn’s look escalated to You Stupid Idiot. “You’re not gonna get to fight him tomorrow if he gets himself dusted tonight. And at the rate he’s going, very shortly, he’s gonna be passing-out drunk. So I’d look after him, if I was you, or you won’t get much by way of a fight tomorrow.”

“You’re not me,” said Mike. “You say you’re not talking to me, but you are. Don’t make no sense. You were all mad at me, and I don’t know why. Ain’t done nothing to you, that you should be mad at me. Been good to you, every way I know how. I don’t understand none of it. You or him, either one. Both treating me like crap. Now you been letting him feed off you.” He gestured at the bandage on her arm. “Setting his mark over mine. Can smell him on you. That ain’t right. You leave me alone. I’m not friends with you anymore.”

“Well, that about sums it up,” Dawn decided, and left him to his dumb solitaire.

She was annoyed and upset enough that she forgot to walk wide, along the wall, but cut straight across toward where Buffy was standing, watchful and still. Spike caught her elbow--just above the bandage. “You get out. Got no business here.”

As coldly, she told him, “I told Mary and Dora. They’ll be coming. In fact, they’re here,” she added, seeing five vamps saunter in and take stock of the unbalanced room. The two vamp women plus three male vamps, two with crossbows. All wore some combination of red and black--almost livery. Team colors, anyway. Gang colors. They certainly stood out. Not as much as Spike did, of course.

Spike said, “What happens here is nothing to the Slayer. Nor to you. Unless I get dusted, which I don’t intend to do. So tell the Slayer, she should get on. Go home. And take you with her.” He pushed her away, releasing her arm.

He was semi-drunk and being tiresome. It didn’t do to take any notice of him when he was either of those things.

Returning to Buffy, Dawn reported, “Spike wants us gone.”

Buffy was watching the five vamps, who were settling around the empty front left table. “Are they the ones you talked to?”

Dawn nodded, thinking it odd Buffy had to ask. Dawn added, “I don’t know the guys by name. The women are Isadora and--”

“I didn’t ask about their names,” Buffy cut in harshly. “Are they on Spike’s side?”

“Team Spike. Yup. And possibly Mike, back in the corner.”

“Oh. Right. I know you won’t like it, but I don’t want you seeing him anymore. It’s just not right. You have to realize--”

“Oh, that’s so terrible,” Dawn intoned. “I couldn’t possibly consider it unless my allowance was increased to twenty dollars a week. I’m almost seventeen, after all.”

They traded almost identical impassive stares.

Buffy deduced, “You’ve already broken up with him.”

“Oh, how could you possibly think such a thing? Eighteen.”

“Fifteen, and that’s my final offer.”

“Seventeen.”

Turning toward the door, Buffy countered, “Twelve, and ask Spike to give you an allowance. He’s the one with the money around here.”

“You’re getting half, and he has staff to support. Sixteen.”

“Done,” said Buffy.

**********

Spike could still feel the deathwish leaning and bumping at the edges of things. Trying to get in, get at him again. He was so thoroughly sick of himself, he was almost inclined to let it. But not yet. Not until he had things sorted.

Almost all the districts had checked in. Only two remained contested, without a clear leader emerging. And maybe those two would be set by morning. Then things could proceed, past the Saturday night/Sunday morning deadline. Then his crew, in their distinctive kit, could start sweeping downtown and the mall area and take out any rebellious, unwary, or simply stupid survivors of the present culling. Start mass distribution the stink vamps would learn to leave alone or else get dusted. Get on with it.

A bit like a human election, he thought. Except he’d appointed himself dictator, and districts slaughtered the internal opposition instead of trying to buy their votes.

Get that in place. Then he could back off a bit himself. Tend to the translations and getting Casa Summers fixed up better than new instead of having to deal with tries at assassination a dozen times of an evening.

At least that was what he'd thought. Until he'd fucked it all up by marking Dawn.

Sitting isolated and paralytically drunk at the table at Willy’s, Spike hadn’t yet been able to shut his mind down. It all went around and around.

He was so sad about Bit, what he’d done to her. Maybe even with her, since she’d been far from objecting or shrinking away. But she didn’t know, didn’t appreciate the emotional significance to a vamp of setting a mark on a person. Hadn’t with Michael, either. To her, it was just a scar, tidy and inconspicuous. To a vamp it was ownership, identification, protectiveness…and sex. Feeding rights, of course, were at the bottom of it. But all the feelings were tied together, keyed into the awareness of that proprietary mark.

Could mark a dozen people, own them all, no problem. Had marked Buffy, and that connection was a joy to him. But he’d kept Bit apart from that. Tolerated Mike’s mark on her because it was a fact, even though she didn’t take seriously enough how that set Mike into orbit around her, spiraling smaller and smaller circles till he’d either take her or they’d come to some stable arrangement, like Spike had with Buffy. Or used to have.

Because he’d told her about the soul. Not having it. Setting it aside. She hadn’t taken much notice yet. But alerted, puzzled, she would. She’d notice the things he did that a soul would have barred him from, or at least made horribly difficult. Notice the things he didn’t do or overlooked, missed entirely, that the soul would have made plain and obliged him to do. Then she’d know.

He didn’t think he’d have fed off Dawn if the soul had been in place. Didn’t know what he would have done instead, but something else.

The only way he’d been able to maintain his connections to Buffy and Dawn was by keeping them absolutely separate. It was OK to turn loose with Buffy--pound her black and blue, or fuck her up against a wall and howl with his release. She could take it. Could take him, if so inclined of an evening, exactly the same way. He could feed from her, within limits and with care, and know it as profound communion between them, not merely food. Because she was the Slayer.

Dawn was not.

She’d break. What Bit was so blithe to give, he’d take. He’d take it all. The mark gave his demon leave to come out and play with her as it chose. Any way it chose. Fucking and feeding inseparably interconnected. Humans could not finally endure vampire play.

Which was why Buffy wanted vamps dead. In her heart, there were no exceptions. She wanted all of them gone. Zero count. Yet she’d set him apart, exempted him from the mandate of extermination that was the Slayer’s mission--largely on account of the soul. If he broke Dawn, if the Slayer saw and felt he was no different from the rest, just another evil soulless thing, that exemption would be gone. She’d come after him. And he’d let her. Just stand there and accept the stake--as he’d tried to tonight. And that would be an end.

Besides, only a fledge would think he could fuck and feed from a pair of sisters--rank stupidity not to know it would all go smash. Vamps were indiscriminate about such things; humans were not. The balance he’d kept and held between them, the distinction he’d maintained in his feelings toward each of them, had been lost. For a sup of blood he’d been unable to refuse. The price of that was not being able to see her, smell her, be aware of her close presence without imagining her naked and getting hard. Wanting to sheathe himself in her. All of that in the taste of her blood. All implicit in the mark.

No. Didn't want to feel that, be that to her. Wanted it to be how it'd been, the egg unbroken.

Even without the curse getting at him, Spike seriously wished he was dead. Not facing impossible choices and the death of love. Its murder, even.

But against the Powers, against the Slayer, he’d set himself to this: establishing vamps in Sunnydale not as a plague but as a valid constituency. A part of the whole with a right to be there. Demons had owned the world before humans ever were. From the first, Sunnydale had been established to be their feeding ground. They had a right to exist here regardless of the Slayer’s views. Without the Hellmouth fueling the craziness and flooding the place with transients answerable to no one, it should work.

Limit vamp numbers, then let ‘em cull out the stupid, the incompetent, and the spectacularly unlucky among the human population: as the Slayer did with vamps. An even and stable balance, neither overtaxing the other, predators and prey. If a vamp ate some frat boy too dumb to take warning or notice that people with the right smell, easily available, didn’t disappear with the same frequency as those without, by Buffy it was murder. By Spike, it was getting the bloody idiot out of the gene pool and good riddance. At least as food, the git would serve some useful purpose. A thing on which he knew he and the Slayer would never agree.

But what wasn’t shoved in her face, she was real good at ignoring. As long as she had sufficient fledges to dust on patrol, alternate nights, she was content she was doing her duty, performing her goddam sacred mission from the Powers. There was an achievable balance, Spike had hoped and believed.

And still hoped, still believed. Except he wouldn’t be part of it very much longer. She’d come after him. Because of Dawn. Because of the soul. And Dawn's existence tied to his own. So even surrendering to his own death had unacceptable consequences. He couldn't resolve it, get his mind around it. Could come to no acceptable resolution that would put things right.

And no way was Michael ready to receive it all from his hands, hold it in shape and together.

Fuck. The bottle was empty.