Awards for It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

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Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (for sexual content and strong language)
Timeline: Season 6 (Post Gone)
Summary: Torn and numb after her fall from Heaven, Buffy is haunted by ghosts of her past, and confronted with the truth of her future.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: I know…me with the WIPs, right? I just have a weakness for Christmas fics. I don’t know if TdA or my other WIP (Strawberry Fields, as written under my pseudonym) will be put on hiatus or not. My muse seems to want to work on this…and I’m gonna go where my muse takes me. All I know is, if my other WIPs are put on hiatus, it’ll be very brief. I promise!

Thanks to megan_petafor betaing for me.

This fic is dedicated to coquinespike. It’s not much, I know…but Merry Christmas, sweetie! *glomps*

Buffy Summers was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. She’d been dead for three months, buried a good six feet below the soil. Life around her grave had gone on, as life always did. People mourned, people cried, but eventually, people moved on. She’d lain dead for over a hundred days. A hundred and forty-seven days, to be exact.

Buffy Summers was as dead as a doornail.

Only that was before. She was not dead now. Not on the outside. Instead, she was gazing out a rainy window pane as Tara helped Dawn decorate their Christmas tree. Her body was worn and tired. She’d slept all summer, but she couldn’t overcome her fatigue. Every inch of her was numb.

She knew she should be thinking about Christmas presents or something to do with the holidays, but the impending loom of the most wonderful time of the year only furthered her depression. It didn’t help that her mind was with someone it shouldn’t be with. Her mind was with the one person that could make her feel anything but dead. The one person she couldn’t see, because he was dead himself. And even in the wake of her delayed afterlife, her life was guarded by a script that the Powers had pre-approved. She’d used her detour to rest-in-peace as an excuse for temporary insanity; it couldn’t be like that anymore.

Spike was dead, and so was she. Two dead people couldn’t make life.

Especially with only her broken soul to guard them both from total destruction.

“Hey, Buffy!” Dawn singsonged, giggling as Tara wrapped a gold rope of garland around her. “Wanna help us put the star on?”

Buffy offered a half-shrug, not tearing her eyes away from the rain-splattered window. “You guys have done all the work,” she reasoned softly. “Besides…height issues.”

The giggling stopped immediately, as did the garland-wrapping. Buffy fought off a groan. Great. Just what she needed. More reasons to feel guilty for not being a beacon of seasonal bliss.

“Well,” Dawn replied, sticking her nose in the air. “Bah humbug to you, too.”

Tara forced a shrill laugh at that, her desperate attempt to relocate the fun making Buffy’s heart ache.

“Any idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart,” the blonde witch quipped, then blushed furiously and glanced down. “S-sorry. I’m just in a festive mood.”

“So you decided to quote Scrooge?” Buffy asked, arching a brow.

“She’s just going off what you give her,” Dawn spat, snatching the gold star from the box of decorations. “Since you’re too much of a Grinch to help out, I’m going to go get a chair to stand on. If I fall over and crack my head open, it’s on your conscience.”

The distress that filled Tara’s eyes only made Buffy feel worse. Her lack of a Christmas spirit wasn’t helping matters, and the blonde was caught in the crossfire. Were it anyone but Tara, Buffy might not have minded. But it wasn’t anyone but Tara. It was Tara. And of her friends, Tara was the only one that had personally apologized for the hell that she’d put her through—in her role in bringing her back. And while she assured Buffy that she definitely wasn’t sad that she wasn’t dead anymore, it gutted her to think about what she was going through.

The fact that she was going through a rather severe rough-patch with Willow, but still made sure to come over for quality time with Dawn, quickly elevated her to Buffy’s new and improved list of best-friends. Tara was the only one who understood her.

That’s not true.

She shivered and gazed longingly in the direction of Restfield Cemetery.

Spike.

Buffy bit her lip. Her body had a tendency to tremble when she thought of him. Especially now. Now that she knew how his hands felt on her skin, how his lips tasted in the height of lovemaking. How wonderful his body felt against hers; how he fit inside her in a way that made her feel whole.

But it was wrong, and she was fooling herself to think otherwise. Spike made the hurt go away, yes, but it wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She wasn’t supposed to crave his arms around her or his silky kisses. She wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t who she was. And eventually—eventually—she would remember that, and she’d hate herself for what she’d done.

Right now, she hated herself for other reasons.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy murmured softly. She didn’t know who she was speaking to: the girls in the room, or the vampire half a town away. “I’m just not in the spirit this year.”

Dawn snorted as she dragged a kitchen chair loudly across the hardwood floor. She was doing it intentionally—hoping, undoubtedly, to leave a mark and raise some sort of a reaction from her less-than-emoting sister. Buffy wished she had the energy to care, but she didn’t.

“Yeah,” the young girl snapped. “Not like there’s, oh say, a reason to be happy this year.”

“Dawnie,” Tara pleaded. “Let’s just put the star on.”

“Sure. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the yuletide pity-party.”

“Dawn—”

Buffy rolled to her feet at that, forcing herself away from the window. The bleak terrain only made her crave Spike more, and that was a road she could not go down again. She was too broken, and he was soulless. He could heal her temporarily with his body, but she needed a soul. She needed a soul, else hers could never heal.

And that was that.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced, heading toward the staircase without awaiting a response.

“Buffy—” Tara protested.

“I’m tired, and it’s not helping…my being down here. I’m just the rain on the parade.” She paused, her hand on the railing. “Have a good Christmas.”

She said it because she very much planned to sleep all through tomorrow.

If she thought about how happy she was supposed to be, she was sure she would break completely.

Her room was disturbingly quiet. When life existed in any space, there was usually sound. Usually breathing. Usually creaks and cricks and some indication to give away the fact that, yes, someone lived here. But there was none in her room. There was nothing. Buffy lay in bed, studying the ceiling, and listened to nothing.

She couldn’t even hear the rain.

Perhaps, had she cared more, she would have thought it strange that she could feel so fatigued after a summer of being dead. The mechanics of the human were wondrous at times. Before the Tower, before the jump, she’d lived for adrenaline. Adrenaline had been her drug, such to the point where she didn’t remember drowsiness or exhaustion. The threat of Glory had prevented exhaustion. If she succumbed to her physical limitations, Dawn would die. She’d known that then, thus, even tired, she hadn’t slept.

Now, though, now that she’d been dead, all she wanted to do was sleep.

And as always, sleep found her. Sleep didn’t care that it was Christmas Eve. Sleep didn’t care that her sister was angry or that her only measure of solace nowadays was a vampire that she could never have. A vampire without a soul. A vampire that couldn’t heal her the way she needed.

Sleep didn’t care about anything. It came to her without bias, and took her away in a matter of minutes.

That was, until, her alarm clock shrilled three times. Just three.

One. Two. Three.

And Buffy shot awake.

Three years earlier, under a dying lot of Christmas trees, Buffy had come face-to-face with the ghost of Jenny Calendar. Then calling herself the First Evil, the visage of Giles’s dead girlfriend had launched into a James Bond-like explanation of her evil ambitions, leading to Buffy’s tearful plea that Angel not dust himself.

The girl that had sobbed for her former love was dead. And while she would undoubtedly feel a pang if this version of Jenny Calendar warned her that Angel was about to dust himself, Buffy couldn’t see herself sobbing over him ever again. The meeting with him had been uncomfortable enough. Sitting in a dingy café half between Sunnydale and Los Angeles, looking at Angel and wondering when she’d stopped loving him. When she’d become so jaded.

She hadn’t thought of Angel at all until that phone call. She’d thought of Giles, her friends, Dawn, and Spike. She’d thought of Spike every day—ever since seeing him at the bottom of the stairs. Since he’d taken her hands in his and told her how long she’d been gone.

But she hadn’t thought of Angel. And she didn’t really think about him now. Oh, she pretended she did; she hid behind that doomed relationship to protect herself from Spike, but her mind and her heart was far from Angel’s. Angel couldn’t touch her anymore.

Her thoughts were too often consumed with Spike.

Said consumption was why her immediate reaction to Jenny Calendar’s presence was cold distress. If the ghost was here now to announce that Spike had decided to dust himself, Buffy could only hope that she could run fast enough.

After all, Dawn would be devastated if Spike died.

“What are you doing here?” Buffy asked the apparition, blinking, unwilling to admit how hard her heart thundered.

Jenny Calendar was very, very still. It was not the Jenny Calendar that she remembered; not in life, not even as the First Evil. There was softness about her that only those that had touched Heaven could recognize, and for a brief second, Buffy found herself overwhelmed by the most prominent wave of homesickness that she’d ever known.

“Is that it?” Jenny asked skeptically. “Ghost standing in the middle of your room and all I get is bored detachment.”

“I’m surprised I could work up that much.”

“I can’t even get a little chill?”

“Ms. Calendar…you’re a ghost. Ghosts are at the very bottom of my easily-wigged list.”

The apparition sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t know what’s worse,” she mused. “Paralyzing fear or apathy.”

Buffy shrugged, offering a half-smile. “Maybe if I wasn’t the Slayer.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better.”

“As it is, I’m not sure I can trust that you’re here at all.”

The ghost arched a perfect brow. “Oh?”

“Well, disregarding the fact that the last time we talked, you were trying to talk me into letting my then-boyfriend dust, I am recently non-dead girl and not prone to trust anyone.” Buffy shrugged again. “Or, my personal favorite, I’m dreaming.”

“You think you’re dreaming?”

“An overused excuse, maybe, but it makes sense. After all, anything can affect one’s senses. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.” She paused then with a frown. “There’s more of gravy than of grave about you.”

Silence consumed her. That line sounded too familiar to be random.

“Okay,” she said a minute later. “I don’t remember much from my English classes, but I’m pretty sure that I just quoted Dickens. And…mostly accurately.”

The ghost nodded.

“Okay. That’s kinda wigsome.”

“That’s just the beginning,” Jenny replied, “so you might want to improve your knee-knocking. Some of these guys are liable to get offended if their ethereal presence isn’t met with fear—or at the very least—a little awe.”

There was so much about that sentiment that did not rest well with her. “These guys?” Buffy echoed, wide-eyed. “What are you talking about?”

“You will be haunted by three spirits tonight.”

“Haunted? I think I’ve had enough of that.”

“Oh, so the ghost thing is working on you now?” Jenny demanded, stifling a pleased laugh. “Did quoting Dickens make you a believer?”

“I didn’t say I was afraid. I’ve just had enough.”

“Well, there’s little I can do about that,” the ghost replied, but there was little in her tone that betrayed any true sense of contrition. “They’ll be here soon. The first one will come when the clock tolls one…and the second at two…and so forth.”

Buffy frowned. “Where’s the originality in that?”

“It’s not my job to come up with new methods. I’m just the messenger.”

“But…honestly! Aren’t you all at risk for copyright infringement or something?”

Jenny seared her with a look. “I want you to think long and hard about how much time I spend in my afterlife worrying about copy-infringement.”

“Probably none at all.”

“That would be correct.” She offered a small smile. “Buffy…tonight isn’t about fault or blame. I know our methods are a little…well, unoriginal, but the Powers felt that you needed a kick.”

Buffy snorted ineloquently. “As if I haven’t been kicked repeatedly ever since my bestest buds mojo’d me back from the beyond. Sure. Fine. Bring on the kicking. I think I’m too numb now to feel anything as it is.”

“You understand that I didn’t mean an actual kicking, right?”

“I’ve been kicked pretty much every way there is to be kicked.”

And she’d done some kicking, too.

Spike.

She hadn’t seen him in days—not since the invisible aerobics in his crypt. He’d kicked her out because he couldn’t have all of her. He couldn’t have her where others had. He couldn’t be the guy she took to the Bronze, or the one that accompanied her to parties. They couldn’t hold hands or kiss in public or do anything that announced they were together.

Spike wanted her to be with him, and she couldn’t. And the more he pursued her, the more she kicked. She kicked until he bled, but he never stopped whispering how much he loved her.

He loved her, and he hadn’t been by to see her since that day in his crypt. Where he’d made love to her as she tried hard just to fuck him, all the while loving the fact that she could see his face and he couldn’t see hers. Patrols since then had been unsettlingly silent. Spike hadn’t popped out from behind a crypt or barraged into her house under a smoking blanket. He hadn’t come to her at all.

Because he couldn’t have her. Not all of her.

Buffy shivered and glanced up again, starting a bit when she realized that the apparition was still there.

“The Powers offer no sympathy for the way things are,” Jenny said without prompt, giving her the unsettling feeling that her thoughts were on full display. And that notion was far more terrifying than anything a common ghost could conjure up. “Human deeds are left in human hands. It’s what one does with what’s left that makes any difference.”

Then Jenny paused thoughtfully and added, “You’re confused and hurt, but you’re not alone.”

It had been a long while since Buffy found herself overwhelmed with emotion, thus the sensation of tears prickling at her eyes went unnoticed for several long seconds. And before she could wipe her tears away, the ghost began to fade into the dark.

“Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one,” Jenny reminded her, true to form.

Then she was gone.

And Buffy, once more, sat in silence.

Buffy hadn’t thought that she’d be able to fall asleep again; after all, being told that she was going to be haunted by three spirits wasn’t exactly the ideal note to go to bed on. Thus, when her alarm clock shrilled loudly at one in the morning, it scared her out of her skin and she matched its pitch with a shriek of her own.

Then her sleep-filled eyes landed on the short, dark-haired man in her room, and she screamed again. Screamed and tumbled in a haphazard mess to the ground, her legs tangled in a mass of blankets.

“No need for that, love,” the man said, his voice accented in a vaguely familiar Irish brogue. “Though I can’t say I mind the view.”

She scowled at him and climbed wearily to her feet, tugging the comforter up with her. She wasn’t wearing anything too revealing, but having a man in her room that she didn’t know made her feel, rather unsurprisingly, very self-conscious. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, tucking the blanket up under her arms indignantly. “Who are you?”

The man spread his hands with a helpless grin. “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” he retorted with a simple shrug. “Or something of the like. I’m here to show you Christmases of the past. Guess that qualifies me for the role.”

Buffy blinked stupidly, tightening the bedspread around her body, recollection sweeping in. Oh yes. Jenny Calendar’s warning. Three ghosts. Bell tolls one, and all that jazz. Her own personalized version of A Christmas Carol, because the Powers didn’t think her life was screwy enough. “Am I supposed to know you or what?” she asked. “I mean, I don’t think Scrooge knew his ghosts.”

“Yeah well, you’re not Scrooge, darling,” the man pointed out. “And I’m not here exactly because of a lack of Christmas spirit. If anything, I think the Powers could understand why you’re not decking halls and singing carols at the top of your lungs.”

“One would think,” she agreed, doing her best to keep her chin up. “But you didn’t answer my question…do I know you?”

“We met once,” the ghost confirmed, nodding shortly. “You were in love with a different vampire then.”

Objection flared within her chest at the implication that she was in love with a vampire now, but the ghost was speaking again before she could correct him.

“I’m a halfling,” he explained, grinning and offering a helpless shrug. “Half-human, half Brachen demon.”

“You’re a demon?”

“Only on my father’s side.” He took her hand and shook it hard. “Buffy Summers, right? I’m Doyle. Just Doyle.”

“Doyle.” The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place the face. “I’m sorry…I don’t—”

“Remember me? No hard feelings, love.”

She smiled a half-smile. “Being dead…faces you don’t know kinda mesh together. It took me a while to remember my own sister.”

Not technically, but it’d felt like forever. She’d been ready to leap to her death on the Tower again before she fully recognized Dawn. Before she remembered who she was and that she loved her at all. That she had a sister she cared about—the only family left in the barren world that she truly cared about. No, it hadn’t been long.

It had been lifetimes.

“I died,” Doyle offered sympathetically, shrugging another half-shrug; sheepish, as though he needed to explain himself. “A while ago, actually. Saving the world.”

Buffy smiled again, but there was no feeling behind it. Seemed she and Doyle had that much in common. “Saving the world?”

“Well…Los Angeles,” he amended. “Eventually the world, I suppose. The Scourge wanted to take out everything. Their little glowy-gizmo would’ve eventually been used to cleanse the world of…well, everything essentially non-demon. Vampires, halflings like yours truly…and, of course, the entire human race.”

Wow. That was surprising. An apocalypse, of sorts, that she’d never heard of. In Los Angeles. How many potential apocalypses were there, at any given time? How were they all averted? Did the Watcher’s Council keep close watch of all the hellmouths or places of otherworldly activity? How many ends-of-the-world had Angel averted on his own?

The fact that she didn’t know made her insides numb even further.

How many times would she have to die before she got to rest?

“Enough about me, though,” Doyle said, stepped forward. “You and me, missy, have a lot to do and only an hour in which to do it.”

“An hour?”

He nodded. “If we’re to follow format. Best be on our way. I don’t want to keep the Ghost of Christmas Present waiting. Rumor has it, she packs a mean punch.” As though feeling an imminent blow simply at the mention, Doyle frowned and rubbed his nose. “So, my dear Slayer, if you would so kindly take my arm, and we’ll be on our way.”

He held said arm out expectantly, and with a timely gust of wind, the bedroom window blew open.

Buffy’s eyes widened and she glanced down in horror, the blanket falling from her arms. “I gotta change,” she objected. “I can’t go out—”

“Now’s not a time for vanity,” Doyle retorted, much too merrily. “’Sides, ghosts can’t critique your wardrobe.”

“So says you,” she grumbled.

“Neither can shadows, and that’s all you’ll be seeing tonight. Come now, love. Time and tide waits for no man…or slayer.”

Buffy sighed but decided not to argue. The sooner she got the show on the road, the sooner the morality play would end, and she would either wake up or get to resume the unwelcome-restart of her life with a new cheery outlook. Neither seemed particularly likely, but she wasn’t looking to extend the evening anymore than necessary. Thus, with a tired nod, she abandoned thought of changing and took Doyle’s arm.

“Thata girl,” he commended, leading her to the open window. “Now…hold on tight.”

She did. And she slammed her eyes closed for good measure.

Buffy honestly had no idea what to expect. The gut-clenching sensation of a long fall. The wind biting at her face as her body soared above a sleepy town. The pull of the past at her skin as the ghost turned back the hands of time and dragged her into a world so far behind her that it might as well have been lived by someone else. She didn’t know, and all renditions of A Christmas Carol handled the time-jump differently. So whatever was to happen at the will of the Powers had to be large and flamboyant. They were, after all, the most self-absorbed lot of higher beings that the world could conjure up.

“Buffy?” Doyle prodded, giving her arm a good nudge. “Open your eyes.”

The air against her skin was cold. Not cold like a crypt—Buffy knew that sort of cold. Ever since she clawed her way through her coffin, the only place where she felt whole was inside a tomb. But she wasn’t in a tomb now.

Her eyes peeled open slowly, and her heart about stopped.

She was in the factory. The one that had burned down.

Only it wasn’t burnt. It was very much in-working-order. There were vamps all over the place. Vamps she clearly remembered dusting—vamps that she’d encountered a dozen times. The small one with the glasses. Dalton. She remembered Dalton so well. He was years in the past—had dusted at some point, she could only imagine—and yet there he was. Standing in front of her as though not a day had gone by.

God, how jaded was she if she found herself pining for the vamps of the old days?

“Where are we?” Buffy asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You know where we are.”

“Yeah, but…why?” There wasn’t anything here that she needed to see. The factory hadn’t burned until after Jenny Calendar’s death. Buffy remembered everything that happened that year in vivid detail, and there was nothing she particularly cared to relive. “If this is the Powers telling me to run after Angel, you can forget it. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Besides, I think Cordy has dibs.”

Doyle winced, but didn’t say anything. Well, for a minute or two. Like so many others in her life, the ghost really didn’t have a mute button. “Love, do you see Angel around in this picture?”

“Well, no—”

“So let this be the first lesson. Don’t be jumping to conclusions, you hear?” He grasped her wrist without warning and dragged her toward the nearest corridor. “And don’t look so nervous. It’s not like they can see you.”

She knew that. She’d seen enough portrayals of A Christmas Carol to know how the game went. But knowing it and believing it were two very different things. For all intents and purposes, she was walking down a hallway, dressed in nothing but silk pajama bottoms and a camisole that made her look much perkier than she felt.

But the vamps didn’t know that. They couldn’t see her. They were memories. Nothing more.

Only they didn’t look like memories. There was nothing to suggest that the vamps around her were mere shadows of the past. Everything was so real. So tangible. She couldn’t imagine her hand falling through the wall at her back, anymore than she could swallow the fact that she could walk right past a group of fang-happy vamps and not even earn a bored glance.

“Where are we going?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

This was the factory. If she wasn’t here to see Angelus, she was here to see Spike.

Doyle turned a sharp corner that opened to a flight of stairs she’d never before explored. Granted, she’d never had much time to snoop around the factory. Once or twice, sure, but too often it was crawling with vamps. The only time that she’d had unlimited access, she’d been in a hurry to stop Angelus and the Judge from wiping out all of Sunnydale. But she couldn’t say, knowing Spike as she did now, that she was surprised. He had an affinity for underground chambers.

The way he looked at her now always begged the silent question: wanna go downstairs?

Buffy shivered, trailing Doyle tacitly as he pushed a door open.

Spike.

He was lounging in a recliner, his eyes glued to a television. He was shirtless—drool—and his left hand rested just at the waistband of his notoriously tight jeans. His fingertips just grazed his equally notorious bulge.

For whatever reason, her first reaction was one of astonishment. Vampires didn’t age—they couldn’t—but Spike, this Spike, looked…different. When she was seventeen, he’d seemed ancient. More so than his years would suggest—more so than she ever would have guessed. And to this day, she didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Spike acted like an old, decrepit vamp. If anything, his attitude concealed his age. He was the perpetual kid who refused to learn from his mistakes.

He’d seemed old to her then. And now…

God, how wrong she’d been. Just looking at his shadow, he was so young. That burden in his eyes was missing. The weight of his love that kept him trapped between living and dying was nowhere to be found. The part of him that she’d put there—the pain that she saw every time their gazes clashed in that split second before he hid himself behind a smirk and a comment that was sure to earn him a bloody nose. That wasn’t there.

This Spike—his truly evil counterpart—was free. No remorse. No guilt. No suffering. No longing. No love.

This was a Spike that didn’t love her.

Doyle snickered and rolled his eyes. “Women,” he drawled.

Buffy almost jumped. She’d forgotten that she wasn’t alone. “What?” she demanded.

“You’re not as difficult to read as you’d like to think, doll.”

“Hey!”

The ghost just rolled his eyes again, pointing demonstrably. “That man,” he said, a strange edge in his voice, “is head over heels, out of his mind, bleeding his non-soul out in love with you. Even there. Right there. Can’t you tell?”

Buffy stared at Doyle for a long second, blinked, then glanced to Spike incredulously.

“Can’t I tell?” she repeated dryly. “Oh yeah. It’s so transparent.”

“He’s in love with you!”

“He’s sitting in a rocker, Doyle. If he’s in love with anyone, I think it’s La-Z-Boy.”

The ghost looked at her dumbly. “You sure you’re not a natural blonde?”

Buffy frowned, immediately fisting a handful of hair. “Hey!”

“Have you even glanced at the telly?” Doyle gestured to the screen that had Spike’s undivided attention. “He’s in denial now. Much like some other people in this room that shall remain incorporeal and nameless, but right there. Right from the beginning. Love doesn’t start the way you think it does, girlie. Especially not love worth fightin’ for.”

She tried to do something other than stare at him numbly, but there was little else to reach for. “Are you implying,” she began slowly, “that the Powers decided to make me visit my past—and presumably my present and future—a la Dickens because of Spike?”

Doyle frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “No,” he said, though his tone didn’t inspire much comfort. “Not only because of him, no. You’ve got your head twisted ‘round—doesn’t hurt that a lot of what you’re goin’ through would ease if you took off your blinders. We know you’re in pain, Buffy, but there’s only so much of that that you can pin on the PTB. You’re screwed up in a variety of ways.”

A shrill, hopeless laugh tore at her throat. She tossed her arms up in despair. “Fantastic,” she laughed, an unwanted prickling of tears stinging her eyes. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

“You think that love means letting go,” Doyle said softly. “It does…to romantics and poets and songwriters. To heroes and nobles and men of valor, and all that rot. But to friends? Letting go is hard. Yes, they messed up. They truly did.” He paused, drew in a breath, and pointed at the phantom in the rocker. “He didn’t. He and your sis…they’re the ones you’re punishing for what your chums did to you. Your friends with their souls, right? Spike and Dawn wouldn’t’ve wanted this for you. That’s not to say that your friends did…but Spike’s been around and dead long enough to know that it feels like to come back from that. It isn’t a trip, even for a vamp. A livin’, breathing human?” Doyle whistled and shook his head. “He would’ve stopped Willow if he’d known what was happening. As much as he loves you, he would’ve stopped her.”

Buffy’s head snapped back to the ghost so fast she felt a pang of whiplash. “What?”

The ghost offered her nothing but a skeptical look. “That one you gotta figure out for yourself,” he said. “Along with this…” He paused. “Forgiveness is harder than letting go, but it’s worth the pain of burying resentment. Forgiveness is the ultimate godsend.”

“You’re saying I should forgive my friends?”

Doyle snickered appreciatively. “More than the words, doll. Words are easy. And you gotta forgive more than just your friends.” He nodded at Spike. “Him, for being what you need when you don’t want to need it. Yourself, for wanting something you think you shouldn’t want.”

Buffy shivered and rubbed her arms, her eyes landing again on the vampire in the recliner.

So different.

A trembling breath pressed against her lips, and she shivered again. Just standing there, watching him, made her body tighten with a familiar yearning that she was growing to both crave and resent. He was so beautiful; more so than she would ever admit aloud. More so than she’d allowed herself to think until that moment. Most thoughts like that were beaten down the second they surfaced, but she couldn’t deny it while staring down a memory.

Spike was beautiful, looking as he did now. Looking so vibrant and full of life. He was gorgeous. Of course, he was beautiful in her world. In the present. He was beautiful, but broken. She’d broken him. There was no life in his eyes; there was only sadness. Only dejection. Only things that she was sure he didn’t want her to see—things that he couldn’t hide.

Her Spike was haunted, and she’d made him that way.

The thought weighed her heart down with sorrow. In that instant, she hated the Powers and the ghosts and every ethereal thing that was responsible for making her relive the past. This was something she’d wanted to ignore. Something she’d never wanted to see. Spike was broken, and it was because of her.

She’d robbed him of his light.

Spike shifted and sighed, his hand dipping closer to his erection. And she saw, for the first time, exactly what he was watching.

And her world stopped.

He was watching her.

Her thoughts must have been gifted the ability to breathe life, for the very next second, Spike’s pelvis arched just slightly off the rocker. “Slayer,” he purred, almost subconsciously, his eyes widening as her on-screen counterpart threw a wicked punch at some vamp lackey. “Gotta give you credit…your moves are enough to drive a sane man to the sodding edge.”

“Why is he watching me?” Buffy asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Doyle?”

“Know thy enemy,” the ghost replied, shrugging.

“He…he taped me?” Her mind was suddenly a collage of memories—flashes to half a dozen grueling battles. How he seemed to anticipate her every move. How much fun fighting him was, because she never knew what to expect. He never fell into the common traps that sent most vamps to dustville. He was innovative. Challenging.

She’d been his project, and he’d done his homework.

He was watching her.

“Slayer,” Spike purred again, though this time, his voice was tight with a familiar stirring of arousal. Buffy knew that voice well. Knew how he loved to make her shiver when she was under him, when those masterful hands of his were trailing hotly across her body. Spike-when-horny was dangerous, and addictive. She loved the helplessness in his eyes whenever she touched him, or the way he’d gasp and thrust upward if her fingers dipped south of the border.

He was hers. He belonged to her. And she’d broken him.

His fingers plucked deftly at the buttons of his jeans, and before she could gasp her surprise, his thick cock was in his hand.

“And here’s where it gets a little too graphic for my tastes,” Doyle said cheerfully, turning his back. “Don’t get me wrong, I encourage nudity wherever I go…female nudity. But watching a man beating the bishop doesn’t really turn my crank.” Then, to make his point about how much this didn’t appeal to him, he started whistling the Andy Griffith theme.

It didn’t matter. Buffy barely heard him; she was too enamored with what she was witnessing. Too enamored with the waves of torn bliss that crashed over her vampire’s face as his fingers trailed his length from base to tip. She licked her lips hungrily and pressed her thighs together. She’d never allowed herself to indulge in his body before—not because she didn’t want to, rather because she did. She wanted to know him as no woman had—as she’d known no man before him. And knowing that, knowing that she wanted it, solidified it as something wrong. Something that made their relationship too personal. Something she couldn’t have.

The night that they’d knocked the building down, Spike had done all the exploring. He’d teased her pussy with his tongue, manipulated her clit until she was sure it would stop working, and worshipped every inch of her skin with every inch of his. And he’d never asked her for anything. Never fisted her hair and shoved her mouth southward. Never asked her to suck him off, though she’d known from the way his eyes glazed over every time her mouth moved provocatively that he’d wanted it.

But he hadn’t done anything about it. He’d made the night about her. That night, and the impromptu sexathon while she was inviso-girl. And she knew why.

It was the same reason that their morning-after had gone so poorly. Spike turned into an ass only after she turned into a bitch, and she hated knowing that. She hated being the one responsible.

Buffy hated that she hadn’t explored him. That right now, watching him masturbate, was the most she’d ever allowed herself to indulge in his body, beyond using it to get off.

She wished Doyle would vanish and that the memory would become tangible. She needed Spike inside her. Right now.

“So fucking hot,” the vampire moaned, fisting his cock entirely. “Oh God, yeah.”

“Oh God,” she whimpered in agreement.

“Just tell me when it’s over,” Doyle singsonged, resuming his whistling.

“Bet you’re nice an’ tight,” Spike snarled, throwing his head back. “Like wet velvet. Only you’d be hot.” He whimpered and squeezed his balls once before curling his hand around his cock once more, taking a fast rhythm that nearly did her over. “’Course you would, you dirty bitch. You’d burn me alive.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Buffy knew that she should be mortified. The idea that Spike wanted her even then—evil as he was and hating her as he did—should have made her stomach roll with disgust. Only it didn’t. Instead, she was dripping with need; every moan that touched the air went straight to her clit, and she needed him like she never had. It was only by virtue of Doyle’s presence that she wasn’t rubbing herself in a frenzy to reach fruition along with Spike’s shadow.

Spike’s shadow, four years prior.

When he’d hated her. But hating her didn’t stop him from wanting her. From stroking his cock in a way that belonged in a dirty Playgirl letter to the editor. It didn’t stop him from watching her. Watching her until his eyes screwed shut and his hips bucked madly off the chair, thick ropes of semen flying alongside his euphoric roar of completion.

“Oh God.”

“I’m guessing it’s over,” Doyle said. “Just tell me when he zips up.”

The words were wasted. Buffy was somewhere else. Somewhere between the past and the present, watching a vampire that loved her—or would, eventually—come down from his high. She watched, fascinated, as he tucked his cock back behind the zipper and wiped his hands on his jeans. As he rose to his feet and hit the pause button on the television.

It paused on her face.

“Ahhh,” Doyle said, suddenly at her side again. “Watch this.”

Like she could do anything but.

The look on Spike’s face had her enraptured. There was life, still. Life unlike anything she’d ever seen. He looked more alive than her friends ever had, even when they were young and idealistic. He looked so alive it made her insides ache.

And he looked it while looking at her likeness on the television. Her teenage face, flushed with exertion, smiling through a cloud of vamp dust.

“Slayer,” he murmured, the reverence in his voice unmistakable. His fingers touched the screen, running down her cheeks and across her mouth. Those vibrant eyes soaked her in completely.

For that instant, there was no hatred. Only respect.

Well, respect and desire.

The moment, however, couldn’t last. Before Buffy could summon words to her lips, someone bounded into the room behind her.

“Master Spike, the mistress wanted me to remind you that the party’s starting soon.”

Sometime later, she would guffaw madly at the master part of his former moniker. Right now she was too enchanted with the way the light in his eyes drowned into something painfully akin to guilt and self-awareness. Spike growled at the intruder and barked something about Christmas being tomorrow, not today, and that Dru should try to get on American time for a change.

Then he looked even guiltier, and agreed with a stoic nod to be upstairs shortly.

It was only after the lackey was gone that Spike snarled angrily at the frozen image of Buffy’s face and sent the television crashing to the floor.

“He doesn’t want to want you,” Doyle murmured, soaking the scene up like an avid movie-goer. “Sound familiar, love? Think that he’d be angry if he didn’t feel something?”

Buffy didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She was staring at Spike’s face as he stared at the ruined television.

He looked broken. Haunted.

And as always, past or present, it was because of her.

“There’s more?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, love. You two have a lot of history. Takes more than one stop to soak it all in.”

Buffy moaned. She didn’t know if she could survive another stop. Her legs were still trembling from the last, her heart sore and her mind unable to shake the image of Spike looking as he did. So hopeless. So alone. Even in a world where he was supposed to belong. A world before Angelus, where Drusilla was still his queen.

He’d wanted her then. God, he’d wanted her from the start.

The knowledge had her completely thrown, and she didn’t know if she could take more than she’d already seen. And here Doyle was, dragging her forward two years from their last stop.

“Where are we going?”

“To another Christmas.”

Well, she could have told him that much. That was how this game was played, after all. She did the mystical hopscotch through her past, saw her present, and learned something terribly unpleasant about her future. Something sure to turn her negative-nancy thinking cap around and make her realize the error of her ways.

The trouble was, there was no scenario—no matter how gruesome or gut-wrenching—provided by her wonderfully overactive imagination that did much to frighten her at all. There was a loom of sadness in her life as it was, and no amount of thinking or wishing could make it otherwise. If she died again, she died. And then Willow would raise her and Spike would be there for her and Dawn would still hate her and she’d find herself in a cycle of a life-not-lived.

But then again, her rationale reasoned, there were worse things than dying.

There was the pain of losing someone else. The pain of losing someone she cared about. Someone she loved.

Despite how ever much Dawn hated her right now, Buffy knew, in her heart of hearts, that she’d jump off the Tower for her sister again. And it had nothing to do with missing Heaven.

She loved her sister. To lose Dawn would be to lose herself.

But there was no one else. Not Xander or Willow or Anya or Giles or even Tara, who currently occupied the slot labeled best friend. If the future was that her friends would die, she would hurt, she would mourn, but she wouldn’t break. Death was a part of life. She knew that now, and it wasn’t something to fear.

Even so, it was a tad presumptuous to think that her current attitude wouldn’t improve. She’d only been unliving-girl for a few months; to assert that her gloomy disposition would never alleviate was the most depressing thought she’d ever had.

More so, she wasn’t ready to forgive them yet. And if she had to bury each of them while resenting what they’d done to her, that was her cross to bear, and she would deal with it.

There was only Dawn.

And Spike.

Buffy’s heart did the twitchy-ache thing again, and she tried desperately to ignore it. Instead, she glanced up and blinked in surprise.

“We’re in town.”

“Most of your life takes place in town,” Doyle retorted reasonably. “Unless you and Spike took a road-trip that the Powers don’t know about, you can bet most of what you’ll see tonight takes place in Sunnydale.”

Well, that settled at least one issue. Buffy sighed and rolled her shoulders dejectedly. “So it is, then,” she mused.

“Is what?”

“About him. About Spike. This whole night is about Spike.”

Doyle grinned. “The night’s about what you believe it’s about,” he replied. “We’re following Spike because he’s what consumes you right now. Your unbelievable bias against demons—”

“Hey! Slayer here!”

“Yeah, and half-demon here. Kinda glad I’m already dead, so’s I don’t have to worry about you axing my head off.”

“That’s different.”

His brows perked with interest. “So there’s a difference in what sort of demons you’re dealin’ with? Why, then, do you think that every vampire is the same?” Doyle paused, rocking excitedly on his heels as her mind failed to provide a reasonable retort. “They aren’t. Angelus, per example? You think he’d’ve sat back passively if some army gents had shoved a chip up his righteous arse? You think you ever would’ve let your guard down as much as you have around your man there.”

Buffy blinked and whirled around at the ghost’s direction, her eyes immediately soaking in the oddly soothing sight of Spike marching intently down one of Sunnydale’s downtown sidewalks. And immediately, her gut clenched as her skin grew tight with excitement. There wasn’t a thing about him that didn’t ooze confident sex-appeal. The way he walked, the way his eyes surveyed those around him, the way his duster billowed in a way that most cinemas couldn’t pull off. He was, in a word, delicious.

And just looking at him, she knew that Doyle was right. She’d started trusting Spike long before he fell in love with her. She’d started trusting him after the spell—the spell that had first introduced her to his sensuous kisses. She remembered sitting on his lap, her ass cradling his erection, her back pressed against his rumbling chest as his amorous mouth worshipped her throat and lips and whatever else she let him explore.

She’d started trusting him after that. Not entirely, by any means, but she hadn’t worried about him, or what he was capable of. There was any number of ways that Spike could have killed her, chip or no chip. He was, after all, a master vampire, and he hadn’t made it this far on luck alone. He hadn’t hired demons or vamps to destroy her. He hadn’t bargained with a warlock to render her powerless. He hadn’t poisoned her food. And once, even though demons were on his could-kill list, he’d gone as far as to not harm or hurt Giles when the watcher came down with a case of the Fyarls.

Spike was different. He’d always been different.

“You’re beatin’ yourself up over bein’ with someone that you don’t think can feel,” Doyle said. “Based on what, exactly? All the times that he hasn’t saved your life? The tears he didn’t shed over the summer? The way he didn’t protect you and your kid sis from the bitch-from-hell last year?” He sighed and shook his head. “Vamps aren’t all the same, love. The Powers oughta send a cosmic slap-upside-the-head of all the morons that allowed that stereotype to gain credence. If vampires are the inverse of humans, then the logical argument would be that all souls are the same. There are good ones and there are bad ones. Same as demons.”

She swallowed a groan. “You talk like Spike’s been a saint for the past two hundred years. Hello! It’s not like my ‘he’s a killer’ observation fell out of the clear blue sky. He killed. He enjoyed it. No one held a stake to his chest to make him do it.”

“So no one deserves a second chance? This is a man who didn’t know better until you came along. He was taught to kill.”

“As all demons are.”

“No,” Doyle snapped, “all vampires are. It’s in their blood. It’s what’s natural to them. And he shut that out. Not just for you. You can’t remember this summer, of course, but…” He paused meaningfully. “Ignoring what nature demands of you is damned hard. Angel’s doin’ it, yeah, but that bloke…your Spike, he does it without incentive. I can’t help but respect that. Take it from someone who’s been there. I ignored my demon side so long it got innocents killed. It’s not easy.”

Buffy offered a small, respectful nod. “That’s different,” she said softly. “You’re not a vampire.”

“No, but I am a demon. I think I have a bit more experience in all things demon than you.” Doyle pointed at the vampire, who had stopped his sexy-march down the sidewalk and was staring intently into a store window. “Do you think he’s evil?”

“He’s a vamp—”

“No, that’s not an answer. That’s what he is.”

“But what he is defines certain aspects of who he is. Yes, I think he’s evil.” Buffy paused, worrying a lip between her teeth. “But I don’t think he wants to be.”

Admitting that was big. More than big: it was huge. And she didn’t realize what she was confessing until the words left her mouth and touched the air. Until she crossed one of the many lines she’d established in her head. If Spike didn’t want to be evil, what did that mean for her? Even acknowledging that he had the faculties to care about that—to desire something so fundamentally against his nature—conceded something much larger; something she wasn’t ready to relinquish.

At the same time, though, she knew it was true. And it felt wonderful to get the words out, despite what it meant. Despite how much her world could change with one little admission, there was a certain measure of relief in saying the words at all.

Spike didn’t want to be evil. He didn’t want to be evil because he knew it hurt her—he knew, on some level, that their relationship hurt her because of what he was. It was another thing he tried futilely to keep from her. Another thing that he hadn’t buried deep enough.

Another thing that she ignored, because to credit him with such knowledge was dangerous, and he was already dangerous enough.

To her, anyway. He was dangerous to her.

Buffy was grateful when Doyle let her admission slide without inspection. “Right,” he said, shifting and taking her wrist. “Let’s go see what the Big Bad Vamp’s up to, yeah?”

Her head shot up just in time to hear a store-bell ring and the coat-tails of Spike’s duster disappear. He’d gone into a shop.

Spike was…shopping?

“What the—”

“You’ll never know unless we follow him,” Doyle answered, and dragged her toward the shop before she could offer a reply.

The sensation of stepping through walls was something not even the most jaded of slayers could take lightly. Buffy blinked and shook her head and rubbed her arms, though she wasn’t sure if her skin was actually tingling or if she was just imagining things. “You should warn people before you do that,” she grumbled. “Those of us of the non-ghost nation are more accustomed to, oh say, doors.”

Doyle didn’t reply; instead, he pressed his index finger to his lips. “You’re missin’ the show,” he whispered, nodding at the cash-wrap.

And instantly, all objection faded. In easy seconds, she was completely enamored.

Spike was hunched over the counter, looking at something intently. “’S a mite pricey for a dangly, innit?” he asked.

Buffy shivered. The effect that his voice had on her couldn’t be ignored.

“Emeralds, along with rubies and sapphires, are the three most valuable, most precious stones on earth,” the shopkeeper objected, blinking rapidly as though he was personally affronted. “I assure you, that is a very generous price for such a rare jewel.”

“Not sayin’ it’s not worth the cost, mate. Mighty fine rock.”

“Yes,” came the haughty retort. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m more partial to blue or red myself, but the lady in question…” Spike paused, lightly running his forefinger across the cut of the stone. “This would bring out her eyes.”

“Your girlfriend has green eyes?”

That lent her vampire pause. He blinked and barked a laugh, his right hand stroking his chin as though to smother the amused smirk that stretched his lips. “Not my girlfriend,” he replied, shaking his head. “Not even close. Point of fact, I haven’t the foggiest why I’m in here at all.”

The clerk balked like a man whose next meal depended on the sale of this very item. “I’m sure the lady you’re shopping for is worth it,” he insisted readily.

Spike snickered. “Not really,” he retorted, batting a hand dismissively. “Bloody well guarantee you’ve never met a more holier-than-thou-stake-up-the-arse bitch in all your life.” He paused again, tilting his head in contemplation. “Though it really would bring out her eyes.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, doing her best to conceal the nagging pain that struck her pride. She didn’t know why the words hurt; she and Doyle were in the past, after all, and she’d heard worse from the vampire in question—spoken directly to her face. It had never hurt then. “Why do I get the feeling he’s talking about me?” she asked dryly, doing her best to conceal the sting.

“You think that Spike would be shopping for a necklace for you?” Doyle retorted.

“Psycho obsession?”

“The year’s 1999, love.” When it was obvious that the math hadn’t computed, the ghost sighed and shifted. “It’s been two weeks since the Will Be Done spell. Three weeks since he came to you for help.”

Buffy blinked. More blank staring.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the Indian siege. That sucker gave me one bastard of a headache, and all I had to do was have the vision!” Doyle made a face and pressed an open palm to his forehead, as though the reminder alone was enough to make the ache return. “You remember the siege, right?”

It took a few seconds for the realization to sink in, and even then, it was terribly hard to swallow. “This…” She turned back to Spike, her eyes going wide and her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God.”

“You’re shopping for someone that does not return your affections?” the shopkeeper inquired cautiously, painstakingly aware that any sudden movements would cost him a hefty commission.

“No affection to be returned,” Spike replied. “Can’t wait to get this buggering chip outta my skull so I can off the bint good an’ proper.”

Buffy barely heard him. She’d managed to move far enough to the right so that her view of the counter was no longer impeded. And when her eyes landed on the emerald in question, she froze entirely in astonishment.

“Oh my God.”

“Look familiar?” Doyle whispered in her ear, startling her out of her skin and earning him a well-deserved whack on the shoulder.

“Don’t do that!” she hissed.

“Talk?”

“Sneak!”

“I was right here!”

Buffy huffed and pointed. “You were over there two seconds ago! Just…make a sound or something if you’re gonna be all with the moving. Got it?”

Her demand prompted little more than an incredulous glance. “What part of ghost can’t you get through your head?” he retorted in kind. “And stop redirecting your frustration at me! You’re upset ‘cause of the necklace.”

“Riley told me that he bought me that necklace!” She whirled around again, pointing now at the emerald in question. “That…he gave me that…two years ago.”

“Well, obviously, he didn’t.”

The scene, of course, had no pause button, and Buffy’s bickering with her Ghost of Christmas Past came at the price of the shopkeeper’s reaction to Spike’s rather blunt declaration. That being that he wanted to kill her—Buffy—but buy her pretty things in the meantime.

However, what the shopkeeper lacked in etiquette, he more than made up for in general Sunnydale knowledge. There was no mistaking the widening of his eyes, nor the way he kept glancing to the hanging mirror on the opposing wall. The hanging mirror that cast only his reflection. “Umm,” he said. “E-emeralds are…representative of…luck…”

“So the leprechaun on the cereal commercial tells me.”

“—and hope. And…protection from evil.”

That seemed to perk the vampire’s interest. “Yeah?” he replied, arching a brow. “Fancy that.”

“Are you interested…in protecting her?” The shopkeeper swallowed hard. “From evil?”

“Until I can off her myself, I s’pose,” Spike agreed with a nod. “Yeah. Want the Slayer nice an’ squirming till her soldier boys undo whatever they did upstairs.” He tossed a careless glance upward, and grinned wickedly at the frightful look on the other man’s face. “Emeralds can’t warn me off, y’know. Sellin’ it to me’s not gonna make my skin burn or any of that rot. I expect the warding-off-evil bit’s in the superstition. Sapphires represent royalty, for example. An’ rubies…passion an’ lust.”

There was another pause, then, and Spike’s eyes fogged over then in a look that Buffy knew well. Very well. It was a look he’d given her a thousand times. A look that made her tremble, made her ache, made her painfully wet and incapable of doing anything but beg him to take her just a little harder. To keep her body in fiery motion so that her mind didn’t have a chance to keep up. Oh yes. Buffy knew that look well.

“You know about precious stones?” the shopkeeper asked timidly.

It took a minute for the hazy glaze to vacate Spike’s eyes. “Well, you gotta pass the time somehow. ‘Sides, I was with a woman who loved all things sparkly for well over a century. An’ when you’re at the side of a princess, you treat her royally.”

Buffy swallowed hard. That was so not a pang of jealousy. No, it was not. Next question please.

“A-and do you think that…that a ruby or a sapphire, then, would better fit the, umm, lady in question?”

Spike glanced up slowly. “Slayer’s definitely royal. Royal blood, an’ all that. Or somethin’ of the like. An’ red…” He began to drift back into a place of lusty goodness, but quickly snapped out of it. “Red…yeah, she’s a creature of passion, all right. Bloody gorgeous in her element.”

“W-would you prefer to look at a ruby, then?”

The vampire sighed and straightened, his hands sliding into the pockets of his duster. “It’d prob’ly make more sense,” he conceded, though his eyes had wandered back to the emerald on the counter, and that wondrously soft countenance that Buffy secretly adored flooded him whole. “But…the emerald…her eyes…”

“Wards off evil,” the shopkeeper agreed.

“Yeah…”

The look on his face was something that Buffy would never forget. If she lived a thousand years or more, she would never forget this. Never forget the moment she’d plucked from the past—the moment she’d relived—and the tender, excited look on Spike’s face. It was a look that was universal—something she’d know anywhere. Something she’d experienced more times than she could count.

The look that came with the knowledge that a perfect gift had been located. She’d never seen Spike look like that. So pleased. So excited.

And this was when he’d hated her.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Doyle demanded, startling her once more with the random intrusion of his voice. “He loves you.”

Spike reached for a wallet—Spike has a wallet?—and fished out four one-hundred dollar bills and two fifties. “Want it gift-wrapped,” he said, tossing the cash onto the counter. “Somethin’ nice.”

The shopkeeper nodded eagerly. “To and from?”

“I’ll take care of that part.”

Buffy didn’t want to see what happened next. She already knew. She already knew, yet Doyle was going to force her to watch anyway. Not that she needed him to tell her that.

She already knew what happened, and she hated herself for it.

“Come on, doll. It’s not like you had reason to believe otherwise.”

The second after Spike made the purchase, the store around them had melted away, and she found herself standing in the living room of Giles’s old apartment. The one he’d lived in before.

Before she died.

The scene was already in progression. She saw herself sitting beside Giles’s very Charlie Brown-like Christmas tree, laughing at something Willow had said while making a face at Xander. Spike was sitting in a chair at the Watcher’s table, drinking pig’s blood from the novelty mug that had since become his.

Past-Buffy didn’t notice the way that Spike was staring at her. Past-Buffy had, for the most part, ignored the resident vampire all evening. Now they were seated around the Christmas tree in preparation for the traditional holiday exchange, and while Buffy knew what was coming, Past-Buffy remained wondrously oblivious.

Of so many things.

“I don’t want to see this,” she announced uselessly. “Please, Doyle.”

The look on her guide’s face was grim with understanding. “I’m sorry, love,” he replied sincerely. “This is a nonnegotiable deal.”

Her insides twisted with dread, but she nodded without complaint. There was nothing that could be done. Wishing it otherwise wouldn’t change the past.

“This was before Riley,” Buffy objected. “Actually, this was when Riley and I were in the early phases. Flirtage, no kissing. And he still wasn’t convinced that I wasn’t engaged or insane…or a combination of the two.” She paused. “And to be fair, he didn’t really say that it was from him. I just…I assumed.”

Doyle offered an encouraging nod. “But he didn’t correct you.”

“Maybe he didn’t know how.”

“Don’t know about that. The words, ‘that’s not from me’ come to mind.”

Buffy scowled and sat back, turning her eyes to the unfolding scene before them. The sooner she got this over with, the better.

She glanced to Spike and winced.

For everyone.

“I wanted to purchase Xander a Swedish-made penis enlarger,” Anya was saying matter-of-factly, nodding her enthusiasm. “Like the one they manufacture in that film about the ugly British spy with bad teeth.”

Spike snickered at that, his blue eyes sparkling. “What’s this? Wonder Boy not fill you up properly?”

“Hey!” cried Xander, affronted. “Ahn! Do you have to say those things in front of the impotent one?”

“Leas’ I don’t need a penis enlarger.”

Buffy watched Past-Buffy squirm uncomfortably at that. She knew exactly what she was thinking. Memories of sitting on Spike’s lap just two weeks prior were more than enough to get her cheeks flushed and her pussy wet. She knew how large he was. His erection had spent the evening nestled against her ass, thrusting upward every few seconds just because he loved the way she moaned.

The day following the faux-engagement, Buffy had mentioned the possibility of a memory-eraser spell to block everything out. It was something she’d never done. Never could do. Every time she thought about not remembering how Spike felt against her, a small, sick part of her cried out in protest. She’d learned to ignore it after a while—after Riley—but it had remained with her just the same.

“I guess we’ll just have to take your word on that, won’t we?” There was a pause, and Xander held up a hand before Anya could make the inevitable suggestion. “And that’s not an invitation, so keep it in your pants.”

“It’s a bloody wonder the lot of you have managed to live this long.”

There were times, even then, that Buffy couldn’t help but agree with him. Not that she’d ever say it.

“Oh, there’s another present!” Willow cried gleefully, snagging a small, meticulously wrapped box from under the tree. She inspected the tag, then turned to Past-Buffy with a grin. “For you.”

It was gorgeous—it was the sort of thing that Buffy never received, thus the astonishment on Past-Buffy’s face was not at all feigned. The wrapping paper was green with streaks of red and silver, and the bow, rather than store-bought, was ribboned in a fashion that couldn’t be anything but homemade.

“It doesn’t say who it’s from. Who…?” Past-Buffy wet her lips and glanced to Willow. “Did you…?”

The redhead shook her head. “Not me.”

She turned her eyes to Xander, who was similarly under Anya’s hawk-like, borderline accusatory stare. “Me either,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe—”

“I already gave her the crossbow, Xander,” Giles murmured from where he was strewn across his sofa, a wet cloth pressed to his head. “A bloody expensive one at that. There’s only so much a man can afford when he has no steady income.”

No one bothered glancing to Spike, whose eyes were glued on Past-Buffy’s face.

Past-Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “It has my name on it,” she observed, pointing like a child. “So it really must be mine.”

“I’d say so,” the vampire drawled smoothly, leaning back. “No one else in the sodding world has a name as ridiculous as yours.”

She smirked. “Bite me. Oh wait…that’s right…”

“Shove it, you miserable tart.”

No one noticed the apprehension wrought through Spike’s body, of course, or the way his hands were shaking. He kept a watchful eye on her, trading glances between the package in her lap and her face.

“I want to slap her—me,” Buffy whispered, rubbing her arms. “I can’t believe I missed it.”

“It’ll be over in a few seconds, love,” Doyle said soothingly. Not that the knowledge made anything better; it was simply out there, and she appreciated it.

Willow edged closer to Past-Buffy and whispered, “Maybe it’s from Riley.”

“Riley?” she repeated.

Spike’s head snapped up.

“Yeah. Like…‘hey, I like you but I’m too gosh-darned nervous to put my name on your present.’”

“When has Riley ever been here?” Buffy demanded. “We had a picnic. That’s it. And I had to tell him that I wasn’t engaged. I’ve never brought him home to meet the Watcher or anything.”

“There are plenty of our high school alumns at UC Sunnydale,” Xander replied reasonably. “Maybe he asked around and they mentioned Giles. You know…’cause toward the end, there, your ‘I’m the Slayer’ thing was less a secret and more a way to keep a big snake from destroying the town.”

“Bleeding tragedy, that was,” Spike murmured, shifting noisily in his seat.

Past-Buffy ignored him, but Buffy didn’t. Buffy couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The nervousness was still very much present, but it was slowly fading into hurt disappointment. All because of her.

“I couldn’t have known,” she whispered furiously, blinking as hot tears pricked at her eyes. “Doyle, I couldn’t have known. There’s no way I could’ve known. Why show me this?”

“It’s necessary,” he replied ambiguously.

“What for? To make me feel like an even bigger bitch?”

Doyle shrugged. “There’s a price that comes with knowledge.”

That didn’t mean anything. Buffy watched helplessly as her past counterpart tore into the wrapping. As the room fell still at the small, unmistakable shape of a jewelry box.

“Oh my God,” Past-Buffy murmured, gasping loudly when she popped the lid open. “Oh my God!”

“What is it?” Anya demanded.

“Ohmigod, is that real?” Willow scooted over quickly, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Holy moley, that’s real!”

“You can tell just by looking?” Xander asked, quirking a brow. “And what is it we’re looking at?”

“An emerald.”

“A necklace,” Past-Buffy said, numb with bewilderment. “Riley got me an…a real emerald necklace.”

“Again, I say we know it’s real…how?”

“It’s real,” Spike barked, but no one was paying attention to him.

No one but Buffy. The Buffy he couldn’t see.

“Well, that’s a little presumptuous,” Anya snickered, sitting back contentedly when she was convinced that Xander wasn’t trying to woo one of his female friends. “You’re not even going out to previously assigned destinations at mutually agreed-upon times.”

“Dating,” the room corrected.

“Yes, that word.”

“I can’t believe it,” Past-Buffy repeated, her eyes wide. “I-I can’t believe it.”

“And we know it’s from Riley?” Xander asked.

“Who else would it be from?” Willow retorted. “Or…”

“What about the occasionally evil ex-boyfriend in Los Angeles?” Anya ventured. “The one that was here on Thanksgiving.”

Buffy froze at that. Both of them; past and present.

So did Spike.

“A-Angel?” Past-Buffy squeaked inelegantly. “Oh my God…”

And that was it for Spike. The proverbial last straw. Buffy watched helplessly as he leapt to his feet and stormed down the hall.

She followed him instinctively. She needed to be there. To see him. To touch him and let him know that she knew now, and she was so sorry for everything. For not knowing then, even if knowing was impossible. She needed to be with him like she needed nothing else.

“Don’t follow me, Doyle,” Buffy whispered, running through the closed door without thought.

This was personal.

The scene inside the bathroom broke her heart. Spike was hunched over the counter, gripping the ledge so hard she was surprised that it didn’t crack. He was breathing hard, his whole body trembling, the pain in his eyes nearly doing her in. Every few seconds, he glanced up the empty mirror that hung above the sink, as though willing his image to appear so that he could have something to curse at.

“Wanker,” he snarled, but the word choked on a sob.

Buffy didn’t realize that she was crying until she gasped for breath. It was too much. Everything was too much. She was standing there and he was hurting—hurting because of her—and she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t touch him or tell him how sorry she was. She couldn’t tell him that everything would be all right, because she wasn’t convinced that it would be. She could do nothing but stand there and watch him break. Because of her. Always and forever because of her.

She was the reason he grieved; no matter the cause, she was the symptom.

“You stupid, stupid wanker. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

“Oh Spike…”

“Spike!”

The call of his name was followed by several rudely loud close-fisted pounds on the bathroom door. Buffy winced at the sound of her own voice. If anything, she’d like to be corporeal for just one second so she could pop herself in the nose for being so careless.

Spike didn’t answer. He was too busy reigning in control.

“Spike! For Pete’s sake, open up.”

“Fuck off, Slayer.”

“Get out.”

“Make me.”

“I want to see how the necklace looks on. Will says it brings out my eyes—it’ll take like two seconds, and then you can get back to whatever you’re doing in there.” She paused. “Presuming it’s nothing nasty or falls under the ‘I’ll have to stake you for this’ category.”

Spike trembled and closed his eyes. “I’d wager the rock looks much like any other piece of trash you wear around that dainty throat of yours,” he spat. “Leave a vamp in peace.”

“So help me, Spike, I’m gonna—”

That was it. Something within him broke. Buffy saw it—she knew it was coming, of course, but she could have identified that look on his face anywhere in any situation. Like all the other looks and glances singular to Spike; she knew them all, and she knew them well.

Past-Buffy’s screams and complaints continued on the other side of the door as Spike raised his arms and smashed his fists into the mirror with ferocity unlike anything she’d ever seen. He cried out as he did it—whether in anger or pain, Buffy didn’t know. All she knew was that she had driven him to this. She had made him miserable. His hands were bleeding and his eyes were red, and while Past-Buffy screamed and nagged on the other side of the door, Buffy stood and watched.

Watched Spike. Watched his face. Watched him until he ultimately snarled something nasty and pushed his way back into the hallway. Back into the hall where the Scoobies had crowded to investigate what the fuss was about. Where Past-Buffy began screaming anew when she saw the mess he’d made.

Where Doyle stood, waiting.

“Come on,” he said softly. “We’re almost done.”

Almost. Almost.

Buffy turned her eyes to the bloody shards of mirror that littered the bathroom floor.

Almost.

“No more,” she begged, her voice hoarse. When she glanced up, there was nothing but sympathy in Doyle’s gaze, and somehow that made everything worse. “I can’t watch anymore.”

“Almost done,” he said again, nodding in contrition.

The words provided little comfort.

Death had cost her the memory of little things. The way her mother hummed while making wassail. The way their Christmas tree was always a little lopsided. The way Buffy would tease Dawn with I know what you’re getting for Christmas as the gifts piled in the living room. The way that they would gather on either side of their mother on Christmas Eve and listen to Joyce’s always dramatic read of The Night Before Christmas.

She’d thought of none of these things earlier. Watching Tara and Dawn decorate the tree had left her feeling hollow and unmoved, rather than weepy and emotional. She hadn’t even stopped to consider that this was her first Christmas without Joyce. She hadn’t stopped to cry, and that bothered her.

Standing in the living room of her home, looking at the Christmas tree that she and Dawn had decorated with their mother, and suddenly everything changed.

“Mom,” she whispered, grief crushing her chest. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, her gut clenching.

“I’m sorry,” Doyle said softly, patting her shoulder. “We won’t be here long.”

Buffy wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I want to go home.”

“You are home.”

“No, I mean…my room. My time. I can’t take this, Doyle. Please.”

He shook his head and offered an apologetic sigh. “No can do, love,” he replied. “I’m not the one that makes up the rules. And this stop is brief.”

“And it’s the last one, right?”

His answering silence was not inspiring.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed, her heart sinking. There were no Christmases past this one. There was this, and then nothing. Nothing until the Ghost of Christmas Present arrived, ready and willing to rub salt in an open wound. “Where?” she demanded, her voice catching. “This is it. I died after this.”

“It’s not a Christmas,” Doyle explained softly. “But the Powers want you to see it.”

“If it’s not a Christmas and this is a Christmas-themed haunting, can’t I just blackball it?” She was bordering on whiny, and that bothered her, but she knew her emotional limitations. After being bottled inside herself for so long, subjecting herself to a torrent of emotional hijacks had worn down her resolve. She was breaking, and Buffy hated breaking. “Please don’t make me do anymore.”

“If I could, kiddo, I would. You better believe it.” Doyle sighed, his hand rubbing absentminded, soothing circles into her back. “This shouldn’t take long.”

It was then that her eyes landed on the girl curled on the sofa. Another mirror image of herself. Past-Buffy, wrapped in blanket, fast asleep in front of the family television.

“Good movie,” Doyle observed, nodding at the screen.

Buffy snickered and shook her head. She was staring at the shadow of herself. The girl that had jumped. She remembered falling asleep on Christmas Eve, exhausted from a long cry and the swelling knowledge that she was fighting a losing battle. That her sister was something other than her sister, and that Glory was too powerful to defeat.

And even then, even remembering how miserable she’d been that Christmas, she found herself envying the memory. There was no despair, only depression. And Buffy knew the distinction between despair and depression.

The singing on the television somehow made everything worse.

“Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, won’t you come out tonight, won’t you come out tonight. Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight. And dance by the light of the moon.”

“Always loved It’s A Wonderful Life,” the ghost at her side continued. “Seemed to put things in perspective.”

Her vision blurred. She wasn’t going to last. “Doyle—”

She never got the thought out, which was just as well because she didn’t really know what she wanted to say. Instead, Buffy seized the out and whirled around just as the front door swung open. An irritable-looking Dawn paraded inward, making sure to be as noisy as possible so as to let the whole house know that she was severely displeased.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” she grumbled loudly. “I know the way to my own house.”

“Forgive a bloke for walkin’ a girl home,” Spike replied, rolling his eyes as he stepped across the threshold. That much provided Buffy with a timeframe. The last year had been such a confusing jumble that she couldn’t remember if she’d locked the vampire from her house before or after the holidays.

If Spike had access to her house, then this scene was before the entire ‘love me or I’ll feed you to my ex’ incident. And it hit her from nowhere that she was looking, for the first time since the shadow-play began, at a Spike that loved her. She’d finally made it to a memory wherein Spike loved her.

Sorrow collided with relief. The burden in his eyes was suffocating. How she had ever missed it was beyond her comprehension.

“I can handle my own,” Dawn retorted indignantly, crossing her arms. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Do I look like a sodding babysitter to you?”

“You sure do act like one most of the time.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “I find it unlikely that any ninny your mum would hire would tag-team in a game of larceny.”

“So you’re a lax babysitter. You still didn’t let me do anything fun.”

Buffy snickered. She tried to summon anger, she really did; stealing was wrong in all forms, but her irritation was subdued by the notion that Spike had looked out for Dawn. There really wasn’t any doubt in her mind of what she was witnessing. In the months before Dawn discovered the truth behind her lineage, she’d done everything she could to get herself into any and every jam feasible for a girl her age. It was a miracle that she’d never managed to break a bone or do anything else drastic enough to land her in the ICU.

Much of what Dawn had done was crying out for attention. Buffy wasn’t so blind that she couldn’t see that. And while she was a little peeved that Spike had evidently done nothing to dissuade the girl from getting into trouble, she couldn’t help the warm fuzzies that touched her heart. Spike was looking out for Dawn.

“Look, Bite Size,” Spike snapped, making an obvious strain not to be too loud. He hadn’t so much as looked in Past-Buffy’s direction, but from his body language, it was obvious that he knew she was present. “Big Sis has enough on her plate to worry about without you goin’ movie of the week on her with every sodding turn. You wanna get into trouble, I’m all for it. Jus’ make sure you come to the Big Bad before landin’ yourself in something you can’t handle.”

“Like what? The mall night-watchman?” The girl had the audacity to roll her eyes at him. “You think I couldn’t have handled that?”

“You think your mum would fancy a call from the police station?”

“Good shoplifters don’t get caught,” Dawn argued, crossing her arms and tossing her hair. She looked every bit the part of a child trying to be an adult, and it warmed Buffy’s heart in ways she couldn’t have predicted.

The carefree child had died the same night she did.

“Then, by your own admission, you’re a bloody pathetic shoplifter.”

“You’re the one that got us caught! Who’s pathetic now?”

Spike’s eyes flashed the way they did when he was on his last nerve, and he held up a hand in some last effort to regain his composure. “Look,” he said slowly, “there’s an arse-backwards violence-prone bint on the loose. One that doesn’t particularly think fondly of the Slayer, yeah? Nabbing her kid sis would be jus’ the thing that would make her holiday merry an’ bright, you hear?”

Dawn had suddenly found something about her shoes very interesting.

“You get the itch to do some bad,” the vampire continued heatedly, “you come to me. You got it?”

She mumbled something.

“Loud an’ clear. I can’t hear you.”

“That is such a crock. Vampire hearing much?”

“You want me to wake up Big Sis an’ let her know what you were up to?”

The girl’s head shot up, her eyes wide with protest. “Y-you wouldn’t! You were there with me! You were…you were my accomplice!”

“Yeah, an’ I’m evil. The Slayer already hates me, so it’s not like I’ll get an empty threat I wouldn’t eventually get anyway. But you?” Spike’s eyes sparkled as he leaned back, stroking his chin speculatively. “I’d hate to be in your shoes if she ever wizened up to how you spend your evenings.”

The outrage on Dawn’s face was so vibrant that Buffy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “You ass!”

“Evil,” he corrected cheerily, his eyes dancing with flecks of aforementioned evil as she huffed indignantly and rushed upstairs. There was nothing like watching him when he enjoyed himself. His grin was infectious—so much that Buffy often found herself feigning a coughing or sneezing fit to disguise her mirth.

Just as quickly, though, he grew somber, and turned his attention at last to the girl on the couch.

Buffy trembled. “Doyle,” she whispered. “I didn’t…like punch him across the room or anything, did I?”

The ghost chuckled. “One would think that’d be something you’d remember.”

“I don’t know. A sleep-deprived slayer is a grumpy slayer, and occasionally happy with the swinging of fists.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about here.”

Spike stopped a few feet away from her, studying her with such intensity that, even now—standing as a bystander—sent shivers across her skin as her insides trembled. His eyes were heavy with longing, his expression bathed in reverence. It was a look she knew well.

She’d seen it after kissing his bruised lips. She’d seen it when she welcomed him back into her home. She’d seen it when she’d walked down the stairs the night that he told her how long she’d been gone.

She hadn’t seen it since she first impaled herself on his cock. When she finally succumbed and submerged fully into a sort of asylum on earth. But it hadn’t happened after that—after that look. That wondrous look of love and awe. The look that made her feel like a fraud. She wasn’t someone who deserved such devotion.

He didn’t put her on a pedestal. He loved her as she was, and she hadn’t the first idea why.

Spike’s hands were balled into fists at his sides. There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t tremble, and the pain-drenched conflict in his eyes struck her hard. He was warring with himself—fighting a losing battle, and because of her.

She saw the same thing every time she looked in the mirror.

Every time she thought of him, and how he was everything she shouldn’t want. How wrong it was to be with him. How disgusting she was—what a massive cosmic disappointment she’d turned out to be. She couldn’t even die properly. Even after she’d taken her bow and stepped behind the falling curtain, her friends had pulled her out for an encore. She was a joke. And because of that, she’d turned her life into a joke as well.

Her feelings for Spike were wrong. The girl in the mirror reminded her of that every night.

Her feelings…

The thought dissolved as Spike stepped closer to her shadow. Behind him, the movie rolled on.

“What is it you want, Mary? What do you want?”

He exhaled slowly, a disobedient hand straying to her face, tenderly brushing fallen tendrils aside.

“You-you want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”

A gentle smile graced his gorgeous face.

“Hey, that's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary.”

Spike straightened and sighed, pulling on the quilt that was draped along the back of the sofa. “Happy Christmas, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging the coverlet over her body, hesitating, then gently caressing her brow with his lips.

Then he turned around and left.

And with tears streaming down her face, Buffy could only stare. “Doyle,” she whispered. “Please…”

“It’s almost over.”

“It needs to be over now.”

Just as her observation touched the air, the ground shifted beneath her feet as the Powers prepared the final time-jump. It was a slow rotation, and in a blink, everything changed. The tree vanished, Past-Buffy melted into thin air, lights flickered off as others flickered on. People came and went at a speed she couldn’t follow.

When the scene stilled again, Dawn was hunched over on the couch, her arms folded in her lap, a frighteningly blank look on her face. Tara was beside her, rubbing her back and speaking words that Buffy couldn’t hear.

Something was very wrong here.

“Doyle—”

The doorbell rang and her heart leapt into her throat. Whatever she was about to say was quickly forgotten.

“That’s him,” Willow announced, emerging from the kitchen with a dishrag in her hand. “I’ll get it.”

Buffy didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Doyle clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Be wary, love,” he whispered. “This is gonna be hard for you.”

As bruised as she felt, Buffy fought off a snicker. That much was laughable. Hard on her? Like the evening had been a cake walk up until this point.

The next second, though, she understood and appreciated his warning.

Spike’s usually tight-fitting tee hung off his broken body. His eyes were large and hollow, his skin so pale that he was nearly invisible under the glow of the porch light. There was no life in him at all. He was just there, just existing. A portrait of a man drowning in sorrow, come to life on her porch. He was there. Had he been anything less than a vampire, the earth would have claimed him by now.

“Doyle…”

“Just watch.”

As if she had a choice.

“Thank you for coming,” Willow said softly. “I’m really, really sorry to bother you…but we didn’t know what else to do.”

Spike nodded without meeting her eyes. “Yeah. Where is she?”

The redhead stepped aside, welcoming him in with a gesture. “In the living room.”

He shoved past her without replying, and when he fully stepped into view, Buffy nearly collapsed to her knees. She would have, had Doyle not been beside her. Spike was a tower of strength—her tower of strength—and he was broken. Her tower of strength was broken. She’d never seen Spike like this—so empty and defeated. Not with the sting of rejection or the smack of a biting insult. He’d never personified the living dead; no vampire truly had. But now, in her home, with his ribcages poking through his tee when he moved, he was nothing but an animated corpse, and from the look on his face, he didn’t know why he still moved at all.

“Tara, Willow,” Spike said softly, sitting at the edge of the coffee table. “Could you two bugger off for a bit?”

The girls readily agreed—too readily. Buffy had never seen them act that way around him. Like he was an ally. Like he was a friend. It certainly wasn’t a courtesy that had extended beyond her resurrection. Willow hardly mentioned Spike, and if she did, it was usually something snide. Tara barely spoke at all, and never about vampires. Never about anything related to slaying or world-saveage—ostensibly nothing that could remind Buffy of the world she’d been brought back to save. A world that, evidently, couldn’t survive if she died.

Resentment poisoned her stomach. Spike was good enough for them only if she was dead?

“Dawn,” Spike said softly, his heavy eyes taking the girl in. “Can you look at me?”

Dawn just sat, blank and numb with no response. She didn’t even meet his gaze.

“Willow tells me you haven’t been eating.”

“Neither have you,” she replied. There was no accusation in her voice. It was an observation and nothing more.

Spike blinked but didn’t reel in defense. There was nothing to defend; he knew it just as she did. Just as Buffy did. He hadn’t eaten since the jump.

Since Buffy’s gift.

“I know,” he said after a long minute, a heavy sigh crashing down on his shoulders. “It hasn’t been easy, has it?”

“I don’t even know how you can look at me.” Dawn shook hard, at last turning her tear-filled eyes upward. “She jumped because of me. If it weren’t for me, she’d be here. She’d still be here.”

The words obviously had him rattled, but Spike refused to take the bait. “You think so?”

“I know so!”

“You think Buffy would’ve been able to go on if she’d let you die?”

Dawn bristled, breaking eye-contact again. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t…no, stop it.” Spike seized a handful of hair and jerked her face back up. “Don’t fuck with me, Bit. I can’t bloody take it. You think I don’t know what you’re goin’ through? You don’t think…it was me, too. I didn’t get there fast enough. If I’d done something different…if I’d never gone to that bastard Doc to begin with…even if I didn’t make it, I could’ve saved her. Saved you. Saved you both. You think that doesn’t haunt me every sodding second? I’m here an’ she’s not.”

“You weren’t the Key,” Dawn objected, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She jumped—”

“She jumped because she’s Buffy, an’ we all know how Buffy is.” A painful smile split his lips. “She gets some zany idea lodged in that thick head of hers, an’ there’s no turnin’ her around from it. She said she wasn’t losing anyone…an’ she didn’t.” He shivered hard, blinking rapidly to avoid an onslaught of tears. “We lost her.”

“Because of me.”

Anger sparked his eyes at that. Not much, but enough. “So you think that’s it?” he demanded roughly. “You think you can give up? I bloody well swore to protect you, Bit. An’ as long as I have to be around, you have to be around. Suck it up an’ deal.”

And just like that, something in Dawn snapped. Something powerful. Something that, like so many things about her sister, Buffy had never seen before. And it crippled her completely. “You don’t get it!” the girl screamed. “It was supposed to be me. From the very beginning, it was supposed to be me. The monks made me. They didn’t make you, Spike. You did your best—and what did I do? I got Buffy killed. She jumped because of me. And now you want me to…you want me to, what? Eat cereal that’s supposed to be hers? Watch television in the place she used to sit? Do my homework, because Buffy won’t ever get a chance to…how can you expect me to do the things she should be doing?”

His eyes were a sea of pain. “Stop it.”

“She jumped and it’s—”

“Stop it.”

“Everything…all of it—”

“Stop it!” The roar that tore at Spike’s throat shook the house to its foundation, his lithe, starving body bounding upward in a blink. Sorrow seeped into fury, and the demon that he’d tried so hard to suppress—the one that he’d tamed for her—burst forward before he could pull the leash.

He was angry. He was furious. He was broken with grief, half-existing, and furious.

“How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you?”

“Spike?”

“You’re right. Okay? You’re right. She did jump for you. She jumped in your place. If it weren’t for you, she’d…” He broke off, shaking his head incredulously. “She gave you something precious. It wasn’t to save the world, Dawn. It was to save you. She jumped to save you.An’ how do you repay her? You mope. You sit here an’ feel sorry for yourself because you can’t be dead. She died so that you could live, an’ you’re killing yourself. Do you care so little for her that you’re willing to—”

Dawn was on her feet the next instant, her face a mess of tears. “You bastard!” she shrieked. “How can you say that? How can…I loved her—”

He snickered. “You have a funny way of showin’ it.”

“How can you tell me to live when all you want to do is die?”

“Because she didn’t jump for me,” Spike ground out. “She jumped for you. You were her whole bloody world, an’ if you think I’m gonna disrespect her memory by letting you waste away, you have another thing comin’. I love her too much to let you do this to yourself. To let you spit on what she gave you. You little ungrateful—”

“Spike?”

Dawn’s voice had broken. And the next second, she launched into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder as her body collapsed into tears. It was over then. Everything was over. In easy seconds, they were crying together. Holding each other as they sobbed.

Buffy’s legs buckled and her knees hit the floor hard. This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. She needed to be there—she needed to go to them. She needed to be anywhere but caught in limbo. They were breaking—her sister, Spike—the ones she cared about were breaking, and she couldn’t touch them. She couldn’t reach for them and make it better.

“This is cruel,” she managed through her tears, glaring at Doyle with spite she didn’t feel. “How can the Powers show me this?”

“How can they not?” he replied enigmatically. “You’ve been thinking all along that it was about you—and it has been, to a point. But bringing you back to life…as selfish as that was, it’s no more selfish than what you’re putting them through. And we needed you to see that.” He gestured to her sister and the weeping vampire. “These are the shadows of the things that have been. They are what they are.”

Buffy wiped at her eyes. The scene had calmed. Spike was now rocking Dawn in his arms, looking every bit the part of a protective brother. And despite his angry words—the things he’d shouted—it was impossible to miss the concern in his eyes. The part of him that loved Dawn as though she was his blood—as though she was just as much his sister as she was Buffy’s.

He cared for her, and there was no hiding from that.

“You can’t give up now,” Spike murmured into the girl’s hair. “You’re better than that, Sweet Bit. She wouldn’t want this for you.”

“Or for you,” Dawn argued, wiping her nose absently on his shirt. “She wouldn’t want you to starve yourself.”

Objection flared in the vampire’s eyes, but he nodded to pacify her. “Right,” he said. “Then both of us should get our act together, yeah? Starting with…this bloody starving yourself bit needs to end.”

“I’ll stop if you stop.”

A weak grin spread across his lips, and he nodded slowly. “You pull a rough deal, munchkin.”

A rough deal. A Summers’ deal.

That much remained unsaid.

The rest happened quickly. Spike led Dawn into the kitchen and watched as she ate a sandwich. He spoke briefly to Willow and Tara, letting them know what had transpired, even though he knew that they required no report. He promised to be by the next evening to make sure that Dawn ate, and to watch out for her if the Scoobies needed to get something done.

Willow thanked him profusely. Tara hugged him, tears in her eyes. And then he left.

And Buffy and Doyle followed. Wordlessly, side-by-side, they walked with Spike to the cemetery.

Doyle didn’t follow him inside the crypt, but Buffy did. And she said nothing. Not as Spike lit his candles. Not as he undressed. Not as her eyes drew in the broken, defeated sight of his gorgeous body, unimpeded by clothing. Not as he collapsed on his bed downstairs, holding his head in his hands.

Not even as he started crying.

She couldn’t say anything. Her tears wouldn’t let her.

So she stood. And watched. And wept. And somehow, without realizing it, she found herself alone. She watched Spike until he wasn’t there anymore. Until the crypt faded into shadows, and she found herself sitting on her bed.

She was home. She was finally home.

“Oh God,” Buffy whispered into her hands, breaking again. “Oh God.”

It was over. Her wounded heart sighed in relief. Finally, it was over.

It was over…for a few minutes anyway.

Until the alarm clock on her nightstand announced the two o’clock hour.

In a blink, the gut-clenching fear that had chased her all last year came storming back. The sleepless nights. The endless days. The never-ending panic over where Dawn was and who she was with. The way that she’d constantly mapped out the quickest route to the hospital wherever she went. Buffy had never faced a foe like Glory. In every battle she’d fought, while a very real part of her rushed with the possibility of death, she’d always known, in the end, that she would emerge the victor.

The Master had ruined her fear of death. How could she fear what she’d already experienced? What she’d walked away from with only the shadow of a scar to show for it? Angel had gone evil and she’d never doubted that she could defeat him. The Mayor had nearly wiped Sunnydale off the map, but she’d always known, deep down, that he wouldn’t succeed. The Initiative had barely earned a shiver.

Then Glory came along, and everything changed.

Glory came along, and Buffy realized that she was mortal.

Glory came along, and Buffy at last learned the meaning of fear.

Fear had nipped her heels all year, but similarly, fear had died with her. When Buffy jumped, she’d taken her fear along for the ride. There was no fear in the fall. Not of breaking. Not of losing. Not even of death. There was no fear at all. And in the weeks since Willow and friends tore her from Heaven, fear had lived elsewhere. There was nothing but complete dullness of her emotions.

Unless she was with Spike. Spike had a way of reviving her emotions—just not the ones he wanted. Not the ones he probably deserved.

A part of Buffy was certain that those emotions—love, compassion, kindness—remained dead. Perhaps Heaven had claimed her better angels before the fall. Perhaps she only took with her what would be welcome in Hell.

It was Glory’s fault, of course. Everything was Glory’s fault. But Glory, like all others, had been defeated. She was dead. She was dead like the Master was dead. Like the Mayor was dead. Like Maggie Walsh was dead.

Only not, because she was standing in the middle of Buffy’s room.

And with her, she’d returned the Slayer’s fear.

Buffy was on her feet before she could blink, her chest tightening and a gasp clawing at her throat. Her body was worn and tired. Her eyes were still red and raw from crying. And Glory was in her room.

“Oh my God!” the hellgod drawled, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “I gotta tell you, honey, I’ve seen my share of dumps, but this one is really something special. You know? There are some decorators in Hell that could use a few pointers

There was no room to think. No time for consideration. Buffy rushed at the Beast before her mind could catch up with her. Panic was her master, and she wasn’t about to let it down. If she could immobilize Glory, perhaps she had a shot of getting Dawn to safety.

Perhaps.

Of course, there was also the chance that Glory was incorporeal, and therefore couldn’t be beaten to a pulp—at least as much of a pulp as a slayer could manage without a troll-god’s hammer. Instead of tackling the hellgod, Buffy ran right through her and smashed headfirst into her bedroom wall.

“Well,” Glory drawled, rolling her eyes. “That was effective.”

Buffy rolled miserably onto her back, clutching at her swollen head. “Owie.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re really, really stupid? ‘Cause you really need to get that memo.”

“What the…”

Glory sighed impatiently and rolled her eyes. “Look, girlie, I don’t have time for this. Get up off your useless ass. We got a lot of boring shit to get through and a painfully long hour in which to do it. You wanna run into walls? Do it on your own time.”

Realization struck her like a bullet. Buffy moaned. “Ghost of Christmas Present?”

“Can’t get anything past you, can we?”

“Do the Powers hate me this much?”

Glory’s gaze averted to her nails. “I’d say so, yeah,” she replied absently.

“You seem strangely…more together than the last time I kicked your ass.”

“You’d be amazed what not being trapped inside a meaty flesh-bag will do for you. You know, on top of being dead.” She threw her hands up in the air and huffed. “Are you ready or what?”

“You know,” Buffy grunted, climbing to her feet, a hand pressed to her stomach. “I was this close to forgetting how much I hate your breathing guts.”

“I’m just touched that you think of me at all.” Glory gave her a painfully familiar once-over, a condescending smirk tugging at her lips. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Buffy fought the urge to frown and jump to the defense of her yummy sushi pajama-bottoms. “Shut up,” she shot back weakly.

“Were you this much of a clothing disaster last year? I remember it being rather pathetic, but not downright sad.”

“This is sleepwear!”

Glory rolled her eyes again. “And, what, that’s supposed to be an excuse? I had minions with more fashion sense.”

There was nothing worse, Buffy decided, than being provoked by a dead hellgod on Christmas Eve. She choked down the instinctive rebuttal, deciding to preserve her dignity. As long as people couldn’t see her yummy sushi pajama-bottoms and mismatched camisole, she didn’t give a good damn what the bitch thought.

“I remember that the Ghost of Christmas Present was the one I liked,” Buffy said. “That’s not gonna be you, is it?”

“It’s not looking that way.” Glory tossed her hair and waved at the bedroom door, and it flew open in a pinch. “Outward we go.”

“Why you?”

“Why not me? I’m the one that killed you.”

“I killed me.”

The hellgod merely grinned and tapped her fingers against her hip. “Come on, precious,” she said. “The sooner we leave, the sooner it’s over for both of us. ‘Cause really? Choosing between an eternity of hellfire and torment and hanging around your mopey, skinny ass all day? Not really much of a toss-up.”

Buffy swallowed a groan. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this.”

Following Glory down the hallway of her own home was, perhaps, the strangest feeling in the world. More than watching the dark sky turn bright in a flash; more than watching her sister and Willow speed down the hallway as though someone had clicked fast-forward. More than knowing that she was walking in the present without being seen.

Buffy was following the creature that had caused her death. She was following the creature that had made her jump.

“This won’t take long,” Glory said, blowing her crimped hair out of her eyes, her tone mind-numbingly uninterested. “Only two stops. And they’re both quick.”

Somehow, she doubted that. Doyle had only made her leap a few times, all for supposedly quick stops, and somehow it’d taken up the whole night.

“It took an hour, sweet-cheeks, and the hour would’ve gone a lot faster if you two hadn’t blabbed endlessly the whole fucking time.”

“I have this bad habit of saying things out loud,” Buffy moaned.

“When you’ve been dead for any length of time, you have trouble distinguishing between words and thoughts.”

“As you should know.”

Glory waved a dismissive hand and rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time in five minutes. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not going to take that long. Know why? It’s quite simple, actually. Somehow, I don’t see us being bosom buddies.”

“I can’t tell you how much I already miss Doyle.”

“You know what? Not my problem.” Glory gestured to the dining room, where the Scoobies were gathered around a strikingly pathetic Christmas breakfast. “Now go in and learn something so I can get back to Hell.”

Buffy bit her lip and counted to ten. She had a feeling that she was going to have to mentally replay the running-into-the-wall bit several times to keep herself from doing something rash and stupid. Stupid on the level of attempting to rip off Glory’s non-corporeal arm and beat her with it until she became deader than she was already.

“My God,” the hellgod drawled in disgust, her nose wrinkling. “What the hell is that, and who lets him wear it?”

Buffy’s eyes landed on Xander, who was passing Dawn a plateful of burnt bacon. He was dressed in one of his obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirts, laughing at something way too hard, which led her to believe that he’d just cracked an uncomfortable joke. The entire gang was present. Even Tara, who was seated so far away from Willow that she practically required her own zip-code.

The table, though, was empty. Very empty. For the first time in years, there was no Giles. Hell, there was no Buffy.

There was no Spike, either.

“Where am I?” Buffy asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, gee golly, Slayer, I’m not sure. I know how much life you’ve brought to the party since they made a zombie out of you. I can’t imagine where you might be.”

“Hey, I—”

“You’re upstairs, dumbass.” Glory flashed a nasty grin, her eyes sparkling. “You’re hilarious as depressed-girl, I might add. Had I any choice, you’d be stuck in your perpetual hell as long as possible.”

Buffy was about to ask why the bitch didn’t have a choice, but decided to bite her tongue. In the end, she didn’t care enough to merit continuing a conversation with the beast. Instead, she turned her attention to the table.

To the people that had dragged her from paradise.

“Somehow,” Willow was saying, digging into a sloppy pile of hastily-made hash browns, “I’m not feeling one with the Christmas spirit this year.”

“That might be the Jewish thing,” Xander suggested. His tone was falsely jovial and the light in his eyes was out of show rather than feeling. “You know…the worship of Santa never really—”

“What are you talking about?” Anya demanded, blinking. “Willow is obviously referring to the fact that we’re sitting at Buffy’s house, minus Buffy, who is upstairs wishing that we’d left her in her coffin. That and the fact that she and her lesbian lover have been without the orgasms lately doesn’t really put anyone into a festive spirit.” She paused. “Would it help if I told you that Santa Claus—”

“Is a demon. Who eviscerates children.” Xander laughed and patted his fiancée on the back. “We heard this heartwarming tale last year, Ahn.”

“I just thought I’d put things into perspective.”

“Oh, believe me,” Dawn chimed in, stabbing at a biscuit with her fork. “We’re up to our asses in perspective.”

“Dawn!” Tara chided. “Language.”

“Oh please. I’m sixteen years old. I think I can say ass.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “And it’s not like anyone’s here to tell me not to, right? I mean, Mom’s dead. Dad’s living up the cliché with his fourth or fifth secretary. And my sister is upstairs, wishing she were dead instead of down here.”

Buffy bit her lip. She was suddenly very glad she was invisible.

And wishing she were alone. The next second, Glory mocked a melodramatic gasp and clutched at her heart, staggering as though she’d been shot. “Oh my! Is the whiny one going to start whining?” She snickered and shook her head. “I really don’t know why you didn’t let me kill the brat. It would’ve saved you the trouble of dying and your friends the headache of putting up with your newly-raised self.”

In the normal world, Glory would have a face-full of slayer-fist for that remark. Granted, in the normal world, Glory was dead as dead could be. They weren’t in the normal world. They were in a dreamlike limbo, and unlike Doyle, Glory couldn’t be touched.

The Powers had likely recognized that sending Glory to her would cause a problem. That would also explain why there were no leaps-of-faith out her bedroom window, or anything that necessitated contact. Thus attempting to beat the hellgod for even looking at Dawn was a wasted effort.

“Buffy doesn’t wish she was dead,” Willow sputtered hurriedly. “The other day, wh-when she was all Inviso-Buffy, and we found out that she might turn into Buffy-pudding. Remember? She said that she…well, she insinuated, anyway, that dying wasn’t on her Christmas list. Or being dead. Or—”

Dawn’s eyes fell closed. “Stop.”

“And she’s been better. Really! She—”

“Willow, stop.”

“—’s very much with the better. And—”

“Stop!”

There really was nothing comparable to the scream of an upset teenage-girl. No one in the room failed to flinch. It was a miracle that the shriek hadn’t upset every dog within a ten-block radius.

“Buffy doesn’t care,” the girl said slowly. “She doesn’t.”

“Dawn—”

“Don’t argue.” Dawn glanced down and laughed miserably, shaking her head. “I mean, why should she? She didn’t have to deal with her not being here this summer. She didn’t have to wake up and think…she didn’t have to deal with any of it. And I’m sorry, but I won’t be sorry that she’s not dead. I won’t wish with her that she’d never come back. She doesn’t know what it was like for us. For me.” She paused. “She doesn’t care.”

“You’re wrong, sweetie,” Tara replied softly. “I-it’s just…your sister’s been through a lot. A whole lot. A-and what she does…or doesn’t do…it’s not intentional. She’s…we can’t know what it was like for her, you know? And yeah, she’s taking it out on…well, all of us, but she—”

“I didn’t bring her back,” Dawn ground out. “You guys didn’t say a word to me. Or Spike.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, muffling a snicker, “’cause Spike’s the kinda guy we wanted in-the-know on this thing.”

“Stop it.”

“What? I don’t see the problem of not telling Buffy’s number one stalker that his favorite hobby might be back among the living.”

A shadow crossed Buffy’s face, and all the anger she’d previously targeted at Glory found itself centered on one of her closest friends. How dare he? How dare he pass judgments like that? Especially given what she knew now. Especially given what Spike had done for them. For all of them.

Spike had saved Dawn all summer. Every night over the summer. He’d gotten her to eat again. He’d gotten her to stop blaming herself. And this was how they repaid him?

“Not like you’ve been singing his praises, sister,” Glory chided, studying her fingernails again. “Don’t see what right you have to get upset.”

Thankfully, Dawn wasn’t afraid to say everything that Buffy couldn’t. “So he was good enough to sit with me while you guys were out slaying demons with the Buffybot…not to mention raising my sister from the dead, but not to tell him about Buffy?” The girl leaned back and crossed her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. “He’s good enough to sit with the teenager but not to be told Scooby Gang secrets. Not even when he saved your asses…how many times this summer?”

“Language,” Tara whispered again, but her eyes were too filled with shame for the admonition to be effective.

“Yeah, and where has he been since she got back?” Xander spat. “Lurking. Following her around. Not giving a crap about the gang because, oh wait, he’s a vampire, and his favorite obsession isn’t so much with the dead anymore.”

Anya stilled and rested a hand atop his. “Xander—”

“You have no right to talk about him like that.” Dawn’s eyes sparkled with tears. “He’s the only one that cares.”

“That’s crap.”

“Buffy wishes she was dead. You guys avoided me all summer like the plague unless Spike wasn’t around to baby-sit.” The girl shook her head, trembling hard. “He was the only one who could stand to be around me. Who told me the truth at all. And now that Buffy’s back, you guys…you just don’t care who you hurt as long as you get your way, do you?”

Tara looked about ready to cry, and she was the only one that Buffy could feel sorry for. The rest of them sat, open-mouthed, staring at Dawn as if she were a stranger. And Dawn, in true teenage form, chose that moment to excuse herself from the table and rush upstairs.

The painful part wasn’t watching their faces. No, Buffy almost enjoyed that.

The painful part came with the knowledge that Dawn wasn’t truly upset with the Scoobies. Not really. Not like that, anyway. Dawn was upset with her, and her friends had simply fallen in the crossfire.

Dawn wasn’t to blame for anything; even if she were, Buffy couldn’t be mad at her. She couldn’t be mad at her sister for wanting her to be alive. That was asking too much. Especially knowing what Dawn had been through. Beyond the apocalypses. Beyond being the Key. Beyond the Tower. Buffy had never once seen her sister look as haunted as she had in the memory that Doyle had showed her. The vision of her sister, her young, once exuberant sister, looking so defeated was enough to cripple the toughest resolve.

“Come on,” Glory said, nodding at the door. “We’re out of here.”

Buffy blinked and shook her head. “What?”

“Out. We’re gonna go visit your vampire, and then I’m on my way.”

She blinked again. “Really? This is really it?”

“Hard as it might be to believe, Whiny the Vampire Slayer, one day is surprisingly easier to cover than four years.” She snapped her fingers and the front door flew open. It, of course, was for effect; the shadows at the dinner table didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Rather, they sat; Willow and Xander doing their best to look innocuous as Tara and Anya traded knowing glances.

Buffy didn’t let herself linger. She was too much in need for Spike. She needed to see him now; see how he’d be spending this Christmas, knowing now how he’d spent the Christmases in the past. How would this year be different?

How broken was he now that he’d touched her wounded soul?

It was something she didn’t want to see, but needed all the same. Every year had caused Spike pain in one form or another, and every year it was her fault. And she needed to know how to stop it. She needed to know what could be done to keep him from colliding with devastation. Thus Buffy hurried over the threshold, not even bothering to blink in surprise when she landed directly in Spike’s crypt.

No sense in walking, she supposed, when a ghost could warp from place-to-place.

“Ugh!” the hellgod complained, wiping her hands on her skank-wear. “The things I do…”

But Buffy wasn’t listening. Her eyes were glued on Spike.

Despite how good he looked, there was nothing that could ever hope to eradicate the image of him half-starved and weeping. Just a short while ago, she’d been with him downstairs, watching him as he cried for her. Watching his broken body tremble because she was gone. He’d punished himself so wretchedly for so many things.

What must he think now? Now that she’d let him into her body while keeping her heart out of reach?

He’d sat with her and told her that he’d saved her. Not when it counted, of course, but every night since the night she jumped. Hundreds of times. Plenty of different ways. A new way every night. Every night, he said, he saved her.

And she’d believed him.

Spike was sitting on a sarcophagus, holding a book. He was talking to someone—that demon he hung out with—but his eyes were glued to the book on his lap. And in true fashion, his eyes were so drawn, so haunted, that just looking at him nearly broke her all over again.

“He’s such a pain in the ass,” Glory grunted. “You have any idea how much I tortured that lunkhead? And I’m not talking that sissy stuff; I’ve seen much tougher men—family men—driven to kill their own children over this kind of torture. I mean, hello, god here.”

Buffy shivered. She didn’t need to be reminded of that. She’d been there for that.

For the look in his gorgeous, wounded eyes as she brushed her lips across his. As she thanked him for giving her something real.

And here she was, not even a year later, denying that anything he provided could ever be real.

“Never made sense to me,” Glory continued, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger. “Still doesn’t, really. What does he see in you, exactly?”

Buffy exhaled slowly, tears stinging her eyes. She really had no idea. Perhaps she would someday. Perhaps. Right now, all she knew was that Spike was sitting on a coffin, holding a book, and talking with a demon.

About her.

“What’d you get her?” the demon asked.

Spike glanced up wearily, his bleary eyes drenched with exhaustion. The emotional sort of exhaustion—the sort that eventually took a very physical toll. “Couple things,” he said. “Not sure…fuck, Clem, I’m such a git. I can’t…’s not like she’s gonna want it, right?”

The overly-cheery demon companion slapped him hard on the back. Too hard not to hurt, but Spike didn’t even flinch. “Oh, come on, big fella,” he said. “I might not know much about human women, but I’ve seen every movie they’ve ever played on Lifetime.”

“That’s the sort of thing you might not wanna spread around, mate.”

“Point being, from what I’ve seen, women love presents.”

The vampire laughed dryly. “Not from me, they don’t. Never bloody fails.”

“Well, what’d you get her?”

Spike hesitated, then waved the book in the air. “Not somethin’ I got her,” he said softly. “Somethin’ I made.”

“Oh my God,” Buffy whispered, wiping at her eyes. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Glory agreed. “How cheap is that?”

Spike flipped the book open. “’S nothin’ special,” he continued. “Well, won’t be to her, anyway. I jus’…over the years, I’ve been keepin’…this.”

“What?”

“Poetry.” He paused. “For her.”

Clem blinked dumbly. “You write poetry?”

“I might mention that if word ever gets out, I’ll strangle you with your own skin.” Spike turned his eyes back to the book in question. “’S not like it’s important, anyway,” he said. “Jus’…something I’ve kept for some bleeding insane reason.”

“That whole book?”

“I’ve known her for a while, mate. Bloke gets a lot to write about.” Spike paused again, another long sigh rolling off his shoulders. “’S not a good idea. She’d read the firs’ few an’ stake me.”

“Why?”

“’Cause when I met her, I wasn’t in love with her. An’ those poems aren’t exactly romantic. More along the lines of ‘want to shag but oughta kill.’” He laughed miserably and tossed the book onto the stone floor, shaking his head. “I’m off my rocker,” he said loudly. “’S not like the Slayer wants romance anyway, right? Even if she didn’t choke on the firs’ poems, she’d laugh her righteous ass off at the rest.”

Clem’s hands came up in protest. “Dude. Hot chicks dig guys who write them poetry.”

“You get this from watching Lifetime?”

“Well, that and Shakespeare in Love.”

“She won’t like it, mate. An’ even if she did…” Spike broke off, breathing hard. “She’ll pop by sometime. I dunno when, but she will. An’ we’ll shag, an’ it’ll be brilliant. She…but that’s all it’ll be. She doesn’t want poetry. She doesn’t…” He paused again, blinking back tears that he obviously didn’t want Clem to see. “But I gotta get her somethin’. I don’t care if she…Maybe I’ll give her my mum’s ring. On a necklace. A long chain, yeah? I gotta get her something…”

Clem made a face. “Why?”

“Because I love her. And it’s Christmas.”

“Christmas is an excuse to act illogically?”

“I can’t believe, with all the sodding flicks that you watch, that you don’t understand Christmas.”

“There are many, many things about you and Buffy that I don’t get.” Clem motioned to the book on the floor. “You’re not gonna give her the poetry.”

“No. I can’t,” Spike replied, his voice small. “I already…I already had my heart stomped on by someone I thought I loved over poetry. If Buffy…I couldn’t take it if she…if she did…”

Slowly, words faded into silence. The scene continued, of course, but there was no sound behind it. Buffy just watched. She watched her vampire. She couldn’t look away if she tried. Not when his eyes were so haunted. Not when his body was so broken. He never showed her this side of him—not when they were together. When they were together, he was always a pillar of strength and attitude. He was always prepared. He was never so shaken. So unsure. Not with her.

He hid himself when he was with her, and she knew why. Oh God, she knew why.

“So, you gonna run over when it’s morning and give your guy a pity-fuck?”

Buffy whirled around, her eyes flashing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

Glory was seated atop another sarcophagus, her ankles crossed, a twisted smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, come on,” she drawled. “You don’t think I’m falling for all this crap, are you? We show you a few scenes from your laughably pathetic life and, naturally, you find that you’ve been a whiny bitch with your head up your ass. So…what? You feel sorry for him? You’ve seen what he’s been through, but obviously, that’s not gonna change anything. Still a vampire, right?”

“Shut up.”

“And he is rather pitiful. I mean, look at him. Have you seen a more pathetic vampire? Yeah, he definitely deserves the pity-fuck.”

“Why the hell do you care?”

Glory made a face. “Umm, reality check? I got yanked out of a perfectly good eternity of torment with a side-order of fire and brimstone to teach you a valuable lesson. I don’t care. I’m here ‘cause the Powers have me in some cosmic timeout. And while helping you out is just the punch my afterlife so does not need, I have to admit that it’s incredibly entertaining watching you go through the motions only to know the outcome.”

In all her life, Buffy was quite certain that she’d never felt so angry. Never. She was literally shaking from head-to-toe with outrage. Her blood was hot. Her skin was clammy. And Glory was sitting there. Glory was telling her that she knew Buffy better than Buffy knew herself. How dare she? How dare she presume to know anything about her?

“Uh oh,” the hellgod singsonged devilishly. “Struck a nerve.”

“I do not pity Spike.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“He’s…I see him. I haven’t seen him before. I haven’t let myself see him. I see him now.”

“Oh!” Glory clutched her heart. “That’s so romantic, I almost forgot to gag.”

“I see him,” Buffy repeated. “And it’s not because of what you’ve shown me—my God, you arrogant maniac. I’m torn up over what I’ve done. You think Spike shedding a few tears would affect me at all if I didn’t care for him? If I didn’t…if I didn’t…” She broke off and shook her head. That line of thinking was dangerous. “Whatever’s happened, he’s suffered because of me.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“And if anything, I pity myself.”

“And gosh-golly, isn’t that surprising?”

“I didn’t see him before.”

“So you keep saying.” Glory rolled her head back. “Trying to convince me? ‘Cause I gotta tell you…there’s no way I could possibly care less. And either way, it’s not gonna work. What’s your plan? Rush over and tell him that you saw what a mean girl you’ve been to him and expect him to fall to his knees? I’ve tortured that bastard. He has more dignity than that.”

“I don’t pity him,” Buffy repeated, her voice growing hoarse, her eyes welling with tears again. God, this was terrible. The last thing she wanted was to let Glory see her cry. But the words were clenching—haunting, and she couldn’t get past them.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t. Buffy knew pity. She’d felt pity before, and what she was feeling right now was certainly not pity. There was no one way to describe what she was feeling. It was the same as wandering for years with her eyes and ears closed, only to have someone teach her how to open them. It was willingly looking in the other direction and trying so hard to convince herself of a lie so that she didn’t have to stare down the truth.

She’d wanted so hard to ignore him as a man and know him only as a monster. It was easier then. Easier to keep herself distanced. Easier to keep herself disgusted. Easier to hate herself for what she did with him, because if he was anything less than a demon, then she was the monster.

There was no hiding from truth after tonight. She was