Disclaimer:Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not belong to me.
A.N.:When I saw the scene in Get It Done, where Buffy completely reams out everyone and then turns on Spike, I had no choice but to write this.
It was done.
He had killed the bloody demon that had knocked his arse through the ceiling, and had dragged the carcass into the Summers home so that they could switch it with Buffy again.
He had on his old black duster again.
His love for the fight was back, his thrill in snapping necks and exchanging blows – his passion for dancing was back.
But Spike was not happy as he sat on the back porch of the Summers' home, staring up at the night sky.
"What I want is the Spike that tried to kill me!"
He fought back a snarl.
Bloody bitch doesn't know what she wants,he thought viciously. Can't make up her mind about anything, and when a bloke goes and gives her what she asked for, she wants something else! No wonder all her boys left her, the stupid bint!
Immediately, he remembered his ensouled status with a pang of guilt, and became subdued.
But he didn't regret anything he had thought, because it was true.
And every time her words echoed in his head, he wanted to find her and snap her neck like a twig.
Then he would feel horror at his thoughts, and wonder what the hell was wrong with him.
In Africa, the demon that had granted Spike's wish smiled suddenly.
He had a connection with the vampire, because the nature of Spike's wish was unlike any other.
"So Buffy can get what she deserves,"the blonde vamp had said. "Give me what I want."
The demon had looked into Spike's heart, and had seen his inner desires. The vampire had wanted the Slayer to be happy, to always be there for her, to make her happy. He had thought a soul was what the Slayer wanted him to have, because she had condemned him for being without it.
And so, the demon had granted the vampire's wish – to give him what he wanted, which was for Buffy to get what she wanted. Until the day the vampire didn't wish that anymore, the demon was connected to him.
Now, the demon heard the thoughts in the vampires head, saw what had happened – "What I want is the Spike that tried to kill me!" – and knew what must now be done.
His eyes began to glow green.
It was searing, starting somewhere in his chest and moving, flowing down his limps, making it impossible for him to move.
He stumbled off the porch, in agony, unable to move, unable to scream.
Despite not needing any air, Spike began to gasp, harshly, deeply.
He was unaware that his eyes were glowing, a soft and pale light that seemed to be escaping by the minute.
What…?Was all that he managed to think before his eyes rolled up to the back of his head.
Completely unconscious, Spike slumped to the ground.
She paused in mid strike.
Tilting her head, heedless of the whimpering girl she had been about to bite into, Drusilla gazed up in wonder at the night sky.
The girl squirmed in her grasp, her cries becoming louder.
"I cannot hear the stars, dearie," Drusilla told her victim, and snapped the girl's neck absently.
She turned back to the sky.
Her luminous eyes searched for the answers that she wanted, that she found.
He groaned in response. Whoever that is, I'm gonna rip their arms out of their sockets and beat them over the head with them until their skull caves in! he half-growled. Although his minions weren't the brightest in the world, he thought they would know better than to wake him.
Spike groped blindly for the familiar body at his side, thinking, If that idiot wakes Dru, I'm gonna… He stopped short. Drusilla wasn't laying by him, and he wasn't on a bed.
"Spike, wake up!"
It wasn't the voice that drew him from the murky depths of unconsciousness, but the sound of blood flowing through veins, hearts pumping, warmth from humans – live humans.
He moaned, feeling knackered. Some food might help. His head seemed more clouded than he remembered, and waking was harder than he had expected it to be. But the prospect of warm blood drew him.
That last voice was familiar – too familiar.
He shot up, his eyes wide.
An entire horde of adolescent girls stared at him, their eyes equally as wide as his. There was just one male in the lot, and in the middle of the crowd stood the form of the Slayer, her hands on her hips and her green eyes narrowed.
"About time you woke up, it's been two days!" she snapped, annoyed. "We don't have time for you to start fainting everywhere again."
Yes, the voice was the Slayer's all right. But her appearance had changed. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, so that he couldn't tell how long it was, but it was certainly a lot more blonde than he remembered it being. Her face was also harder, battle lines creasing her skin, her lips pressed tightly together.
It struck him then – She's older. What the hell?
That was the beginning of the realizations.
This isn't 1997.
Slowly, the memories began to trickle in.
He slowly remembered who all the girls were – well, they were Potential Slayers, he didn't care what their names were in the first place – and he knew who the boy was, and the redhead.
I fell in love with the Slayer.
A horrified look grew on his face.
I fell in love with the Slayer?
His lip curled in disgust as he gazed at said Slayer, who had no hint of fear in her eyes. The other girls, too, gazed at him with no fear.
I fell in love with the Slayer and it made me a bloody poof!he scowled. Why not just call me Peaches Jr.? Why not – oh God.
Spike gazed off numbly into space, ignoring everyone.
Not only did I fall in love with the Slayer, I went off and got a bleedin' soul for the bint!He screamed at himself. His horror grew as the next memory hit him, And I threatened to kill Dru, Drusilla, for her!
He glared. "What the hell did you do to me, Slayer?"
She seemed taken aback.
"What?" she demanded, cross and offended. "Why the heck would I want to do anything to you?"
He ignored her, turning to glare at the girls around him, "And what are you all looking at?"
As if they were one, they all recoiled slightly.
He stood, feeling fine, now. Whatever had been done to him out on that porch, he was completely well again.
Spike paused, then searched inside himself.
No soul,he realized, not hearing any tortured moaning and guilty feelings or whatnot.
Yes, he was completely well again.
He smirked. He didn't know how this had happened, but he was glad for it.
"What the heck is so funny?" the Slayer demanded.
From the strange memories floating around in his mind, Spike gathered that she did that a lot – demanded things of him. The Spike in his memories had always caved, always answered, like a loyal puppy that would come back to its owner no matter how many times it was kicked, just for that rare moment of approval.
This new Spike – or, the old Spike – was disgusted, and couldn't give a damn.
He fished around in his pockets – At least he had the common sense to get the duster, Spike thought grudgingly – for a fag. He found a packet, drew one out, and began searching for his lighter.
He found a box of matches.
"Hey!" he said, indignant. "Who the hell has my lighter?"
Immediately, the Slayer froze, looking uncomfortable.
Electric blue eyes narrowing, he held up a hand, palm up. The message was clear. Give it back.
A bit stunned, the chit reached slowly into her pocket and brought it out, dropping it reluctantly into his outstretched hand.
Lighting the fag, Spike inhaled deeply.
Without another word, or so much as a glance at the Slayer, Spike swept out of the house, deeply disgusted and disturbed.
"Is it true, then?"
Spike stopped walking when he heard that familiar voice. He turned slightly, his eyes searching, dropping the remains of the cigarette carelessly onto the ground.
A shadow moved, and it wasn't a shadow at all, but Drusilla, looking ravishing and strong and warm with borrowed heat, her cheeks flushed with borrowed blood.
"Dru," he breathed.
The last time he saw her – the last time he truly remembered seeing her – she was weak, almost an invalid, clad in white silk and unable to shuffle but a step or two. His distorted memories remembered her strong, but he himself did not.
And here she was, her head tilted, her body strong, clad in a red silk and black lace number that clung tightly to her at the bodice and swept straight down – she had always favored that style, the old Victorian style of dressing, though it was with a modern cut that she wore them.
She took a step closer to him – Miss Edith conspicuously missing from her arms, he noted with surprise; she hadn't been without that doll since he'd gotten it for her in Prague.
"Is it true?" she asked again, her eyes bright and eager. "The stars say so, but the moon will not talk, and I cannot tell if they lie or not."
He stepped towards her. "Is what true, pet?"
"They say that my Spike is back, my William has returned to his mummy," she whispered excitedly. "Is it true? Are you a bad dog again, my darling?"
"Yeah," he whispered back, his eyes alight with the same fire. "Yeah."
She breathed out a little gasp of pleasure, and came a bit closer, teasing, testing, wondering.
"You were so lost, my Spike," she told him, "so lost. You didn't want to be found, I could not help you, and you almost did away with mummy."
Despite the dreamy tone of her remembrance, Spike knew his Sire well enough to catch the hurt tone in her voice.
Contrite, he reached out for her, and she fell into his arms, crooning, and he was comforting her again, like old times, except this time, his crime had almost been too much. No vampire ever killed his Sire. To threaten to do so – it was almost as bad, and Spike wanted to rage at the Slayer, at whatever had possessed him, but he needed to comfort Drusilla now.
"Oh, pet, love, I'm sorry," he told her. "I don't know what got into me."
And her arms came around him, reassuring him, comforting him even as he comforted her, and Spike knew that his Sire forgave him.
In the back of his mind, Spike heard a dim echo – "What I want is the Spike that tried to kill me!" – but ignored it in favor of his Black Goddess.
He was content.