“I love you.”
The words Spike longed to hear, from the lips he’d hoped to hear them from, spoken now as flames licked his skin. Sunlight beamed through a hole that split the cavern ceiling, directly onto him. The turok-han raged behind her, clawing their way from the pit of the open Hellmouth, clambering over the dead. Hellfire lit the chamber beneath Sunnydale High School. The sound of thousands of primordial roars echoed against the rock walls. The other slayers had fled to safety, as had Buffy’s friends, leaving her alone to clasp his hand in the end. Their entwined fingers burned together, and the words had come like a balm to his soul.
He looked at her, and saw the weight of the world, the trials and hardships and deaths in her beautiful eyes. She was not lying. But he knew this love was one of deep friendship, of family. And he was okay with that.
“No, you don’t,” he told her. “But thank you for saying so.”
Her lips trembled, tears reflecting the fire that encompassed him. The ground shook suddenly, and she stumbled back, their hands separating, fused skin tearing apart. She looked like she was going to say more, or stay, or do something stupid and heroic, but he wouldn’t have it. “Now go!” he shouted at her.
She hesitated a second, then fled up the stairs, as another quake shook the ground. Knowing she would be safe, Spike leaned his head back, staring up at the sun. “I want to see how it ends.”
He laughed as fire fully engulfed him, burning him to dust. Sunlight hit the crystal pendant he wore around his neck, filling the chamber with blinding, white light…
...and Spike was suddenly sitting in a familiar room of stone and hardwood. A four-poster bed with rotting privacy curtains took up a majority of the space. An armoire coated in cobwebs with a missing door stood in a corner. Heavy draperies half-hid plywood-boarded windows.
Spike no longer felt like he was burning, and he patted his chest and arms as he looked down at himself. The pendant was gone. His black t-shirt, black jeans, and duster were unmarred. He wasn’t on fire. He wasn’t a big pile of dust. “What the…?”
He spotted wheels on either side of the arms of the chair on which he was seated, and he shot to his feet. “Oh, hell, no!” The wheelchair flew backward across the room, crashing into the armoire, as Spike jumped away from it in a hurry. He stared at the wheelchair in horror, then around the room again with recognition. He was at the mansion. What the hell?
“Spike, I heard a crash.”
Spike spun around at the voice, and his jaw dropped slightly when he saw Drusilla in the doorway, dressed in a deep red and black brocade gown. “Dru? What’re you doing here?” He hadn’t seen Drusilla in over two years, not since he chose Buffy over her. Wait – maybe this was the First again, morphing into her. Did that mean they’d lost?
Delight spread over Drusilla’s face. “You’re all better!” She hurried into the room, arms outstretched to hug him, when she pulled up short and sniffed the air in front of him.“I smell a soul in you.” Her eyes narrowed, and she jabbed a manicured finger at him. “You’re not my Spike.”
“And you’re not Drusilla,” Spike stated, folding his arms. “I’m onto your tricks.”
“You are the trick. Or are you the treat?” Drusilla studied him. “You do not belong now.”
Spike scowled. “I certainly don’t belong here, with you.”
“Not here. Now.” Drusilla raised her finger and moved it from side to side. “Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time has slipped back, but it won’t be for long.”
“Right.” Spike shook his head. “Enough with the crazy talk. I’m out of here.”
Drusilla stepped aside willingly, as he headed for the door. He’d expected more of a fight from the First. Or maybe he was walking into more danger.
Danger looked a lot like the mansion with minions scattered around. The place seemed decked out for a party, with flowers and garlands. A few large boxes sat on a table. Spike made a beeline for the front door and stepped outside into the night. Surprise came upon him again when he spotted the DeSoto parked in the drive. That car had been gone for as long as Drusilla. He’d left it at the used auto dealer when he’d stolen the Winnebago, to protect Dawn and escape from Glory. It had either been stolen or sold by the time he’d sought to get it back.
He grabbed the arm of a passing minion, who wore glasses and a frightened expression. A name came unbidden in Spike’s mind. The other vampire was Dalton, whom Spike knew for certain was dead. “Am I in Hell?”
“No, you’re in Sunnydale.”
Spike frowned, and let Dalton go. Dalton scurried inside. Spike looked up at the sky, studded with stars and a few clouds. It had been a sunny morning, and he had been on fire, the last time he’d looked up. His gaze drifted to the broken fountain, the untended gardens, and the boarded windows on the mansion. If he’d died and gone to Hell that looked like Sunnydale, he wouldn’t have been able to get out of that wheelchair, right? Because that certainly been hell for him. All that was missing was Angelus swanning about, taking the piss, torturing him, and bedding Dru.
Spike’s soul didn’t stop the loathing and hatred he felt for Angelus that bubbled inside him. That monster had destroyed his and Drusilla’s relationship, had nearly destroyed the world, and worse, had nearly destroyed Buffy. Spike would never forgive the soulless version of Angel for that. He tottered on not forgiving the soul-filled version, too, but he knew that was jealousy talking. He was an enlightened man.
So, if this wasn’t Hell, could this be Heaven? Spike snorted. Nah, he hadn’t done enough to earn a place there. Atonement was a long road, not a crystal pendent. Yes, from time to time he’d helped Buffy before he’d become soul-having, but that was because he was in love with her. He hadn’t been doing good because it was the right thing to do. He did it for her. And for Dawn, because he genuinely liked the niblet. Besides, Buffy had said Heaven felt like warmth and love, and she’d had no doubts, nor fears. Spike was doubting everything he could see, and now he was getting a niggling fear that the First had won and this was a prison of illusion.
Granted, it didn’t make any sense. The First had plans to conquer the world, to enslave humanity, to recreate Hell on earth. While Spike would admit Sunnydale was hellish, there was a decided lack of brimstone and screaming happening, at least from what he could see and hear from the mansion. Maybe it was worse in town?
Spike found the DeSoto’s keys in the ignition, and he felt a slight thrill when she started up. He patted the steering wheel with affection before tearing out of the driveway to see what havoc the First had wrought.
But havoc didn’t appear. Side window cranked down, Spike saw manicured lawns, intact houses, parked cars along the streets. There were no bodies strewn about, no demons dancing. It looked like nothing had happened in Sunnydale, at all.
Spike drove to the school, which was the first difference he saw since he’d left the mansion. This building looked older, with a different layout. It was dark inside. Spike parked the DeSoto by the broken side door he’d normally used to get in and out of the school, but when he’d tried the door, he found it locked. “Strange.”
He tried a few more doors, circling toward the back of the building, and located one with the latch taped. He stepped into the school, finding himself in the back of a library. Ambient street light coming through the windows allowed him to see clearly. He made his way out of the library and down unfamiliar halls. It was quite disconcerting. Eventually, he found a door marked furnace room, and he broke it open. He flipped on the light switch inside the doorway and saw a normal room filled with large furnaces. No gaping holes in the ground with stairs leading to the Hellmouth.
He was starting to believe the First hadn’t won, that the good guys were victorious. He had no idea what things looked like above ground after the battle had started. Maybe the school had to be rebuilt. It didn’t explain why Drusilla was in town, nor why Spike had been dying one moment then sitting in the mansion the next. But Buffy would have the answer.
Spike left the school, hopped in the DeSoto, and drove to the Summers’ residence. His heart swelled like it always did at the thought of seeing Buffy. And while his soul constantly reminded him that he wasn’t worthy of loving anyone, it didn’t stop him from being any less of a lovesick sod.
Lights were on at the Summers’ house, a good sign, and Spike parked behind Buffy’s black Jeep Cherokee in the driveway. He went around the yard to the back door, searching for his key in his jeans front pocket. He couldn’t feel it. He checked his other pockets, and the pockets of his duster, as he climbed onto the back porch. He found a lighter, a pack of smokes, and the DeSoto keys, but no back door key. Odd. Maybe he’d dropped it back at the mansion. He’d warn Buffy to change the locks.
He tried the back door anyway, and was surprised to find it unlatched. He pushed open the door and went to step inside, only to be drawn up short. There was an invisible barrier in place. He couldn’t go in. “What the…?”
Spike placed his hand against the barrier, feeling around, wondering if this was a cosmic joke. The mansion with Drusilla and a wheelchair, no Hellmouth at the school, and now a barrier at the house he lived in? He was on the verge of throwing a wobbly if someone didn’t tell him what was going on.
Joyce stepped into the kitchen.
Spike felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Joyce was dead. He’d visited her grave. She couldn’t be standing in the kitchen, with her wavy blonde hair and concerned mum face. She wore a floral blouse with tan slacks and was very much alive.
“Oh!” Joyce startled upon seeing him at the door. “You surprised me.” Her brow creased as she looked between him and the open door. She remained behind the island counter, dividing the kitchen. “May I help you?”
“Um, uh...” Spike tried to find his voice around the lump in his throat. Even without his soul, her death had hurt. Seeing her again, with his soul, nearly choked him with emotion. “The door popped open when I knocked.”
“That’s strange,” Joyce said, then waited expectantly for him to say more.
Spike turned his head, quickly wiping a hand across his damp eyes. She didn’t seem to recognize him. They had been friends, watching Passions together, having book exchanges. This hurt. Maybe he really was in Hell. “Is Buffy here?”
Joyce appeared to relax at his query. She glanced at the round clock hanging above the corner cupboards. “She should be back any time now. Would you like to come in and wait?”
The barrier dissolved, and it was on Spike’s tongue to scold Joyce for her casual invitation. He could’ve been a bad vampire, and she could’ve been dead. But she wasn’t dead. Not anymore. She was alive, standing right in front of him, and he had to hold himself back from hugging her tightly. He settled for a smile, and stepped into the house. “Thanks.”
Joyce smiled in return, and Spike rubbed the area over his heart as she began bustling about the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink while you wait? I have coffee, tea, water, Coke...”
Spike sat on a wicker-backed stool at the island, and he was taken back in time. “Do you have any hot cocoa?”
“I do.” Joyce removed a tin of hot cocoa from the cabinet and fetched the milk from the fridge. Spike glanced around the kitchen. It looked the same as when they’d left to fight the turok-han, albeit cleaner. An oblong island divided the room, with a bowl of fruit in the center. A pen sat on a shopping list beside the bowl. Orange-brown cabinets lined one side of the room. Slatted wooden blinds with a green gingham valance covered the window above the sink. Behind him was a series of shelves with cookbooks and knickknacks. Magnets held pictures and take away menus on the white fridge. A desk with a cork board and key rack above it stood beside the range. A colorful calendar hung next to the wall phone, proclaiming it was January, 1998.
Spike stared at the calendar in disbelief. It was 2003 and, last he’d checked, it was May. He gestured toward the calendar. “Is that date right?”
Joyce looked to where he’d indicated. “Yes. Buffy’s surprise seventeenth birthday party is tomorrow at the Bronze. Will you be going?”
Spike had meant the year, not the date, but he looked at the non-crossed off numbers on the calendar and saw “Buffy’s birthday” written on tomorrow’s space. “Seventeen?” Buffy wasn’t seventeen. She was twenty-two.
“Yes, seventeen.” Joyce paused in her stirring of the cocoa on the stove to give him concerned mom-face. “You do know that she’s underage.”
Spike nodded, as he wrapped his mind around the information. “Don’t worry. We’re only mates. From the Bronze.” He came up with the quick lie. “I’m on staff there.”
“Hm.” Joyce appeared to opt to believe him. “It’s nice that Buffy has a number of friends.”
“Yeah.” Spike looked at the calendar again. Time has slipped back, Drusilla whispered in his mind. Had he gone into the past? Or was this one massive, death-caused hallucination? “Good ones.”
Joyce transferred the hot cocoa to two mugs, and handed one to him. “Here you go. One hot cocoa.”
Spike glanced down at his drink, and his throat tightened again. “Do you have any little marshmallows?”
“Of course,” Joyce replied with a smile, and Spike had to shut his eyes against the welling of tears. Gods, he’d missed her.
“Mom, I’m home!” he heard from the other room, followed by the front door slamming.
Joyce dropped a handful of marshmallows in Spike’s mug, as she called back, “We’re in here.”
“We? We who? Who is we?”
Spike managed to gather himself before Buffy came into the kitchen. He held back a laugh at the stunned expression on her face. “Hello, pet.”
“Spike!” Buffy’s hand reached for the back of her waistband, then hesitated, looking between him and her mother. She was dressed in tight-fitting red trousers and a black v-necked sweater. Her hair was only shoulder-length, and flipped up at the ends. “Why are you in my house? What are you doing here?”
Spike lifted his mug. “Having cocoa with your mum.”
Buffy’s mouth opened and closed, and she turned to her mother. “You gave him cocoa?”
“With marshmallows,” Spike chimed.
She shot him a scowl, as Joyce said, “Buffy, be nice to your guest.”
“My guest? You’re the one who seems to be sitting all cozy in here.” Buffy flapped her hand between the two of them. “Which is bad. And all kinds of wrong. And bad.”
Joyce chuckled and picked up her mug. She passed behind Buffy, pausing to give her a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Behave.”
“Thank you, Joyce,” Spike said before she could leave the room. He was getting choked up again. “For... everything.”
“I always keep cocoa marshmallows on hand,” Joyce said, misinterpreting him. She gave him a smile, and Spike’s heart cracked with grief when she left the room.
A stake appeared in Buffy’s hand in an instant. “What are you doing here?”
Spike set his mug on the counter and held up a finger. “First—” his voice cracked with emotion on the word, and he paused to rub his fingers against his damp eyes. He cleared his throat, and looked at Buffy again. “First, your mother is the nicest, caring woman whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Don’t let a moment with her slip away. She will be gone before you know it.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed, and she took a menacing step toward him. “Is that a threat?”
Spike shook his head. “No. Only advice.”
“Spike, why are you here?” Buffy ground out between clenched teeth. “Tell me before I turn you into something I have to vacuum. And I hate vacuuming.”
Spike studied her a moment. She was all coiled anger and projected tough-girl. She was beautiful, of course, but Spike could tell that she wasn’t the Buffy he was in love with. It was in her eyes, and the way she held herself. There was an innocence about her, still. Naivety. She didn’t have the air of someone who’d faced soul-rending pain again and again, and survived.
Spike suddenly knew why he was here, and that this was the past. His past. Her past. Angelus hadn’t been at the mansion, because he wasn’t Angelus. Yet. “Listen to me, Buffy. This is very important. Angel still has his soul, correct?”
“What?” Buffy sounded confused. “Yes. Why wouldn’t he have it?”
“Because it’s not permanent,” Spike told her. “His curse, there’s a clause on it. It’ll be broken if he has a moment of true contentment.”
Buffy looked skeptical. “Uh-huh. Right. He’s been happy with me a lot of times.”
Spike chuckled. “Not happiness, little girl.” And she was a little girl still. Precious. “Contentment. That type of peace you get in your soul when you’re with someone you love beyond reason and they accept you as you are.”
“Um, hello, you don’t have a soul.” Buffy pointed the stake at him. “Is this something about Drusilla? Is she going to hurt Angel?”
Spike groaned in frustration. “No, it’s not about her. It’s about you, and him. You’re going to cost him his soul, Buffy. Do you understand? He loves you, and in two days, maybe even tomorrow, he’s going to lose his soul.”
The skepticism faded. “You’re not joking.”
“No.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Buffy asked, serious.
Because I love you. “Because I don’t want a soulless Angelus running around. He’s a right awful bastard. Makes me look like a bloody white knight in comparison.”
Buffy lowered her stake. “This sounds way too alteristic.”
Spike’s lips twitched. “Altruistic. And I have my reasons, one of which you just heard.”
Buffy considered him for a long moment, her emotions playing visibly across her face. Something that she’d lost over time. It made Spike feel sad.
“All right,” she finally said. “I believe you. What do I need to do to stop it from happening?”
Spike told her as much as he remembered about the curse, about someone named Jenny Calendar that Angelus had bragged about killing before she could re-soul him (though he didn’t mention Angelus). He snagged the shopping list and jotted down information about the Demon Trials, in case they couldn’t figure out how to fix the curse a different way.
“Whatever you do, don’t have sex with him until his soul is permanent,” Spike warned. “And when you do, lock him in a cage and ask him to tell you about Bismark the next day. If he can’t, he still has his soul.”
“You think having… uh, doing it... with me will cause him to lose his soul?” Buffy said, blushing even as she avoided saying the word sex. She reminded Spike of Dawn, and he felt a familial warmth toward her. This wasn’t his Buffy, and by telling her about Angel’s curse, Spike was likely going to lose the future version of her that he loved so deeply. But that was okay. Her happiness was more important.
“Sex and love are one and the same for you two,” Spike told her. “But it could happen at any time, so be careful.”
Buffy fingered the paper where he’d written down the Demon Trials information. “I still don’t get why you’re doing this.”
Spike shrugged, gifting her a smile. “What can I say? I’m a fool for love.” He drank several gulps of his now cold hot cocoa, and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth as he stood. “Well, Slayer. It’s been swell. Take care of your mum. She’s pretty wonderful.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Spike lifted his hand in goodbye, realizing this may be the last time he ever saw her, and he felt a pang in his gut. “Goodbye.”
“Bye, Spike. Let the door hit you on the way out.”
Spike chuckled softly, and left, shutting the kitchen door behind him. He took several steps into the yard before turning back. He could see Buffy through the window, tapping her stake on the paper before she went to the phone. His heart filled and broke at the same time. “Goodbye, Buffy,” he whispered with finality.
He turned again, to leave, and a bright, white light from the starlit heavens suddenly surrounded him, blinding him. He felt like he was on fire…
Tick
...Drusilla put together the Judge, but Buffy and Angel destroyed it…
Tock
...Drusilla obtained Acathla, and was going to open the portal to a hell dimension, but Buffy and a permanently ensouled Angel worked with Spike to stop her…
Tick
...Drusilla dumped Spike for siding with Buffy and Angel…
Tock
...Spike told Buffy and Angel they would be in love until one of them died…
Tick
...Spike obtained the Gem of Amara, but it was taken from him by Buffy and Angel…
Tock
...Spike sought help from Buffy and Angel after escaping the initiative…
Tick
...Spike found himself falling in love with Buffy, notwithstanding her being with Angel…
Tock
...Spike and Angel fought side by side with Buffy to stop Glory…
Tick
...Angel left Sunnydale after Buffy’s death, but Spike remained behind to protect Dawn as promised…
Tock
...Buffy was resurrected, and turned to Spike for respite…
Tick
...Spike crossed the line, and then made a choice between himself and love…
Tock
...The First tormented Spike, and his fractured soul clung to the love he had for Buffy…
Tick
...Potential slayers gathered, and Angel returned to Sunnydale with a pendant…
Tock
“I love you.”
The words Spike longed to hear, from the lips he’d hoped to hear them from, spoken now as flames licked his skin. Sunlight beamed through a hole that split the cavern ceiling, directly onto him. The turok-han raged behind her, clawing their way from the pit of the open Hellmouth, clambering over the dead. The other slayers had fled to safety, as had Buffy’s friends, leaving her alone to clasp his hand in the end. Their entwined fingers burned together, and the words had come like a balm to his soul.
He looked at her, and saw the weight of the world, the trials and hardships and deaths in her beautiful eyes. She was not lying. He gave her a crooked grin. “Now you tell me.”
Her lips trembled, tears reflecting the fire that encompassed him. The ground shook suddenly, and she stumbled back, their hands separating, fused skin tearing apart. She looked like she was going to say more, or stay, or do something stupid and heroic, but he wouldn’t have it. “Go!” he shouted at her.
She hesitated a second, then fled up the stairs, as another quake shook the ground. Knowing she would be safe, Spike leaned his head back, staring up at the sun. “I want to see how it ends.”
He laughed as fire fully engulfed him, burning him to dust. Sunlight hit the crystal pendant he wore around his neck, filling the chamber with blinding, white light…
...and suddenly Spike was sitting on a bed, a broken pendant resting beside him on the burgundy duvet. He looked around in confusion, feeling a sense of déjà vu. The situation was exceedingly familiar. Why did it seem like he’d burned to dust to close the Hellmouth more than once?
The bedroom looked like it belonged in a hotel. Moonlight drifted through the sheer curtains, illuminating the room. There was a king-sized bed, fancy dressers, abstract art on the walls. A small table and chairs were set up by the window. He saw makeup, jewelry, and slaying supplies strewn on all available surfaces. He was fully dressed in the clothes he’d thought he’d died in: jeans, black t-shirt, duster. The pendant that had been around his neck was cracked across the center, resting near his knee.
A lock turned in the door, and the door opened. A hand reached in to flick on the overhead light. Buffy paused in the open doorway, mouth dropping open when she saw him. She wore black jeans and a flowing white shirt. Her long hair was tied in a messy bun.
“Uh… hello.” Spike said, lifting his hand in greeting.
“Spike!” Buffy flew across the room and tackled him back onto the bedding. She captured his lips in a deep, passionate kiss.
Spike was stunned, but got over it rather quickly. He circled his arms around her, holding her close. If this was Heaven, he was going to enjoy every moment of it.
Buffy pulled back, smiling hugely, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Took you long enough to come back.”
“What… why...”
“The pendant. Angel got it in the mail, along with another smaller envelope. When we opened that envelope, a flash of light encompassed the pendant,” Buffy explained. “Thinking it was wiggy, we went back and finished accurately translating the information about it. Turns out, it said the pendant would eventually break, and you’d be back. And here you are!”
Spike was confused, but Buffy engaged him in another deep kiss so he didn’t care. At least, until she stopped kissing him again. “What’s this about Angel?”
“Oh, you’re out of the loop. Sunnydale was destroyed. It’s a big ol’ pit o’nothing.” Buffy propped her forearms on Spike’s chest and rested her chin on the back of them. Spike parked an arm behind his head in order to see her. “We’ve moved in with Angel, in L.A. He owns this hotel. We’ve been pummeling the forces of darkness and the law firm of Wolfram & Hart from here.”
Spike’s head spun. He was back from the dead, and Buffy lived with Angel. Jealousy tickled his chest. “And you and Angel are…”
Buffy grinned knowingly. “Friends. For now. I did get that oil I’d mentioned— ah!”
Spike flipped them both, and he loomed above her with a scowl. “I don’t think so, love.”
Buffy lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck. “You told me once that Angel and I would love each other ‘til one of us died. I died. Then I moved on, to an irritating, infuriating vampire who understands the ripped-from-Heaven me, who chose to change himself for love. Will this last, I don’t know. But right now, you’re who I want. You’re the one that I love.”
Spike’s heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. “I love you, Buffy.”
Buffy’s smile lit up the room, and she pulled him down into another kiss.
Spike had the strange feeling that he was living a different life, that he’d been rewarded for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d do his damned best to live up to it.
He wanted to see how it ended.
End