Beds of Bones

They remained on the side of the road, just holding each other, until the proximity of sunrise became too uncomfortable for them both. Buffy had tried again to get a sense of what was upsetting her Sire, but he hadn’t been able to give her an answer. How could he explain to her…?

He was a killer. A predator. He had killed countless humans, and probably as many demons. Until that night, however, out of all the creatures he had slain, living or not, he had felt guilty exactly once. When he had killed the woman he loved, the woman he had promised to himself never to hurt. It had only been the necessary first step of turning her, but that still had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He had accepted his guilt, and attributed it to the love he felt for her. But this…? Feeling bad about killing someone he had just met, a woman who was nothing to him but a potential danger? Feeling bad despite the knowledge that she was agreeing to it, that she would only die for a moment? It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It couldn’t happen. The Big Bad couldn’t feel guilty about killing!

Unless…

They wouldn’t have done it, would they? The bloody witches wouldn’t have cursed him with a soul without his consent or even his knowledge, right? He knew they had talked about it, when they were looking for a way to get the chip out of his brain, but Buffy had told them not to do it. If they had…he would tear out their throats and without a shred of guilt…and he was the bloody queen of England, too. Who was he kidding?

If they had cursed him, it might explain a few things. Why, for example, he had been so careful not to kill any of his human prey. Why he had felt compelled to meticulously check their guilt. Why he had even felt proud of himself at doing something good. Why Faith’s death had hurt so much.

He was turning into a bloody poof. Or rather, a broody poof. Soon he’d be worse than Angel. Next he’d be writing bad poetry again! And he’d rather be dust than let that happen. Whatever the Witches had done to him, they would have to undo it. That was it, no discussion. He was a vampire! He was Spike! Not a nancy boy with a bloody soul!

It was with that thought in mind that Spike followed his Childe inside the Hyperion, both of them running to escape the first rays of the rising sun.

Leaving a disturbingly quiet Spike to go up to their room alone, Buffy went to Angel’s office. The door was open, and light shone into the hall. She found the vampire sitting behind his desk. Brooding. There was just no other word for it. His eyes were full of accusation when they came up to meet hers.

“You did it?” he asked harshly.

“Yes. She died. But she’s fine now.”

Angel shook his head.

“Sure, fine. Remember how ‘fine’ you were after you drowned?”

Buffy let out a deep sigh. “We explained that to you and I know you understand it. It was just the only way…”

“It was too dangerous!” Angel interrupted her. “If she had to die, you should have found a safer way.”

This time, she laughed. “A safe way to die? And what would that be?”

If she hadn’t known any better, she might have thought he was pouting.

“You could have gotten medical help,” he suggested.

"Oh yes," Buffy replied, exasperated by the way he was insisting. "I can very well picture myself going to a doctor and asking for drugs to kill someone. But just for just a minute, OK. Oh, and she's supernaturally strong and has an off-the-chart metabolic level, so better give me enough to kill a small elephant."

She arched one slender eyebrow at him.

"It's done, Angel. It worked. Faith has her whole life in front of her, free of the Council as she wanted it. No reason to brood over it."

He threw her a dirty look, and she was suddenly happy he hadn’t been there to witness the actual death and resuscitation. If he had, they would have still been hearing about it a century later.

“Do you mind if I use your phone?” she asked, changing the subject. “I want to tell the Council. Hopefully this will be the last time we ever have to deal with them.”

The brunette only shrugged before turning the phone toward her and leaving the room. Unconcerned by his disapproval, Buffy pulled out the piece of paper on which she had scribbled Travers’ number, and dialed it. Collect. As soon as his secretary transferred the call to him, she announced without preamble:

“Faith is dead. You should have a new Chosen One waiting for you somewhere.”

“Ah, Miss Summers. How nice to hear from you. Yes indeed, we have been informed that a Slayer has been called, and we’re approaching her at this very minute. Just like you were appro…”

“Cut the small talk, Quentin. I just have one last thing to say. My debt is paid. I don’t want to hear from you or the Council ever again. Is that clear?”

The man on the other side of the world gave a short laugh.

“But Miss Summers, you will have to hear from us again, I’m afraid. Mr. Giles will confirm to you that the Prophecy predicts the presence of the new Slayer by your side for the coming apocalypse. So we will send her to Sunnydale. With her Watcher of course.”

Buffy ground her teeth and bit back the curse she wanted to spit at him.

“If I may ask, Miss Summers, how did Faith die? Not that it matters, really, but for the Chronicles…”

Buffy answered without thinking, wishing she had simply hung up on the obnoxious Head Watcher.

“Spike killed her,” she muttered.

“Oh, of course. It makes sense. A fourth Slayer for William the Bloody, then. Impressive.”

The detached tone he was using was sickening. Angrily, she finally did hang up on him, and suddenly Travers’ words shed some light on Spike’s reaction. She remembered his pain after he had killed her, which had only disappeared after she had assured him she didn’t blame him. Could it be that killing Faith had upset him the same way? It sounded like a good explanation, except for one point: why would it touch him so much to kill someone he barely knew?

When she joined him in their room he was already asleep. She climbed into bed behind him, pressing herself against his back, caressing his hair softly. It was her fault, she told herself. If she had had the courage to do it herself, she wouldn’t have needed to ask him, and he wouldn’t have suffered. Even though she didn’t quite understand why he had.

“I’m sorry, love,” she whispered as she pressed her lips to his bleached locks.

He didn’t move, but startled her when he asked in a voice too clear for someone who had seemingly been sleeping:

“About what?”

“About asking you to kill her.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, pet. I’m the Big Bad. Killing is what I do.”

There was some bitterness in his voice as he said so, and it only confirmed Buffy’s thoughts.

“Killing was what you did. But not anymore.”

He turned over until he was facing her, and she could see gold flakes flashing in his eyes.

“I’m still a vampire, luv. Nothing can change that.”

She was only trying to make things better, and now it seemed like it was getting worse. Why did he sound like she had insulted him?

”I didn’t mean it like that,” she said softly. “I know what you are. Like I know what I am. I just meant you chose not to kill any longer. And I feel like asking you to kill someone was a mistake. It wasn’t fair to you, to your choice. Am I making any sense here?”

The golden sparks disappeared, and in the faint light Buffy could see his eyes, dark blue, as the ocean had been earlier.

“It felt like killing you all over again,” he confided in a whisper after a few seconds. “For a minute, she was you, and the idea of losing you again was just unbearable. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you.”

His voice broke on the last words, and all Buffy could do was cover his lips with her own for a sweet and burning kiss.

“You have me,” she said as she pulled away. “You’ll always have me. Body, heart and soul. You know it, right?”

“I know,” he said softly.

Snaking an arm around her, he pulled her tight against him. She tucked her head under his chin, closing her eyes and purring quietly as she did so. When she was right there, in his arms, the whole world disappeared. Nothing existed but them.

“Luv…did you ever wish I had one? A soul, I mean.”

The unexpected question was uttered in a voice carefully stripped of all emotions.

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I never thought you needed one. Actually, if I didn’t know any better, I would sometimes think you already have a soul.”

Spike tensed suddenly against her.

“Don’t say that,” he said mildly. “It’s not funny.”

“I didn’t mean it as a joke,” she protested, moving her head back so that she could see him. “You’re a good man. You can play the Big Bad all you want but I know you, Wil…”

His hand on her mouth stopped her from finishing.

“Don’t,” he said, and this time his voice was pleading. “Don’t call me that, pet.”

She nodded, though she didn’t understand his sudden request. She had called him William in the past, a few times, and he had never protested until now. What had changed?

His hand in her hair pushed her again right against him, until her cheek was against his chest, and quickly she was purring again as he stroked her gently. Soon after, she was falling asleep, barely aware of the words he muttered.

“I am not him. I can never be him again.”

The day passed very slowly for Spike. His Slayer, apparently tired from the lack of rest of the previous night, spent most of her day in bed. He was wide awake, though, and didn’t feel like troubling her peaceful sleep. So he was stuck in the Poof’s hotel, with nothing to do, no desire to see or talk to said Poof, only impatient for night to come so that they could leave. If it had been up to him, they would have left right away, bloody sun or not. But Buffy didn’t like being on the road by day and so they were waiting for sunset.

The lack of options led him to the training room. He abused the punching bag for a while, but his heart was not in it. Before long, he was just lying on the mats on the floor, one hand under his head, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips and pulling it away in thoughtless motions.

Voices coming closer finally broke his relaxation.

“…just saying,” Steven’s voice was explaining patiently, “it’s getting worse every time you see each other. You’re always snapping at him.”

“I’m not,” Angel protested calmly. “He’s the one doing his best to irritate me. I swear he wants me to get…”

At that point, father and son entered the training room and Angel undoubtedly could feel that Spike was close. The smell of smoke by itself should have been enough to alert both of them to his presence anyway. Spike pulled himself to a sitting position, leaning back against the wall behind him, giving both brunettes his usual smirk.

“Great,” Steven said almost gleefully. “Now I can ask both of you at once. Why are you constantly at each other’s throats?”

The kid’s gaze was moving expectantly from one vampire to the other, waiting for an answer. All he got was twin shrugs.

“Come on, either you have a good reason and you need to resolve your problem, or you don’t and then you need to stop. Spike?”

The blonde was almost startled by the direct address.

“’Told you already, kid, you ask too many questions,” he replied, a bit annoyed.

Steven frowned then, probably a bit surprised by the lack of cooperation of his ‘brother’. Spike usually answered his questions, truthfully if sometimes grudgingly. A complete lack of any sort of answer was a first. But then, as much as he liked the kid, Spike didn’t see the need to tell him about things that were none of his business.

“I’d like to know, too,” Angel said suddenly. “You always seem to enjoy making me mad, but it has been getting worse lately. Why?”

Now Spike was facing two obstinate gazes, both waiting for an answer, and he felt very much like he was on trial, even though he didn’t feel like he was the one at fault.

“You say I’m trying to make you mad, but what about you?” Spike said coldly, forgetting Steven as he concentrated his attention on the older vampire. “Who are you? Angel or Angelus? You keep switching between the two and you’re giving me a bleedin’ headache.”

As he spoke, he got to his feet and approached Angel, until they were face to face. He could see genuine puzzlement in the other’s eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Angel said at last, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me,” Spike snorted. “What I mean is this. Half the time you barely acknowledge my presence in the same room as you. The rest of the time, you talk to me, or yell, as if to your Childe. Pick one and stick to it. Either you’re my Sire or you’re not, you can’t just play the part only when it suits you.”

If anything, Angel’s confusion seemed to grow at the explanation. He didn’t reply, only returned Spike’s hard gaze thoughtfully. After a few seconds, it was Steven who broke the silence, obviously as perplexed as Angel was.

“Spike, the only way he’ll be your Sire all the time is if he’s Angelus all the time. That’s what you said before. You don’t want that, do you?”

Spike’s eyes drifted to Steven. The kid knew, now, what exactly Angelus had been capable of. He didn’t seem quite so impatient to meet him. Not that it was very likely with the Poof having a permanent soul.

“I guess I don’t,” Spike said at last, softly. “So that just means I don’t have a Sire anymore, doesn’t it?””

Angel’s eyebrows shot up at the words, his eyes widening in surprise and…was it pain? But he still didn’t say anything. After a long moment, Spike nodded to himself. At least now he knew where he stood. No more wondering about Angel’s role in his life. He had none. That didn’t answer the question of what Spike’s role was, but at least it somewhat simplified the matter. Forcing a grin to his lips, he left the vampire and his son, and joined his Childe back in their room. Thankfully, he knew who she was, what her role in this world was, and how to act toward her.