Title: That I May Cease To Be

by cousinjean

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PART SIX
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He couldn't go home. He'd said his goodbye; going back would only make things harder. Couldn't check into a respectable hotel either, not in his condition. So he found a brothel, where they gave him a room and some spare clothes, took his money, and didn't ask any questions.

First order of business, clean himself up. Wouldn't do to go in smelling like blood. After that he slipped a girl an extra twenty quid to fetch him any spare wood she could find, along with a knife.

At dawn he got dressed. The clothes they'd provided were a little big, but that was all the better to hide his new stakes.

Then it was time to go to church.

He stood on the church's front steps, watching the old city come to life as his fellow Londoners woke up and began their day, completely unaware of the war he was about to wage. On his way out of the brothel he'd nicked a bottle of gin. He pulled it out of his pocket, took a good long drink, then poured out the rest. Inside he refilled it with holy water. Then he ransacked the vacant church for more weapons. Crosses, rosaries, communion wafers -- he loaded his pockets, tucked what he could in his waistband.

Of course, his best weapons would be daylight, and the element of surprise. Fortunately he had both on his side for a change.

He knew where they slept. Darla found a spot she liked -- usually some highfaluting place with room service and a good view -- and they all stuck with it until it stopped being safe. Not too hard to rack his brain and remember where they'd been staying in those first weeks after he'd turned, before he pissed off half the city and forced his little family to flee London and go underground.

Family. He'd never stopped thinking of them like that. Not even after they all broke up, not even as he longed to be part of Buffy's family. Not even now, when he was nothing more to them than a candy wrapper. Though there'd never really been any love lost between him and Darla. Taking her out wouldn't be a problem. Angel -- Angelus -- soul or no soul, no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, there was always a small part of Spike that looked up to the elder vampire, craved his respect. 'Course, all he really had to do was consider how fucked up Buffy had been and all of the myriad ways the blame could be laid at Angel's feet, and it wasn't too hard to work up a healthy dose of murderous rage.

Drusilla was a different matter. Even as he'd pressed the stake to her breast to prove a point to Buffy, he hadn't intended to harm her. Didn't want to. The thought of a world without Drusilla in it made him want to heave. But he thought of the little girl in the alley, and thousands more like her who would all die if he allowed Dru to live. There was no choice, really.

Standing outside their hotel room, Spike shook off all doubt and tried the door. Locked. Bugger. Wouldn't be a problem for Spike the vampire, he'd just kick the door open and go bursting in; but William the human would only succeed in hurting himself. This William, however, still had Spike's lockpicking skills.

He fumbled with the lock a few times, thanks to his trembling hands. But he got it open, quietly, and let himself inside. Angelus and Darla slept on the floor beside the fire, in various states of undress. They both looked well sated, and if he knew them it meant they were both deeply asleep. Neither was the type to cuddle, and so they lay apart from each other. That could work to Spike's advantage.

Drusilla lay curled up in the middle of the big bed, clutching a porcelain doll to her chest. She looked the picture of innocence. As he took a step forward, she let out a whimper and he froze. She whimpered again. A nightmare. She had a lot of them in the early days. Hell, it had taken her a good twenty years after he'd first met her to stop having them regularly, and she still had them on occasion clear up until she'd left him. He remembered waking and pulling her to him, holding her close and whispering soothing promises in her ear until she calmed down. As much as he hated Angel for scarring Buffy, he hated Angelus far more for the permanent damage he'd done to Dru.

He fought the urge to go to her now. God, how was he gonna do this? Kill her? She'd been his lover, his partner, his --

Buffy did it.

Spike closed his eyes a moment. Then he opened them and looked at Angelus. He remembered that morning at the mansion. He'd gotten what he wanted and fled, but not before noting that Buffy fought a losing battle. Had he stayed, helped her, killed Angel himself, how might the following years have gone for her? Would she have been able to let herself love again? Spike's shoulders shook in a single, silent laugh. Wasn't he as much to blame, then, as Angel for the suffering that followed? But she had done it. She loved Angel, desperately, and she had plunged the sword through him and sent him to hell to save the world.

Didn't he owe her the same courtesy?

A pair of heavily curtained French doors stood directly across from him. They led out onto a balcony. Spike remembered that they'd chosen this room because of its eastern view, which placed the balcony in shadow in the afternoon. But mornings were a different story.

Spike strode to the doors and opened them. Sunlight blanketed him and the floor behind. It stopped mere inches from Darla's curled fingers. Inconvenient, that. Well, at least he had someplace to run. He pulled out a stake and a cross as he approached the sleeping couple. Ideally he'd do Angelus first, but he lay on his side and Darla blocked the way to his heart. Her first, then. He raised the stake and took aim.

"No!" Drusilla shouted.

Freezing, Spike looked at her. Still asleep. Still dreaming. He blew out a sigh, then went to raise the stake again. Darla's eyes flew open and her hand caught his wrist. The stake clattered to the floor.

"Wh--glmph!" She gagged on the cross that Spike shoved in her mouth. Didn't stop her muffled screams, though, and she clawed at his arm, shredding linen and skin and drawing blood. Angelus began to stir. Wasting no time, Spike grabbed a fistful of Darla's hair and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the sunlight.

Angelus jumped to his feet and Dru shot upright in bed just in time to see Darla flare up. Spike jumped away from her, further into the sunlight, as she smoldered away to nothing. Angelus's eyes narrowed -- wait, no. Eye. A black leather patch covered the one Spike had punctured at their last meeting. "You," he snarled.

"Grandmother!" Dru cried.

"Sorry, Pet," Spike told her.

"You don't know what sorry is," said Angelus, "but you're about to find out."

"Yeah?" Spike squared his shoulders. "Why don't you c'mere and show me?"

"That light won't last forever. And I got all the time in the world."

"It's all wrong!" shouted Dru. She stood and started pacing, clawing at her nightgown. "It's all come apart. It's Daddy's game and we're all lost!"

"Daddy's right here, Precious," said Angelus. "I won't let him hurt you."

"No!" She shook her head. "Can't stop it. Can't beat it. All it wants is to bash and burn until all that's left is pixie dust and darkness. Just like in the beginning."

"What does?" Angelus pointed at Spike. "Him?"

She stopped pacing, and laughed. Then she locked eyes with Spike. "You know. It whispered its name in your ear as you cried in the dark place."

Spike stared at her in confusion. "What ..." Then it dawned on him. Of course. He swallowed. "From beneath you ..."

Again, Dru laughed, like he'd just told her favorite joke and screwed up the punchline. "No, my sweet, silly Spike." He blinked at the mention of his name. Dru walked to the edge of the shadows and leaned forward as far as she dared. "From beneath you." Swaying a little from side to side, she began to hum as her eyes zigged and zagged their way down Spike's body. When they landed on the ashes at Spike's feet, her face twisted in rage. She let out a shriek and lunged at him.

"Dru, no!" Angelus grabbed for her too late. Spike staggered back as her hands closed around his throat. A halo of flame engulfed her and burned his skin. She opened her mouth in an anguished scream, but from it shot only flame. Instinctively, Spike grabbed hold of her soulders to push her out of the light. She crumbled in his grasp.

Spike stared at his ash coated hands, her silent cry still ringing in his ears.. He barely had time to register what happened before a hand grabbed his collar and flung him back into the room. He crashed into a table, knocking it over and splintering it beneath him.

Angelus charged, casting off the blanket he'd wrapped around himself. Spike grabbed hold of a broken table leg and forced himself to stand. Angelus kicked it from his hand and landed a punch to Spike's nose. He staggered back, but Angelus caught him by the throat, lifted him up. He roared, full of rage, and threw Spike at the door. Spike crashed through it and bounced off the opposite wall, landing in a heap in the hallway, the wind knocked out of him.

Run, his mind screamed at him, but before he could recover Angelus was on him again. "You killed both my women," Angelus said as he dragged Spike back inside. "For that I think I'll kill you twice." Spike struggled. He punched, kicked and clawed, even bit; but Angelus overpowered him, pushing Spike down on the bed and tearing open his shirt to expose his neck. Angelus pinned him there with the weight of his whole body as he sunk his fangs into Spike's throat.

Spike didn't cry out. Instead he channeled his pain and anger into getting a hand free. Reaching down to his pocket, his fingers closed on the first thing they touched. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how it hadn't broken in the fight. He yanked out the gin bottle and smashed it over Angelus's head. The vampire hollered and rolled off him as his drenched skin sizzled. Spike pulled out another stake, and with a scream he drove it home. Then he collapsed on the bed and lay there, panting and choking on dust and blood.

He had just gotten his breath back under control when he heard a gasp from the doorway. Spike pushed himself up on his elbows, expecting to see a bellhop or a frightened neighbor. Instead he saw a horrified Charlie, taking in the state of the room.

"William! I came to ... I followed ... my God. What have you done?"

Spike sat up and wiped his nose and mouth on his sleeve. "Killed 'em all."

"But ... who? Why?"

"Vampires. Because it was the right thing to do. Sorry to disappoint you."

"What do you --"

"Oh, give it a rest. You're not Charlie."

The other man looked genuinely hurt. "William ... I think I should take you home. You're not well."

"No, I'm not well. But I'm not crazy either, so don't bother denying it." Spike stood up. "You're the thing's been pulling my strings."

Charlie just stared at him in shock. Then a grin broke out on his face and he began to laugh. "You'll have to pardon the anachronistic lingo, but, duh. And here I thought I'd put on such a good performance."

"Well, you got sloppy."

Charlie seemed to consider this as he crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb. "How so?"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "H.G. Wells?" He snorted. "The Time Machine won't be published for another fifteen years."

"Damn." Charlie shrugged. "I've never really been one for the written word. I tend to leave that to the other side."

"What happened to the real Charlie?"

"You tell me. You're the one who killed him."

"I ... but ..." Spike sighed. He looked down at the stake he still held in his hand. Something told him it wouldn't do a lick of good against this thing. He threw it on the floor.

Charlie tsked at him. "Poor Spike. You really thought you could change things? Make a difference? Really, how many times must I tell you that you make no difference at all?"

Spike looked around at the damaged room. He gestured to it, spreading his hands wide, and shrugged. "Then why? What's the sodding point?"

"The point?" Charlie stood up and came into the room. "I'm evil. Pure evil, in fact. Must I really have a point? This has been fun! You remember that, don't you? Causing misery and torment just for the hell of it?" He sighed. "You used to be so good at it, too. Now look at you. Snivelling about changing the world and giving the Slayer a better life. So bloodly predictable, too. You're a disgrace to demonkind."

"I'm not --"

"Not what? A demon?" Charlie laughed. "Maybe not here in dreamland, but believe me, old chap, in the real world an occasionally bumpy forehead and allergies to the sun and all things holy are still a permanent part of the package. You're all demon. The soul doesn't change that. Just makes it inconvenient."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "The real world?" He looked out the French doors at the city, then walked out onto the balcony. "So you're saying that this all really is just a dream?"

"It's all the reality you're going to know. So you might as well get used to it."

Spike turned to regard him. "Not planning to let me wake up, then. You must really need me out of the picture. Hey, here's a thought. Why not kill me?"

"That wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, now would it?"

"Right." Spike smiled. "Or maybe you just can't. Slayer won't let you."

Charlie's turn to snort. "You really are confident that she gives a damn about you. Misplaced confidence, judging from what I've seen."

"Mm. Maybe. 'Course, that would explain all the dead minions I saw surrounding us both in the magic mirror. Speaking of which, maybe I'm not as deeply out of it as you'd like me to believe." Spike turned back to the balcony railing and leaned over. He was at least six stories up. High enough to do the job. "What's that they say about falling in your dreams? If you hit the bottom, you die?" He climbed up on the railing and turned around. "Wonder how that works if you're already dead."

"Splendid!" Charlie smiled. "You know, I tried to get that Angel chap to off himself once. Not even your precious Slayer could talk him out of it." As he spoke, his stature shrunk and his features changed into a perfect likeness of Buffy. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him pleadingly. "Strong is fighting!" she cried. Then she burst out laughing and rolled her eyes. "God, can you stand the melodrama?" She sighed and shook her head. "If it wasn't for the Powers and their stupid miracle snow ..." She glanced back at the dust covering the bed. "If only I could get you to do something like that for me in real life. Hey!" Her face lit up. "There's a thought. Maybe I could pit you two against each other. Shouldn't be too hard, what with your mutual seething hatred and all. Wouldn't it be cool if you staked each other? Poof! No more soulful vamps!" She grinned up at him sweetly.

Spike smirked down at her. "Get buggered, bitch."

"Ooh, sexy! Is that the kind of talk that got her to 'pry apart her dimpled knees' for you?"

He refused to be goaded. "This some kinda reverse psychology? 'Cause you're not talking me down. 'Sides, like you said, it's all a dream. Can't hurt me to fall."

She shrugged. "If you say so. But, trying to apply logic to the workings of the source of all chaos? Kinda silly if you ask me." She walked toward him. "Go on, Spike. Jump. You can do it." She stood beneath him and looked up, her face earnest. "I believe in you, Spike." Then she broke into a grin and backed away, giggling.

"No," he said, "but she does. That's why you can't touch me."

She stopped laughing, her face ugly in its hatred. "We're not finished."

Spike laughed. "We're really not."

With that, he leaned back. Sunlight bathed him for the last time as he fell, eyes open, watching the world rush up and away. Then it all went white, washed out in a blinding light, and then darkness, and cold, and hard ground beneath him.

Gradually, he became aware of her face hovering over his. "No." He could barely find his voice.

"Spike ..."

He summoned every remaining ounce of strength to scoot away, gritting his teeth against the pain that spasmed through his body. "Leave me alone. You can't ... can't touch me. Can't hurt me anymore. Can't make me--"

Her lips covered his. Soft, warm, tender lips that were real and solid and oh God Buffy was here and she was real and she was kissing him. Energy shot through him and he raised a hand to tangle in her hair and pull her closer, to savor the taste of her.

She tasted like home.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered as she pulled away.

He couldn't find words. He could only shake his head.

"Good." Her hand stroked his cheek. "Can you walk?"

"Think so."

She nodded. "Everybody's waiting. I sent them on out of here after the first fight went down. They're probably starting to worry."

"First ..." He looked around, saw the minions' bodies just like in his vision. Then he noticed how beat up she looked. "You're hurt."

She offered him a weak smile. "Same to you."

"That thing ... they used me to raise it. I saw it, saw it attack you." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Thought it killed you."

"Tried to. Didn't."

His turn to smile. "Shoulda known." He tried to push himself up to sitting. She had to help him. "Buffy, I ... I wanted to ... God. I tried to change it --""Change what?"

"Everything!" He looked around the cavern, as if the words he was looking for might be hidden in its shadows and crevaces. "I thought I had a chance to undo it all. To fix it so you never had to be the Slayer, and so that I never --"

"Spike, look at me."

He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"You can't change the past," she said, smoothing back his hair. "We just have to figure out how to live with it."

He nodded, then blinked and tilted his head as he replayed what she'd said. "We?"

She held his eyes a moment, saying nothing. Then her lip trembled, ever so slightly, and she looked away. "We should get going." She got to her feet and then helped him to his, wrapping her arms around him to support his weight.

"Buffy."

"What?"

"I know I'm pretty useless at the moment, but I want you to know ... if there's anything you need from me, anything at all ..."

She stopped walking. Slowly, she looked up at him.

"You." Her voice held a slight tremor. "I need you, Spike."

Spike just stared at her, dumbfounded. Her face betrayed about a dozen emotions, not the least of which was sincerity. He choked out something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he had to lean on her for a moment, bury his face in her hair until he got himself under control. When he felt he could look at her again without blubbering like the sentimental git that he was, he raised up and met her eyes, wet with unshed tears.

"You have me," he told her.

"Yeah," She smiled. "I do."

***

The End

Notes: I stole "Get buggered, bitch" from Dancing Lessons. I'm pretty sure it was one of alkibiadhs's chapters. adjrun gets special thanks for giving my brain a good kickstart when I got stuck on the ending after I was blown away and severely intimidated by ME's version of the Spuffy reunion. Thanks also to hold_that_thought, little_bit and Fiona for their harrassment encouragement. It's easier to stay motivated when you know people are waiting impatiently for the next part and offering to rough up your beta readers if that'll hurry up the process. And yet more thanks to my beta readers for coming through without any of said roughing up, and for helping me make it better.

Hope you enjoyed it. --cj