Disclaimer: These characters and the Buffyverse do not belong to me; this is just me bringing my own (sub)text.

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Summary: It's a hard life when no one sees that you're capable of change or bothers to offer encouragement when you do. Spike has tried several times to be a better man, and in this story, he gets a small amount of help toward that goal. Of course, if someone ever did help Spike, those someones would be female. The story is in two parts, with an 'Intermission' chapter between the two, because if life can be better for Spike, you know he wants life to be better for the people he loves, too.

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[Author's Note: AU character disappears immediately after dropping exposition in this chapter.]

Early Warning

Sunnydale

May 2001

Someone knocked on the door.

Spike closed his eyes, holding the bottle against his cheek, and slumped further into the battered easy chair, telling himself not to be ridiculous. It must be the bourbon. No one ever knocked. He didn't even bother locking up anymore. Didn't have to repair the door so often that way.

The knock came again, louder, more insistent.

He looked over his shoulder, over the back of the chair. "Sod off," he whispered. No one he knew would knock. There was no one he cared to see, whether he knew them or not. Not anymore. Not now that she was dead.

Giles had borne her body away, while Xander carried Anya and the witches led Dawn toward the hospital. He'd lain in the dirt and rubble, too far gone in grief to move out of the sun. "Spike!" Dawn's voice was shrill with panic, and it got him to his feet, putting most of his weight on his right leg, which was only broken in one place. The left shattered in the fall. Promised, he'd thought disjointedly, and he dodged into shadows until he caught up with them.

He had sat with Dawn while the doctors in Casualty took care of her cuts. Unable to control himself, he'd growled at the two nurses who wanted to see to him. Only the Bit's hand on his had restrained him. One good wallop from the chip would probably have finished him off. Tara had pressed two bags of blood into his hand when the doctors were away, her soft eyes insistent. It was easier to drink than to ask where she got it or to argue with her. Then they took the Nibblet home, and he hadn't seen her since. He'd managed to get back to his crypt, where he'd spent hours not thinking.

Giles had come for a brief visit, warning him not to tell anyone, not until the next Slayer was called, until the Council could determine if one was still needed here. No one came to see him after that. He heard nothing of funeral plans, of Dawn's father, of Glory's fled minions. This was all right with him, as he was too tired to make himself go on. He just wanted to be still and numb.

Spike turned back to the bottle, sloshing the last few fingers around. The liquor wasn't working. He hadn't forgotten any of it. Maybe a fight would do the trick, a moment of violence to block the pain. Whoever was at his door wasn't breathing, had no heartbeat, so they would do nicely. He stirred for the first time in hours, standing up in a more or less fluid motion. His bones had knit whole again. It had been three nights. He pulled together the remnants of Big Bad and put on the mask.

The demon at the door knocked once more, a resigned sound this time. "It's open," he said, choosing his words carefully. The door immediately swung inward. A short young woman stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

He never once thought it was her.

"Selling Girl Scout cookies door-to-door, are we?" The stranger gave a soft, shaky laugh, and took a step into the crypt. "That's far enough," Spike warned, moving out of the shadows, showing her the crossbow, the wooden bolt aimed at her heart.

"Spike?" she asked. "You're real-really here."

"Yeah," he said, sardonically, "I am. Why are you?" He didn't know her, a relief. All he had to be was a demon. Maim and kill. Reborn to it.

After a moment of staring at him, she gave her head a slight shake. "I'm Sally," she said in an oddly soft tone. "I'm, uh, here to deliver a message."

"Like that, is it?" He pointed at her with his chin. "Take off the shirt."

"What?" Her voice was sharper now.

"The flannel shirt," he clarified. "You're wearing two; I don't think it will compromise your maidenly modesty beyond repair." She stood still, as if his words were a freezing spell. Spike lifted the crossbow a bit higher.

"Okay," she said warily, undoing a button of the loose shirt.

"Slowly."

"Ohh," she said in a tone of realization, then smiled. "I don't have any weapons."

"I'll be the judge of that."

She gave him an unreadable look, then stripped the shirt from her shoulders and wadded it into a ball. Twisting around, she tossed it out the open door of the crypt.

The grim set of his mouth eased as she turned to throw the shirt and he saw her in profile. He hadn't heard her breathing, and now he figured she was a young vampire, expendable, not too bright, but… nice rack. Even in a loose tank top, it was obvious why someone had chosen to sire her. Not worth fighting, then, but she might serve as another type of distraction. Why not? He'd done Harmony, after all. Meaningless, but certainly not unpleasant.

"There," she said, spreading her arms wide. "See? Nothing."

"Oh, I see," Spike drawled. He gestured with the crossbow. "Hands against the wall," he said in his best cop voice.

She let her head fall back in frustration. "Honey, we're wasting time. This isn't necessary."

"Time's not your enemy, or mine, is it? Go on," he said, pointing toward her right with the weapon.

Her jaw shifted to a stubborn angle, but she complied, bracing herself against the wall. Spike put the crossbow down and walked silently toward her, his eyes raking over her body. She jerked a bit when he put his hands on her waist. This close, he was sure she was a vampire, and he breathed in, processing her scent. She smelled clean, feminine, and his lids lowered as he contemplated the top of her head, the neat auburn ponytail. He could mount her in a matter of seconds, or he could kill her in less than one. He could take her as his minion. How odd to have possibilities.

Instead, he played the chosen role of cop, frisking her. He leaned his chest against her back, curving his hips against her derriere, and slid his hands along her bare arms. Her muscles tensed, and she turned her head slightly, as if about to say something. Spike spanned her neck with his fingers, sliding his thumbs to the pressure points that would, eventually, put even a vampire down. "Ah, ah. Shh," he murmured against her ear. "Got to do a thorough job here. You might be dangerous." Less unhappy than he had been for days, Spike grinned as he traced the curve of her skull, making sure nothing was hidden in her hair. The Big Bad might just have to start patting down every female visitor to his crypt.

He ran his palms across her shoulders, then along her ribs, checking for weapons. A soft click came to him as she clenched her teeth, and Spike grinned again as he slid his hands over her hips to find a lump in the front of her jeans. He dipped his fingers into the right front pocket and pulled out a key ring, dropped it into his own pocket, and ran his hand across the front of her trousers again, making sure he hadn't missed anything. Spike continued his search, and as he stood back up, he pulled her body roughly against his so he would know if she even twitched, surprised when she didn't turn in his arms. As a rule, vampire girls were easy.

Spike retrieved the keychain from his own pocket and examined it. There was only one key on it, for a Ford, and the Lucite-covered label identified it as fitting a hired car. He raised his eyebrows, then slid the key back into her pocket. Keeping his right hand on her waist, he leaned forward so that he could brace his left arm next to hers. "You're clean," he affirmed, sliding his hand upward over her ribs again. "So, do you want to deliver this message on your back or on your knees? On your back, I suppose. Hard to talk with your mouth –"

She spun away from him faster than he could react, so she was standing in the doorway again, staring at him with clear anger and something less readable. Disappointment?

"Who sent you?" he asked, suddenly tired of the whole thing. Took too much energy to be the Big Bad. "Teeth? Trot on back and tell him he has nice taste in messenger girls. Otherwise, I have–"

"For the past three weeks, I've dreamt of you, dreams so powerful that I've traveled clear across the country," she interrupted in a flat, furious voice, and he realized for the first time that she had a Southern accent, "took my first airplane ride, drove up from Los Angeles, and scoured every cemetery in this burg to find you. Yeah, I have a message for you, and, no, it isn't from some pissant little vampire from 'round this place. Now, pipe down and listen."

His eyes narrowed as he reassessed her. She didn't know who Teeth was, apparently hadn't been affected by his slow, lingering search, and so she wasn't a young, disposable vampire, after all. He gave her an insolent grin, covering his confusion, and swaggered back to his chair to pick up his nearly empty bottle of bourbon. It was also closer to the crossbow. "I like 'em feisty. Say what you came to say."

She took a breath and a couple of steps further into his crypt, pushing the door shut behind her. "I'm here to give you information you need. That's all. To speak truth… to say things you need to hear now. That's all I know." She took another breath. "You've had a foot in two worlds for a long time, being a demon, but fighting alongside Buffy and–"

He interrupted her, biting off his words. "Don't say that name."

"It's hard to find a balance like that, straddling two worlds. You need to choose."

"No choice, really. Demon, aren't I?" He took a swig.

"Are you?" she asked, peering at him as if to see inside. She shrugged. "You're one of a kind, then. You have a choice to make. I'm here to help you make it a little faster. You should go now and get your soul back."

He stared at her, his lips silently mouthing the word 'soul.' Then he shook his head, lifting his upper lip in disgust. He strode past her and wrenched the door open

"Angelus!" he roared. "This your idea of a joke?" He breathed in, reading the air. No grandsire. The only thing out of the ordinary he found was his visitor's discarded shirt. She'd tossed it next to a wooden stake, so old it had weathered gray. He started to pick it up, but stopped. She had knocked, after all. Hell, he didn't walk unarmed through this boneyard himself.

She'd moved a step further into the crypt, as if afraid to be too close to him after his greeting. "Angel has nothing to do with this."

Spike pivoted on his heel. "No, as I tortured him last time we met, I don't suppose he does." He sneered down at her. "You've delivered your message. Bugger off."

She didn't move. "Don't you want to know why?"

"No," he said adamantly. "It doesn't matter why, as the whole thing is bloody impossible." He stalked past her into the tomb, the liquor swishing in the bottom of his bottle.

"The why matters." She shrugged. "You already know how to do it."

He turned back to her, opened his mouth to deny it, then grew still. Why on earth had the thought of that cave-bound demon in Africa come to him, as if it had been in the back of his mind all along? "That's just a legend," he lied, wanting to argue.

"So are vampires." She started to put out a hand, stopped herself. "Leave tonight. You have a lot to do before you come back to Sunnydale."

He half-raised the bottle, not sure if he was going to drink from it or bash her head with it. "No." Her eyes were on his face, beseeching, and he found he couldn't be as rude as he wanted. Bloody women. "I've already got a conscience," he said, gesturing at his temple. "Maybe it's bioelectrical instead of metaphysical, but works just the same." Not that she would have any idea what he was on about.

She took another step closer. "The chip in your head was designed to be used for a short time in a lab, until the subject was… terminated, exterminated. It was never meant for real world conditions, and certainly never meant to last this long. It's already begun to degrade. You can't rely on it. How are you going to keep Dawn safe without the chip? You don't even trust yourself to touch her now."

He tensed and grew infinitely more dangerous. "How do you know so much about the chip?" It was her knowledge of Dawn that he wanted explained, though. Who and what was she? Doc, he thought suddenly. Where had Doc's body gotten to?

"I told you; I've dreamed of you for days. I don't know why, or who sent the dreams," she admitted, shrugging, "but I know you. I know you're a good man. You shouldn't be." He could hear bemusement in her tone. "You promised to keep Dawn safe, and you will. Even without the chip, you'll never hurt Dawn directly. Somehow, you managed to love her. But how is she going to look at you when you get hungry and eat one of her friends, Janice, maybe? You don't love Janice. She's just prey." She took another step closer, and now she was standing directly in front of him. "And you've been hungry a long time."

He met her eyes for a bare second, then turned away. How could she know these things? Knowing them, why would she even bother to be here? There was something in her expression that pained him, something in her eyes that he didn't want to see. "I'll rely on me, then."

She shook her head and made a sidestep so she could keep facing him. "You've been hungry a long time," she repeated in a deliberate voice. "You can't rely on self-control. If she knew your chip was malfunctioning, she would stake you before letting you around your Nibblet."

"Yeah, well," Spike said bitterly. He sat the bottle on the vault.

"She's coming back."

"Who?" His tone was sharp. No one was supposed to know she was gone.

"Buffy. She–"

His fist shot out faster than could be seen, and he did not spare her because she was female. Spike's visitor went down onto the floor of the crypt. "I told you," he rasped. "Don't say that name."

She stared up at him, both hands cradling her cheek, her eyes enormous and full of an expression that he could read. "What?" he asked, looking away from her, hiding the sudden shame on his own face. "You've never been hit before?"

"Not by you." It was in her voice, too.

He clenched his teeth together, then put out a hand to help her up. She ignored it, and was on her feet and in his face, again more quickly than he could anticipate. Some veneer of politeness had been stripped away.

"Do you want to see that on her face? Betrayal? You're a demon, but it's still going to be agony when you see her eyes full of pain, pain that you put there, that shattered trust. She'll forgive you for it, but you'll never forgive yourself. Never.

"She's coming back soon, and she's going to need your help, and right now, soulless, you aren't equipped to help anyone. When things get rough for you, you'll abandon her, be just the next link in the chain that started with her father. She already believes men leave, and you will, too. Not to get away from her, to get away from yourself. The only thing you can do is hurt her."

He moved away a step and covered his ears for a moment to block the words. The backs of his knees hit the seat of the chair, and he fell into it with none of his usual grace. There was no Big Bad façade left, nothing but a miserable demon that had a brief memory of what it was like to be treated as a man. "Shut your gob. Just… shut up."

"Why aren't you dead, Spike? She killed the Master, for Pete's sake. She could have staked you a dozen times over." The woman knelt down in front of him, sitting back on her heels, her hands on the arms of the chair. It should have been a subservient position. "Why didn't you kill her, for that matter? You could have, more than once, even with the chip, no matter the cost to you. You've killed Slayers before."

"Because I love her!" His words were fierce and angry.

She sat up on her knees and put her hands on his shoulders, her head so close that he had to look at her. "Yes, you do. How can that be possible without a soul? Yet, it is. There's a bond between the two of you. She knew it, too, even if she couldn't admit it. When she comes back, she will love you."

He glared at her, tears suddenly standing in his eyes. "She could never love me. I failed her."

"You didn't fail Buffy. You failed, that's all. She knows your heart. You tried."

"She could never love me."

Her hands on his shoulders grew gentle, and she moved closer. "I'm here to speak truth, Spike. She will love you. When people have loved, have been loved, they can be loved again. They can love again," she said, "and love… well, it can conquer anything. You were able to love again." She smiled and leaned her forehead against his, a gesture of affection between vampires, and as he looked into her green eyes, he believed it along with her. Then her next words cut into him more deeply than any sword.

"You loved your mother, and your mother loved you, William, in just the way families are supposed to. She stood there, loving and trusting you, and let you kill her."

Spike jerked, but she was incredibly strong, holding him there without apparent effort. He shook his head, his forehead still touching hers, and closed his eyes.

"You killed her with love in your heart. That shouldn't have been possible. But it was. You wanted to save her from consumption, to give her eternal health. You have such strength of character, William," she said, cupping the back of his neck and changing the name, "Spike, that you love without a soul. Imagine what you'll do with one.

"Your mother wasn't as strong. Don't blame her; there's no other vampire quite like you. What she said, those hurtful things, they weren't true. The demon that occupied her body rifled through her mind, found all her loving memories, and hated them. If you didn't still love her, its words wouldn't have been so abhorrent to you, wouldn't have hurt so much. If your love for each other hadn't been pure, they wouldn't have been so obscene." Her voice grew warmer, full of that impossible thing. "Would they, Spike?" He met her gaze by degrees, replaying the last moments of his mother's unlife over again.

"There. The truth; you know it is. Think of what Angelus would have done in the same situation, if he'd turned his mother. He would have gloried in the perversity." Her voice hardened. "No matter what Drusilla told you over the years, trying to make you believe you were fixated on your mother the way she fixated on her sire, you never wanted that." She let go then, releasing him from her embrace, and stood.

He gazed up at her, tears on his face, confused by her abrupt withdrawal. He thought he knew what it was, the painful thing in her expression, her touch, the thing he had flinched away from… but it made no sense.

"Leave tonight, while it's easy." Her voice was brisk now. "You've got a long way to go and a lot to accomplish, then you need to get over it. When you're done, get back here to Sunnydale and help her friends, watch over Dawn. She'll be safe until then." She played her trump card. "This is how you can keep your promise." The stranger smiled a little and took a couple steps away, apparently done.

Spike stood, staring at her. She knew about the promise. The things she knew about his past… maybe she knew the future. Maybe. "When?"

She understood the question. "Not long. Months. She'll be here before the year turns."

He stared at her. "How can you be sure I'll be… strong enough? Worthy?" His voice was thin.

Her mouth curved, and he could hear the pride in her voice, pride just for him. The Southern accent had slipped back into her words. "Because you told me these things in my dreams, after you'd already done it. You would have come to the same conclusion, honey, done it yourself even if I'd never visited. You're going to take all that anger and confusion you have inside and use it to win back your soul. I was sent just to speed up the process, I think." She smiled at him. "I'm a trigger, a kinder trigger."

He stared at her in confusion. "What trigger?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, not if you go tonight. I'm not compelling you. It's your decision. You're going to earn your soul. It won't be a curse. It'll be a trophy."

At the word 'curse,' his eyes narrowed, and he straightened up. "Maybe I'll swing by L.A. on my way back and compare souls with Angelus." His voice had regained a measure of cockiness, and he moved into her space.

"People hate what they can't understand, Spike. That's why Angelus always hated you. You were able to do things as a vampire that he couldn't, and you're doing it again." The blond man looked down at her, taken aback. "But it's Angel, now. He's been your family for a long time. If you give it a chance, you might even get to be friends."

"Not bloody likely," he snorted.

"'Stranger things,' as they say." She gave him a small smile, which faded. "Um, good luck," she said, lifting her shoulders awkwardly and turning away from him. She was almost through the open door when his voice stopped her.

"Go with me." God, just to have someone who believed in him….

She turned. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak. After several long seconds, she answered, her voice hoarse. "Oh, honey. I can't. I have someone I have to take care of, too." She looked down, struggling with some emotion, and he could smell her tears before she lifted her face. They smelled like blood, as if he needed any further evidence she was a vampire. Biting her lip, she nodded at him and left.

He stood by the chair, not moving, gazing out the open door into the darkness. There was no doubt. Whoever she was, she cared for him. She didn't even know him, and she cared about him – or, rather, she seemed to know everything about him, and still cared, still believed in him. Spike strode to the door and out of the crypt, looking around. The shirt and her stake were no longer on the ground. He heard a mediocre engine start up two streets over. Could be a Ford rental. Could be anything. She was gone… if she'd ever been there.

He went inside, absently pulling the door closed behind him. Her scent barely lingered, and he looked around the crypt, beginning to think that he had actually gone mad with grief, dreamed the whole thing to make himself believe that he might get to see Buffy again. Bourbon, he thought. I haven't slept. Maybe if I drink enough of it tonight, I can pass out. He walked over to the vault to get the unpromising dregs.

A long, white envelope lay next to the bottle, and he glanced over his shoulder at the door for a brief, startled second. Leaving the envelope on the stone tablet, he turned it with his fingertips until he could read what was written on it. So you don't have to do anything on the way that you'll regret later. He lifted the envelope and stared inside at the thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

Traveling money.

It had been real. He crushed the envelope in his hand, thinking of the other things she had said, about his chip, about Dawn. This was how he could keep his promise to his lady. Spike thought hard for a moment, trying to remember his visitor's name, sure that she had introduced herself. He gave up, shrugging, and strode out of the crypt, leaving the unfinished bottle sitting atop the vault, and didn't look back.

Next Chapter: Spike returns to Sunnydale... and Dawn.