After a few hours, even Buffy’s presence wasn’t enough to lessen the voices, and William slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. He had to find something to do, anything at all to occupy his mind, and give himself the opportunity not to hear them so clearly.

He tried to watch the telly, but there wasn’t anything on at that late hour that could capture his attention enough to distract him. He went into the kitchen and made himself some hot chocolate. If morning hadn’t been so long off, he would have busied himself making a nice breakfast for his lady. But anything he made now would be cold long before she woke. Later, maybe. But what to do until then? Aimlessly, he wandered into the dining room, his gaze falling on the laptops on the table. When he couldn’t sleep, before, he would sometimes go online and play games with other insomniacs. But killing monstrous creatures on the screen of his computer, killing anything actually, didn’t sound so appealing now. He still turned the machine on, launching the word processing program instead of Netscape. For a while, he stared at the blinking marker on the virgin page. It was beating steadily, just like his heart, inviting him to let the words out. In another time, he had used ink and paper. But, strangely enough, it was just as rewarding to hear the soft noises of the keys he pressed as it had been to hear the faint scratching on the paper. The voices didn’t stop, and in truth he would have been surprised if they had, but as he concentrated on his writing he could push them to the back of his mind, and at last pretend he couldn’t hear. He let the words flow out, line after line. He paid no real attention to rhyme or meter and knew better than to think they were any good. But they were a way out, the only one he could find.

Morning came and found him still glued to the computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Some time later, there was noise in the kitchen, and eventually his love came to him, her arms encircling his neck from behind as she looked over his shoulder at what he was doing. He was back to the Internet, not even paying attention to the game he played. He had closed the word processor at the instant she came in the room, his document saved and protected with a password. He wasn’t afraid she would mock his lack of skills if she read what he had written, not really, she was too kind for that. He just couldn’t let her see how much it burnt, how much it hurt. She was happy, and he would be damned again before he did anything to spoil her happiness.

Again, the day passed in a flash for Buffy. She was a little amused that it had gone just like any other day had gone when she was a vampire. She had awoken alone in bed and found Spike in front of the computer. Ate breakfast and chatted with Dawnie and Giles. Checked her email for new orders for the shop and printed what she found. Tried to coax Spike into showing her what he was writing, because, yes, she had noticed that he was only pretending to play and was using the word processor. He stubbornly refused, she pretended to sulk, he made it up to her by rubbing her shoulders as she liked. After lunch, they went to the Magic Box, walking there through the streets and not the sewers, enjoying the sunlight. Training and research. Steven was describing to them the demons he had fought in the hell dimension where he had grown up, remembering their strengths and weaknesses, as well as the most efficient ways to kill each of them. Giles insisted on them doing more breathing exercises and more sparring. Soon, almost too soon, it was dark, and time for patrol.

Spike’s behavior was a bit off, though she couldn’t have said in what exactly. The most obvious difference so far was that he hadn’t lit one single cigarette since they had awoken alive. She had confiscated all his stock, even the packet she wasn’t supposed to know he kept in the back of the living room’s cupboard, and stolen his lighter from his duster’s pocket. She had been prepared for the fight and had her arguments ready, the main one being that now smoking would kill him. But there had been no fight. No protests. He hadn’t even mentioned wanting to smoke. Yet that was not why she was a little worried about him. She had managed to talk to Angel out of the blonde’s earshot, and the brunette had confirmed that he, too, had noticed Spike didn’t look as well as he wanted them to think he was. He thought that being confronted by his soul was probably affecting him far more than he let on. But when she tried to make Spike talk about it, he just smiled and told her she was worrying too much.

They were patrolling through the park with Manon. Somewhere out there, Steven and Angel were doing the same thing. The night was quiet and slow, few vamps or demons were around. It seemed that the word had gotten out that Sunnydale was a bad place to hunt now, with two Slayers and their surprisingly strong male help patrolling every night.

Tingles down her spine. Vampire close. On a bench, by the pond, a couple nuzzling.

Before Buffy or Manon could make a move, Spike was by the bench, stake out. Buffy realized his mistake; she shouted and tried to warn him. Manon, on the other hand, was quiet as she ran to him, and she managed to change the course of his arm as it plunged down, so that the stake pierced the man’s shoulder, and not his heart. The man screamed in pain, then again in fear when Manon staked the woman who had vamped out by his side, and finally he fainted. As Buffy approached, Spike was frozen, his wide eyes, staring at the human he had almost killed.

The man’s mouth had been at the girl’s neck. So he had to be the one. No time to wait or check or make sure or lose time. He had to be. But she was dust now. And the man’s breathing was laborious, the stake still stuck in his shoulder. The young Slayer was looking at him, talking to him, but he didn’t hear her words, because suddenly the voices were screaming louder than they ever had. The older Slayer was quickly at the unconscious man’s side, applying pressure on his wound with one hand, dialing 911 on her cell phone with the other. Then she was talking to him, too, but he wouldn’t let himself hear her. Once more, he had failed her. Once more, he had proven he was nothing but a killer. He didn’t want to know if it was contempt or disgust on her face. So he ran. Away from the bleeding man, away from her, away from the voices. But they all followed.

Buffy gave the phone to Manon, instructed her to press on the man’s wound to slow down the bleeding and to wait for help, and only then ran after Spike. It was dark, and she was afraid she’d lose sight of him, but thankfully she did not, though he had quite a lead on her. At last, he stopped running and entered a building. Buffy could only frown, perplexed, when she realized it was a church.

She slipped in through the half open door, her eyes adjusting slowly to a darkness that was only broken by a few candles scattered around the room. She couldn’t see him and was wondering whether he had found a way out when he stepped in front of her from the shadows, startling her.

“What the hell are you doing?” she gasped, surprised.

“It didn’t work,” he murmured, his voice emotionless. “I tried, but it didn’t work.”

“You tried what?” she asked, puzzled.

He remained silent, his head slightly tilted, his eyes fixed on something past her shoulder. She turned to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there.

“It was an accident,” she said softly. “Accidents happen.”

She raised her hand to rest it on his chest, but he flinched and took a step back, his arms drawn protectively in front of him, as if afraid she was going to hurt him.

“Spike…” she started, but she didn’t really know what to say.

“Yes, Spike,” he said blandly. “Thought it was William, but still I hurt, still I kill, so it must be Spike.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Buffy protested. “And it was an accident.”

She tried again to get closer to him, and again he avoided her, walking along the wall, staying in the shadows, until she wasn’t sure where he was anymore, except for his voice, so quiet, babbling about Spike and being weak and killing and burning.

“What is burning?” she asked, trying to get his attention back.

“Angel should have warned me,” he continued, seemingly ignoring her question. “It’s here. With me. All the time. The spark. They made us human and put the spark in me, and now all it does is burn.”

And suddenly the ramblings made sense.

“Your soul?” she whispered. “Is it your soul?”

He gave a quiet laugh, and that startled her because he was now behind her and she hadn’t noticed him getting there. She turned to him, confused and sad.

“I asked you,” she pleaded. “You said you were fine. I could have helped. Done something.”

He shook his head, walking past her, ignoring her again as he resumed his ramblings.

“Nothing to do. Now everybody is in here. Talking. Everything I did. Everyone I... And him…it…the other…the thing…beneath…beneath you…it’s here too. The demon is gone. But Spike is still here. Everybody. They all just tell me…go. Go to hell.”

Buffy felt chilled, and it had little to do with the cold inside the stone church. For two days, he had hurt this much and let so little of it show? For two days, she had lived by his side without realizing what hell he was going through? She had asked him. She had tried to make sure he was OK. How could she have known he was lying? Could she have done anything differently and found a way to help him?

“Why… Why didn’t you…” she started, but again he interrupted her.

“I do shame on you. I did before. I still do now. Even human I am beneath you. I just wanted to be yours. All I ever wanted. All. Just love. Be loved…”

Slowly, he was approaching the large cross by the end of the church, never looking back at her again, his voice pained and so quiet that she had to strain her ears to understand. She wanted to go to him, but she was frozen in place, hypnotized by the soft words of her lover. Tears started streaming down her face, but she never noticed them.

“My mother, my sister, they loved me. But then I became a monster. Not good enough. Never again… Cecily. Beneath her. Nothing but death... Drusilla loved me. I thought she did. Really believed. So long, I believed. But in the end, not good enough... Not bad enough. Even when she came back, she wanted more. More than me. And I killed her. Angelus... He hated me, I think. And loved me. Don’t know which one more. Thought I had a father to love me at last... But Angel doesn’t care. One way or the other. Doesn’t care about a Childe. Has a son now… Thought Nibblet loved me. Needed me. But found someone better, she did too… Someone who won’t fail her. Won’t leave her alone and scared to cry and bleed… And you. Don’t deserve you. Don’t deserve your love… Broke my promise and you died for it. Betrayed you with Adam. Left you to fight Angelus alone. Killed you. Hunted and broke your trust. Let Dru go and hurt you… Tried so hard to be the kind of man you deserve. Any kind of man. So hard. But even when I try to do good, I hurt you. Always end up hurting you… Always. Don’t deserve your love. Some day you will realize that… Remember that I’m beneath you… And I’ll be alone. Alone with all of them. Those who shout at me. Those who scream. Those who hate me… Those I killed... So many. So much hate. Too much… I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I want to forget again. Can I forget..? Can we all forget? Can we rest, Buffy..? Please, can we rest?”

William’s voice broke – or was it Spike’s? Did it matter anyway? – on the last words. He was touching the cross now, and still was surprised that it didn’t hurt. It should have hurt. He was a killer, a monster, and crosses hurt his kind. Why didn’t it hurt? He wanted it to hurt. Maybe if his flesh hurt then the burning of his soul wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he wouldn’t hear them then and he could rest a little. And still, his skin wasn’t burning.

He fell to his knees, choking on dry sobs. He didn’t know how long he remained there, staring at that piece of wood and metal that so stubbornly refused to give him an escape. The escape came from behind him. An angel of light wove her arms around him, pulling him, turning him, until his face was against her shoulder. At last the tears could flow. They trickled onto her skin as she stroked his hair softly and held him close to her comforting warmth.

“I love you,” she said quietly, and he only cried harder.

If anyone cares, the poem is actually a song by Luc Plamondon called 'Les uns contre les autres' (Against each other). Bloody awful translation by me. (I swear it sounds a lot better in French, and it rhymes too!)