Fix me now I wish you would
Bring me back to life
Waking. Sunlight piercing retina, white-hot needle. Sand crusted on lips, adhered to saliva, grinding into the skin. Enveloped in voices, melodious language. Heat settles like the weight of water, crushing, melting. When the eye opens it sees feet dancing walking all around kicking up dust, it sees the grit below it, pressed into the soft membrane. It sees morning, it sees evening. This is daylight. He tries his sticky mouth, spits dirt out, makes an attempt at raising his head from the ground. Face imprint on the soft earth, sweat soaked under his body forming mud the shape of a man.
His heart is beating.
***
Spike looked at the address written on the paper scrap again, then at the house numbers in front of him, triple-checking. He was certain he must have it wrong; after all, this street was just over from the Circus, and how could anyone with Rupert's dodgy history afford anything here? But the numbers matched, so he knocked on the door and waited. He stuck his arm out towards the gash of sun, twisted this way and that, back and forth, tricking the light.
The door opened and Giles's inquisitive look instantly turned to sour disapproval. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" The geezer was looking a little less fit, a little bit older, but it was comforting to see a familiar face.
"Good morning to you, too, mate." Spike tried to affect an air of casual disinterest, but his chest tightened with the pressure of knowing this might be his one shot, evaporating in front of him.
"I have nothing to say to you. Go away."
Spike stuck his foot in the door as it closed hard. That hurt. "Look," he gasped, "I've spent a lot of time and dosh trying to find you, and I'm not going away that easily. I need your help, and I'm just asking you to hear me out, all right?"
Giles just pushed harder on the door, then stopped abruptly, staring at Spike. "Wait. . . what are you doing out there in broad daylight?"
Grimacing, Spike looked past him at the cars with their chrome and high-polish finishes gleaming in the sunlight, then turned to Giles. "Well, that's the thing, Rupes old chap. Maybe you could see your way to letting a fella in and we can discuss it?"
That met only a suspicious look from Giles. "If you're not a vampire, you wouldn't need an invitation. . . but you're standing in daylight."
"Well, any normal person would need to be let in, wouldn't they, regardless of whether or not they were a vampire?"
Giles hmphed a little, but had to concede that Spike had a point. It didn't make any sense at all that he was standing just barely out of the light, and there wasn't a coat or rug anywhere in sight. This was deeply suspicious, and yet somehow. . . intriguing. He silently cursed the fact that events with Spike were always terrible and morbidly fascinating, in the manner of gazing at the gruesome aftermath of a motor wreck.
"Give me one good reason I should do anything to help you."
Spike worked his jaw a little and stared down at his feet before glancing up helplessly. He looked really quite. . . broken to Giles. There was something else he couldn't put his finger on, but something unspoken underneath the obvious pain.
"Can't, can I? Haven't got a single reason, let alone a good one. But if I want to bloody repent and atone, I'm gonna need some help. That's about all I have to offer."
Slowly, Giles opened the door and stepped back to let him in. "I'm sure I'll regret this."
"Probably," Spike answered, stepping inside. It was a lovely flat, airy and bright, situated on a street of terraced Georgian houses. Furnished in a total Ikea classic style, but still homey, and Spike raised his eyebrow. "This must cost a packet. How's a bloke who's not technically working anymore afford digs like these?"
Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And now you see why I didn't want to help. Already I'm regretting it."
"Sorry." He sat down on the sofa. "Where's Willow? I'd heard she was here with you. That's partly why I came."
Giles leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "She's with the coven through the weekend. I expect her back tomorrow afternoon."
Spike nodded, even though he had no idea what Giles was talking about, and then didn't say anymore. Giles wouldn't understand what it felt like right now, to be overwhelmed by the sensory inputs and to have so many feelings boomeranging around inside his head that he could hardly focus on anything. It would be impossible to explain, even if he had his emotions under control, which he most assuredly did not.
Ever since he'd come back to The Smoke he'd been consumed by the past, it reared up in front of him every step he took like some kind of ugly and terrifying demon. And now that he'd thrown in a bit of Sunnydale history to the mix of agonizing memory, it was like rubbing salt in the still-fresh wounds. He wasn't so certain anymore that seeing Giles or asking the witch for help was the right thing to do. Drowning himself or jumping off a bridge might fit in better with his general sense of ennui and depression.
Giles studied him as he sat, and after waiting what he felt was a polite amount of time for an answer as to why Spike was here, hrm-hrmed loudly. "So, are you going to sit there staring dazedly out the window, or are you going to tell me why you've darkened my doorstep yet again?"
Glancing back towards him, Spike looked as if he'd been hit, sort of glazed and bewildered.
"Oh, yeah, well. As you can see, I'm no longer the evil undead. And I'd like to fix that, actually. The undead part, at least, not the evil part. I was hoping Red could, you know," he moved his hand around as though he were waving a wand, "Harry Potter me back, with modifications."
"I know better than to ask, but. . . what precisely happened to you?" His manners left him when Spike was around, and though he felt a minor compulsion to offer tea or a good stiff whiskey, Giles couldn't quite bring himself to make the effort.
Rubbing his eyes, Spike let out a huge, wracking sigh, and said quietly, "Mistakes were made."
For a moment Giles was seized with a blind panic that Spike might cry, he seemed so torn up about whatever it was that had happened. Rather than provoke any further emotional outbursts, he sat quietly, waiting. Finally Spike decided to talk, and took his hands from in front of his face, blue eyes burning with what Giles could only think of as regret and anger.
"Went to see this demon about getting back my soul. I'd heard rumors, stories, for years. When Buffy and I. . . when I. . . hurt her, I knew it was time to change things, remove the possibility that I could do that to her again. Before you say anything, it was on impulse, so no," he put up a warning hand, "I didn't think it through clear. Did everything so fast I even took the chance of flying. Only something I didn't reckon on -- he didn't just take your word for what you wanted. If you endured the trials that were set, he apparently gives you what he thinks you want, not just what you say you want."
"And you wanted to be human again? If so, why are you trying to change that?"
"I didn't. I don't. I just wanted to be. . . the kind of man who would never hurt someone he loved. The kind of man who would never try to . . . to take someone by force. One who'd be what Buffy deserved." Spike was looking at him with such earnestness it was impossible to believe this was the same being who'd tried for years to kill them all, and who had tormented them endlessly when he couldn't succeed in the killing. He seemed almost boyish, though older and worn down, but still so ingenuous and eager that it would be farcical if you didn't know him so well.
"The kind of man," Giles said quietly.
"Yeah." Spike had wished a hundred times that he hadn't thought in just those terms. Possibly if he'd taken half a moment to actually think it through, he could have found a little verbal loophole before it was too late.
"Why didn't you. . . where was the demon after this?"
"Woke up face-down in the dirt in the middle of the village. There's these tribesmen who seem to be protectors of this demon. Had no idea where or what I was at first. It was worse than being totally mashed and finding yourself tits up in an alley. When I woke up in the light, I realized what I was and tried to get back to the cave, but they wouldn't let me. And I no longer had the strength to fight them off. Apparently I almost killed the sodding thing, though I don't remember that, and they were a might testy about it. Which, as you can gather, didn't help."
"Surprise, surprise." Giles sighed heavily, and Spike just sagged further into the sofa, knowing it was the first of the judgments that would be passed down on him, assuming he could even get Giles to let him stay long enough to talk to Willow. It was hard to blame him, though, after everything that had happened over the past few years. "Look, Spike. I don't know what to tell you about this human thing. Even though I probably shouldn't tell you this, what happened with you and Buffy. . . well, she doesn't look at it quite as badly as you might suppose."
Of course Spike had assumed Buffy would tell everyone what happened at the end, and there would be a bounty out on his head if he made the mistake of returning to SunnyD, but Spike didn't totally get where Giles was going with this line. Was he simply talking about the affair? "Don't know what you mean."
Giles sighed. "Buffy. . . look, I don't know what happened with you two in detail and I most assuredly don't want to know, but when she talked about what happened with you two, your... misunderstanding before you left, she wasn't that upset."
This was rather a gobsmacking revelation, and he searched for words, but couldn't quite dig them up from the dim recesses of his brain. "She doesn't. . . the R word didn't come up?"
"No, she doesn't think that. From everything she described, you're not on top of her list, but she's not blaming you completely. The way she described it to me, your rather twisted liaisons went a step too far."
Spike sat quietly for a while, staring out the window. After feeling all this time like he'd been tied to the whipping post, he should feel as if he'd been suddenly freed, only he didn't know what to do with it. Describing it as a twisted romance gone awry was so erroneous it was almost laughable. The girl never ceased to surprise him. But Giles didn't leave him to think on it for much longer.
"What I don't believe I understand, though, is why you wouldn't want to be human. I should think you'd welcome it if you wanted to atone."
"The soul seemed to be enough for Buffy before and she seems to need more than the average bloke -- I wanted what would make me good enough to earn her love. That was all I wanted."
"But why?" Giles demanded, voice rising in frustration. "Why not stay human if that's what's been given you? Why on earth would you choose to be a demon again?"
Spike bit his lower lip and stared at his hands, which now seemed too fragile and old to him. His skin looked sallow and now that he could see himself in a mirror, he didn't like the ragged face that peered back at him, bloodshot eyes and dark circles framing them. "Because what on earth do I have to offer anyone, least of all the slayer, as a puny little human with no strength, no special powers, no nothing? I'm worse than useless this way, and if I haven't anything to offer her that helps in her work, she wouldn't throw a crumb my way, even to let me apologize to her."
Giles stood up and walked over to the window, gazing out on the street. Spike crossed his arms over his chest, huddling into himself, trying to keep his emotions together. It wasn't that he wanted to come over all weepy about his unlife gone by, but talking about it, putting a name to his fears for the first time, was overwhelming.
"Do you know what happened back in Sunnydale after you left?" Giles asked, still with his back to Spike.
"Yeah, a bit. I mean, I know why Willow's here."
"Who told you?"
"Called Clem." When Giles turned to him, frowning, Spike added, "Demon friend of mine. Mostly harmless, knows the Scoobies."
"You have friends?" Giles asked archly, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "Obviously you don't know the whole story, or you wouldn't be asking such things of me or of Willow. She killed a man, Spike. Flayed him alive. Tried to kill Buffy, Dawn, me, and everyone else. At one point she was on her way to ending the world. All because Tara was killed when Warren attacked Buffy and she was drunk with power. Her desire for revenge grew out of that power. You remember Warren, I assume, since he built your robot Buffy?" Giles was angry now, Spike could see that even though he kept his stiff-upper-lip English demeanor and to the uninitiated appeared calm. There was a fire in his eyes that Spike had seen only once before, when Giles had shoved him out of the Magic Box after Dru had returned. "Did you know that Warren shot Buffy and she almost died?"
His stomach was knotted up and his chest ached from holding his breath. Christ, that was far, far worse than anything Clem had told him. The git had made it sound like a girlfriend's tiff and he'd been charged with babysitting Dawn because Buffy had work to do that was just a little more intense than usual. When he got back to Sunnydale, he'd have to have a little chat with Clem about truth in advertising.
"I knew Red was in trouble. Knew there'd been a fight and Buffy had some big task to handle. But no, I didn't realize it had gone that far. You make it sound like it was my fault, all this with Warren." Jesus. The idea that he'd do anything to harm Buffy... well, no, that didn't wash anymore, did it?
Giles took his glasses off, staring at him. Then he seemed to soften a little, as if the memory stirred something inside. "No, of course not. But you did serve to bring him more prominently into our lives by having him make the... that creation of your pathetic obsession. Even you must realize that."
"If I'd thought for one minute he was capable of anything more than his geeky attempts at getting laid and ruling his sad little cellar kingdom, trust me, I'd never have gone anywhere near the loser. But I had nothing to do with the shooting, and if I'd thought he could do something like that, I'd have snapped his neck a long time ago -- chip or no chip." Giles couldn't have the least understanding of the desolation he felt right now knowing that Buffy had been hurt, that the woman he'd gone to prove himself for had nearly been killed and he was helpless to do anything about it. Before he'd have roared in rage.
"And what about that? Your chip? I suppose that's no longer viable."
"Doubt it. Nothing happened when I got into that row with the tribe. And no, I don't know if it'd function were I to get my wish and become the living dead again, but I'm betting no right now. Whatever that demon was, he was efficient, the bastard." Spike stared blankly at him for a while. "I suppose everyone thinks the chip wasn't working or I couldn't have tried to hurt Buffy. But just for the record: it did still work on everyone except her. Something came out wrong when she was brought back." He got quiet again. "Sometimes I wish that had never happened, you know? That she'd have just been left in peace, no matter how wrecked we all were about it. Then maybe all this... Jesus. I can't believe the witch tried to do that. I always sort of liked her. That she'd try to hurt the Niblet and her own best friend...You're not the type to lie, but I wish to hell you were right now."
"Yes, well. I'll tell you the rest of the story later. Right now I need to think a bit about everything. Have you ever been to Bath before?"
Spike raised his eyebrows. "Uh, no. It had gone a bit out of fashion during my time. My first human time, that is."
"Well, perhaps you could go exploring for a bit and let me think."
"Kicking a poor ex-vampire out on the street, eh?" Spike stood up and put his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. "Didn't buy a return ticket. Wasn't sure if you'd help, but I suppose it was wishful thinking. I was planning to take the last train back to London if not."
"Come back in a few hours. That should give you plenty of time to catch an evening train if I decide otherwise." He noticed Giles pointedly didn't ask where he was staying in London, and how long he'd been in the country. "I know I shouldn't ask this, but have you any money? For food, transport?"
"Yeah. Plenty."
"How did you get it?" Giles scowled at him.
"Well, I bloody stole it, didn't I?"
"You'd do best to rethink your attitude if you want even the slightest chance of Buffy giving you a millisecond of her time." He opened the door to show Spike out, and then added, "If you want our help, it might behoove you to try the honest human way once in a while."
"Oh, right, humans all being perfect representatives of honesty and goodness."
"You're deliberately missing my point. Now go." He shooed Spike out the door. Standing there, taking in the late summer sun, Spike was dazzled by all the harshness and light around him. Months had passed and he still couldn't quite get used to it, and every time he went somewhere new, it was as if he'd stumbled into a strange exotic land. Frightening, overwhelming, absurd. There weren't exactly guidebooks for this sort of trip, though.
He took off down the hill heading for the main part of town, figuring he might see the baths or something else historical, even though things from the past didn't much interest him. The historical always served to depress him mightily. It dredged up his own real past and his century as a vampire, and reminded him just how fleeting life was when you didn't have an eternity to arse about in. You always took it for granted that you could do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted to. Buffy had once joked to him that even if he did really love her, she could never expect him to hang around once she lost her looks and showed her age -- that he'd ditch her for someone who'd never need Botox or Retinol. While her comment had amused him, she would never understand just how wrong she was, how impossible it would be to shake him once she let him into her life. Looks had little to do with the way he devoted himself to someone, the passion with which he threw himself into love. But he'd never been able to explain it to her, and now it was too late.
After walking a bit, he found himself at the Parade Grounds, gazing at the Avon. He wandered aimlessly along its serpentine banks listening to the birds singing and the children shrieking with joy, the laughter of mothers, the murmurs of lovers talking. This was the strangest thing about being out in the day -- a world around you that you'd lost sight of so long ago, a world where even the most prosaic of actions held a vitality that had been hidden for so long. For a moment he stopped and stared at the large angel statue looming over the grounds, but it made him shudder a little. He still didn't like those, whether he was human or non-human.
He couldn't stop his momentum, because if he hesitated, he might not continue. When he stopped blocking it out and considered his idea from different angles, Spike ended up filled with doubt, convinced he'd come up with yet another cack-handed plan that would never work. Following an obsession was easy. Which was peculiar, really. He hadn't been like that before when he was human, but now it was such a part of his character he couldn't imagine being any other way. But now he had to stay focused and obsessed with his goals, he had to keep driving, because if he couldn't be changed back... if he had to remain in this state, he couldn't see any way out save death.
It was all too much, when you really got down to it. Living with his past was simply too cruel to bear. Humans weren't designed to take such burdens of the past; there was a reason vampires lost their souls when they turned and began to live off humans. And there was a reason no vampires had ever been resoulled before, not willingly. That miasma of darkness couldn't be contained by the thin walls of human skin or borne in the weak beating of the heart.
After a listless time staring at the water as it sparkled with afternoon sun, he went in search of something to eat. He was always hungry now. Before, Spike had enjoyed human food more as a delicacy, a treat; it never replaced the need or desire for blood. Now he just wanted to eat and eat. He'd rediscovered a particular fondness for cream teas he wasn't quite willing to cop to lest anyone find out what a ponce he was at heart. On Queen street he found a nice little café and ordered tea, piling the scones with jam and clotted cream so high it all threatened to careen off the surface before he could take a bite. After polishing those and the pot of tea off, he did some window shopping -- still startled each time he saw his reflection in a window -- wishing he could consider spending the money in his pocket on new clothes, a few personal luxuries. As impetuous as he'd always been, now he knew enough to hang onto it. Although needing to save didn't stop him from hitting a few pubs on the way back up the hill to Giles's. Somehow sitting in dark corners felt right. By eavesdropping on others' conversations and focusing on the buzz around him, his mind was filled by different noise so he didn't have to listen to the agonizing din of his victims' voices calling across centuries, or the pounding of the blood in his ears.
When he knocked on the door again, Giles greeted him with an ancient worn book in his hand, not even looking up from the pages, though this time he let him in with a bit more cordiality.
"Did I stay away long enough?" Spike asked, plopping himself down on the sofa again in the same spot. "What are you looking for?"
Giles picked up another book and flipped through to a marked page. "Seeing if there was any precedent for this and what kind of guidance may be available. And as I thought, no, there isn't any."
Spike could have told him that and saved him a lot of trouble. He'd heard pretty much every vampire-human interaction story there was, it was an obsession of his in the early undead phase. He knew there had been vamps who'd chosen to live with humans, but none with souls. Angel had been the first, Spike would be only the second, assuming he could ever return to that state. "Yeah, I know. Trust me, if anyone had been returned to human status? That story would be circulating everywhere as some kind of cautionary tale to make you stay in line -- and stay the bloody hell away from witches and certain types of demons."
"Like yours?" Giles asked snidely, as if he were talking to an errant schoolboy.
"Well, yeah. After Angel was cursed, you can bet any vamp who'd been around long enough to learn the ropes stayed the bloody hell away from Gypsies. For, you know, ever. It's like fairy tales -- everyone hears them, and the lessons stick because they're scary."
"I did come across some interesting histories, though, of vampires who've chosen to live as humans -- well, as much as possible. There was one man, James Bernard from Birmingham, early in the 1900s, who missed his family quite a lot but refused to turn them. It appears he found a night job and moved back in with them. Apparently stayed with them through at least two generations of children. And this one's a bit more interesting." He shoved the book in front of Spike. "Is this your demon?"
"Yeah, that's him. Doesn't show the glowy eyes, though. It was like he had an interior lava lamp or something."
"This vampire," Giles tapped the book, "one Jao de Briho, lived with his wife for quite some time until he decided to become human for her and went to visit a demon. Only it looks as if he lost his trials, where you succeeded, because he disappears from this chronicler's list after going to see the 'foul creature of ancient Africa.' There are other reports of vampires who had mixed relationships with humans, as well, though you three seem to be the only ones who've gone to such melodramatic lengths. It looks as if the Council will have to revise their stand on vampires' ability to feel love."
His sarcasm was as dry as the Sahara, and about as welcome as spending a day lost in it.
"We're so inconvenient."
"Quite."
"Look, Rupert, all this is horribly interesting, but it doesn't address what I came here for and what I'm asking about."
Giles stared at him in exasperation. He really did wonder how a creature this thick could have made such a reputation for himself when he didn't seem even remotely capable of thinking beyond the obvious. And he couldn't even begin to understand what could be wrong with Buffy that she should get involved with someone so beneath her.
"Do pay attention. I'm telling you this because the fact that there's no precedent for your situation, for Angel's, means we haven't the foggiest idea how you could be turned back into a vampire except for the regular old-fashioned way, and that would mean the loss of your brand-new soul, as well. Is that clear enough for you?"
"But Willow might. If I've learned one thing from hanging about with the Scoobies, it's that she's maybe one of the most powerful witches anyone's ever seen. And if, you know, she gets a handle on things and back into the groove, maybe she'd see her way to helping an old friend."
"Friend? Who tried to kill her at least twice?"
Spike glowered. "I fought at her side all summer last year, and I've done nothing but try to make things better for Buffy -- her best friend -- when I could, with her being so lonely and all." The extra emphasis on lonely made Giles want to go over and hit him.
"Yes, well, your altruism aside, Willow is not in a state to help anyone right now."
"Don't you think that's her decision to make? If that's what she decides, then it's what she decides, but I think it's her choice. You're not the grown-up now."
He had to concede Spike's point, however grudgingly. The thing that had driven Willow further and further into power-madness was her low self-esteem. She'd fought the notion all her life that she was unimportant, and without magic she believed herself even more worthless, especially when compared to Buffy. After she'd discovered her powers, it had been increasingly difficult to manage her, and the ripening self-confidence of adulthood quickly soured into arrogance and misuse. Taking away choices or hiding decisions only she could make for herself would probably slide her back into that pattern of belief and undo all the progress they'd made this summer.
"Of course. You're right."
"Oh, I bet that hurt," Spike commented acidly.
"You have no bloody idea." Giles rubbed his forehead. "I suppose you'll be expecting to stay here tonight."
"Hadn't thought of it. Really, as far as I'd got in my head was you bellowing at me and closing the door in my face."
It was strange confronting a Spike who was so insecure and timid. Even when incapacitated by the chip, he still had certain strengths of character he relied upon, all of them abrasive and annoying, but at least forceful and confident. Giles briefly wondered if this was the way Spike had been as a human, if the entire picture he presented to everyone as a vampire had been a complete fabrication to go along with his new "life" once he'd been turned.
Good god. He was actually starting to feel sorry for Spike. To feel... friendly.
"The best I can do is make up the sofa for you; Willow has the only guest room. You can stay here until she comes back, but when she says no -- and I can guarantee you she will say no -- then I want you on your way. You'll have to find some other manner to be vamped again and keep the sodding soul."
Spike sighed theatrically. "If there's one thing I've learned about Willow, it's that she never does what others expect her to. She has things inside her I don't think any of you have ever seen or understood."
"We do now, Spike, we do now. That's what she's doing here with the coven -- learning how to control those things."
"Tell you what. Since you're mister hospitality and all, why don't I stand you a few down at your local, get something for dinner, and you can fill me in on this coven whatsits. I'm famished."
Giles eyed him suspiciously, but the offer didn't sound half bad. If Spike could behave himself in public, he wasn't the worst company you could keep... and it was always possible to mine that rich history as a demon for papers in the upcoming Watchers' Journal issues. "You're on."
When he dreams now, he dreams in nearly black and white, colorless images behind a scrim tinged faintly red. But he sleeps so rarely that dreams come in short bursts, images like gunfire, staccato memories of past crimes that rap against his skull in endless ricochets. It all spirals down the drain of his mind, crimson swirls, banshee screams that circle and whirl around him like a tornado. He is the eye; the storm his history. And it is all covered in blood.
When Giles woke, he heard a soft thumping sound downstairs, and looked at the clock. Nearly half four in the morning. The noise was coming from the kitchen, and he threw his robe on and went down. He could just imagine Spike inviting a vampire in to re-vamp him or something else equally atrocious.
But it was obvious what the noise was. Spike was sitting at the little table in the kitchen corner, tapping the handle of the large chef's knife in his fist against the table, and then hovering the blade over his arm as if deciding where to cut. In the darkness Giles couldn't tell for certain, but it looked as if there were healing cuts along Spike's arms, across his bare chest, even along his throat. A lot of bruises, too. It would have been sickening if it weren't nearly heartbreaking, and for the only time since Spike had taken that pasting from Glory, Giles found himself feeling pity for the man.
"What are you doing, Spike?" Giles asked gently, but maintained his distance in case Spike reacted startled or angry.
There was no answer. Spike pressed the blade against the flesh of his inner elbow and held it there. It was like he was sleepwalking, awake and aware in a reality other than the one they currently shared.
"Spike. Stop it, stop it right now." Giles put his hand over Spike's and pulled on the knife, but there was no fight and he slipped it easily out of the trembling fingers. "What on earth is the matter with you? And why are you trying to kill yourself with my kitchen knife?" He made a noise of disgust and threw it in the sink. In the yellow porch light coming through the tiny kitchen window, Spike looked so pale and drawn. A somnambulist.
As Spike sighed raggedly, Giles sat down opposite him. At least it didn't look like Spike had actually used the knife, thank god for small favors. But clearly he'd been making a bloody hash out of his body for some time.
"For God's sake, pull yourself together, man." But Giles didn't have any venom left in him, it was too awful to see so much pain on anyone, even Spike.
That only caused Spike to laugh bitterly, his voice crazy and high-pitched. It made Giles's skin crawl.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?" He decided not to ask again about why with his kitchen knife, since he could never use it on food again, anyway.
Spike tilted his head sideways and looked at him with dull eyes. That was the thing Giles hadn't been able to put his finger on before, the thing that seemed most off about Spike -- that his eyes, normally a sparking, lively deep blue, seemed dulled and lifeless now that he was human. As if the process of regaining his soul and living again took all his life force away.
Spike sought a way to answer the question that sounded comforting. Giles would like comforting, he wouldn't be able to understand the ugly reality of truth and the way pain displaced pain. Couldn't know what the weight felt like, how easy it was to be pulled into the undertow; drowning not waving.
That had always been the difference with the Scoobies. They operated in a world where things were close to black and white; Spike had seen for more than a century just how grey the world really was. Grey and covered in blood and viscera. Spike stared emptily at Giles for a few moments before looking sideways and giving him a bitter smile.
They sat in silence for a time. Giles put his hand on Spike's arm and patted it lightly. He was still bewildered by why Spike would want to be a vampire again yet keep the soul; that wouldn't make it the least bit easier to cope with his terrible history. But he was beginning to understand what drove Spike forward with this barmy plan, maybe just a little -- that at least Spike could feel he was strong enough to endure if he was a demon, could withstand the pain and the remorse better than a small and fragile human would.
There really wasn't anything he could say to Spike so he got up and made tea, putting a cup in front of his guest, and the two of them stared out the window at the darkness. Out in the neighbor's garden two moggies were yowling and spitting at each other, but the world was otherwise silent. Spike still trembled a little, but Giles didn't think it was from cold and he politely pretended not to notice.
"What were you like as a human?" Giles finally asked. "Before."
"Not like this," Spike said very slowly and quietly, "if that's what you mean. Just... silly. Stuffy. Weak." His voice was soft and dreamy, as if he was back in that world, centuries away.
"Is that what you're afraid of, then? Of being that human?"
Closing his eyes, Spike answered, "He doesn't exist anymore, not really. I wouldn't know how to be like him again. Spent over a hundred years creating someone entirely new, and I'm not him, either. That's the scary part."
"Yes, I see." No wonder he was working so hard to be abrasive and difficult -- at least he knew how to relate to others that way; he knew how to react to their reactions. It would be confusing to feel empty of persona. To be a tabula rasa on which to write a new character.
"Worked very hard to get away from what I was when I was human."
"Why, exactly?" He must have been horrible if the persona Spike had image for himself was considered better.
"Victorian England. Gentleman. Mama's boy. Poet."
"Ah," Giles said, nodding his head in complete understanding. "Did you ever publish anything?"
Spike laughed bitterly. "No, never really tried, or got that far. I tried to emulate my friends, who were as bad, if not worse." He cleared his throat and put on a dramatic face.
"When I am gone will any eyes
Shed tears behind the hearse?
Will any one survivor cry,
'I could have spared a worse--
We never spoke; we never met;
I never heard his voice, and yet
I loved him for his verse?'
Such love would make the flowers wave
In gladness on their poet's grave."
Then he huffed. "See? That one was published, by someone I knew. Horrid, yeah? All this stuff we know today, that's the stuff that stuck because it was good. Most of the things we used to read or write, though, were just like that."
Spike was becoming more animated, less drawn in on himself, as he spoke, and it was heartening to see him regain a little strength. There was something peculiarly discomfiting about a broken Spike; it was not something you fit neatly into your worldview after five years.
They talked a little longer about bad poetry and the Victorians before Giles found himself drifting off to sleep. He said goodnight and tried encouraging Spike to go to bed, but he preferred to stay up because, as he put it, he was still operating on a creature of the night clock. Spike stared morosely at the table and muttered, "I may not be one, but I still feel like a night stalker."
"All right, but just... stay away from the kitchen knives, please? And the razor blades in the bathroom. And... well, anything sharp."
"Right," Spike answered, distracted.
In the daylight, though, there was no trace of the distraught and suicidal man he'd seen last night. Instead he was greeted by the highly unappealing sight of Spike's naked body as he strolled in from the sitting room in the early afternoon, yawning and scratching. His curly hair, now growing out the last of its bleach, was standing up all over his head, and he looked as if he'd been sleeping for a month. Cord marks from the sofa cushions crisscrossed his face.
"Oh, for god's sake!" Giles bellowed. "Would you please put some clothes on."
"Just getting some coffee. Don't get those knickers twisted, for chrissake. You're acting like my aunt Mary."
"The curtains are open and I don't think my neighbors need to see you wandering about starkers. And Willow will be back soon, so at least show a little respect for her, if you won't have any for me."
Spike poured a mug of coffee, grabbed his clothes off the floor and was starting up the stairs to the bath, Giles fuming behind him, when the front door opened.
Willow shouted brightly, "Giles! I'm back! And I have to tell you about the trip to Cornwall and the ruins of the--aaaiiigghh!" She leapt backwards at the sight of Spike and dropped her bags in the entryway.
Giles shoved Spike hard up the stairs, coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug to spill painfully on his hand. Spike froze momentarily. Then Giles prodded him again and he stumbled up the stairs while Willow fluttered around by the door, making high-pitched whimpering noises.
Possibly that was a tactical error, Spike thought as he yanked on his
jeans and shirt. Might have to start considering consequences a bit more
carefully now that he was human. It didn't really do to upset the one person
who held your future in her hands.
End
5/28/03
My lovely cover art by X. Don't take or distribute in any way.