Spoilers: Through "Tabula Rasa"
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: PG-13 -- for language and nongraphic sex
Disclaimers: Not mine. Belong to Joss.
Author's notes: Thank you to all the readers at fanfiction.net who urged me on in my writing. This is easily the longest, most complicated story I've ever written, and without so much support, I probably would have never finished. Also, thanks to Kate and Annie for their suggestions on how to make it better.

Abandoned
by Jennifer Campbell
>> send feedback << - >> author profile <<

Chapter 1
"I Need to Feel"

Spike spotted her easily enough, sitting alone at the bar without even a drink to drown her sorrows in. He watched from the shadows beneath the stairs, his hands deep in the pockets of his duster. So he had found her, after they had regained their memories and she had run off. What better place for her to hide than among the riotous crowds and smokey haze of the Bronze.

He steeled himself, smoothed his palms over his hair and started toward her. As he drew closer, he wondered what he could say or do to erase the pain he knew he would see on her beautiful face. The pain of absolute loss and betrayal by those she trusted most. Now she trusted him. He had to say something, but what, he had no clue.

As it was, he didn't need a word. Spike stopped beside her but didn't sit down. Instead he simply stood there, patient, waiting for her acknowledgement. His presence roused her from her stupor, and she looked at him with dead eyes, only for a moment before turning the other way, rejecting him and all the comfort and love he had to offer.

Typical. So what had he expected? Buffy would never fall into his arms and give herself to him in total, uninhibited abandon. She had closed herself off to him, again.

Fine then. He didn't need this shit tonight, her hot-cold roller- coaster better-than-thou attitude. She could bloody well fend for herself. Wallow in misery and jump off a soddin cliff for all he cared. No man, or vampire, could endure so much.

Spike stormed away, weaving among giggling high schoolers and half- drunk twenty-somethings. He had to get out of here, away from all these ungrateful people who had no inkling of everything she had sacrificed to keep them safe and cozy, to protect them from monsters like himself. Maybe he could find a few vamps to pummel before sunrise.

He had almost reached the exit when two small but strong hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and spun him around. Buffy glared at him, and he gaped. She had followed him, but why? Her warm palms pressed against his chest and pushed him back until he hit a wall.

"Buffy, luv, what are you doing?"

"Shut up, Spike," she said, her voice trembling a little.

Then he saw it, her desperation. It called to him through every fiber of her body as she pressed against him and tilted her lips towards his. So he did have something she needed, after all.

He ran his fingers through her hair, then cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer. Her gloss tasted like strawberries. Spike grazed her lips tentatively at first, gently, but she would have none of it. Buffy deepened the kiss, one hand tightening on his forearm and the other sliding under his duster to rest lightly on his waist.

This surely was heaven. Buffy so close to him, her scent of arousal surrounding him. And yet, as they drew apart so she could breathe, as she crushed herself against him again, a sliver of doubt pricked at his mind. He couldn't banish the feeling that something here wasn't right.

At that moment, though, with his beloved in his arms, it didn't matter.

##~~##~~##

Spike paced his crypt like a caged beast. He occasionally drained a beer and smashed the empty bottle against the wall, but the acts of violence did little to sate the rage broiling under his cold skin. Broken green and brown glass littered the floor -- too bad it would do little good to slit his wrists with it.

She hadn't come. For the first night in weeks, she hadn't visited his crypt while on patrol, to spill out her troubles and fears and torments. No, she was avoiding him now, because he wanted to talk about what had happened at the Bronze, talk about them instead of just her.

How could Buffy play with him like this? One moment so lustful and needy and the next ... In her own way, the girl was more demonic than Drusilla. At least Dru had never toyed with him so ruthlessly. Well, she hadn't until those last few months, after they had came to Sunnydale.

Last night at the Bronze, though, only a few hours ago ...

~~~~~

Spike had broken off the kiss and tried, but failed, to regain control of himself. He wanted nothing more than to take Buffy back to his crypt, throw her onto the bed and love her all night, but that wasn't what they needed right now.

Buffy's hands glided down his back, her nails scratching through his thin cotton T-shirt. She lifted her lips to his, and it took every ounce of Spike's self-control to stop from devouring her again.

"Buffy, we -- we have to -- talk," he managed to get out between kisses. He pulled away from her. "We have to talk, pet."

"No talk," she murmured. "More kissing."

"This thing between us, we need to talk about it. It's not that I don't enjoy these make-out sessions, but I need to know why? And why now?"

Her grip on his T-shirt loosened. She took a step back, and Spike could have sobbed for the loss of her touch. Buffy raised her eyebrows in that little gesture that always preceded a spiteful comment.

"This isn't good enough for you?" she spat. "I'm not good enough for you? Is that it?"

"What? No, Buffy, you know I love you. And I love kissing you, but -- "

"Forget it. Just forget it, Spike." She stalked a couple steps away, then came back with arms crossed. "You know, I thought you of all my friends would actually care about me. I thought you would give me what I need."

"And what's that, luv?"

She glared at him, pursed her lips, then turned and left. With a frustrated growl, Spike smashed his fist into the wall, ignored the yelps of people standing around him. Chips of plaster drifted to the floor; the bloody pain of his knuckles served to clear his head. He raced outside after her, but Buffy had vanished.

~~~~~

... Spike rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, now healed. He wished his vampire powers would mend the hurt inside as easily. Only time would do that, and a whole lot of alcohol. He wandered to the fridge for another beer, popped the top and took a long drink.

The sound of someone clearing their throat made him turn. Buffy stood in the doorway, watching him with an amused smile. He could only stare, open-mouthed. She had let her hair down in golden waves, and she wore a spaghetti-strap sundress and strappy white sandals. Rarely had she looked so vulnerable, or so beautiful. In an instant, he forgot why he had been angry with her.

Her eyes darted between Spike and the mess of jagged glass in the corner.

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"It takes a lot more than this to get me drunk." He set the beer down and sauntered toward her, his eyes traveling the length of her body. "That's not exactly a practical outfit for slaying. And isn't it a bit late for you to be out and about? Shouldn't you be in bed, counting sheep or some such rot?"

"Can't sleep. You know I have trouble falling asleep."

"Yeah, it can be a bit traumatic, waking up in a box, six feet underground. But you'll get over it eventually."

"And you know that because ..."

"Because I did."

She snorted. "And that has nothing to do with the fact that you're a soulless vampire, and dead, and supposed to be buried. While I'm --"

Her voice trailed off, and she bowed her head, the tough Slayer exterior slipping away. She suddenly looked lost, like a child in need of reassurance. Spike yearned to enfold her in his arms and whisper to her that everything would be all right, but they both would know it for a lie. He brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek.

"Go on," he said. "Say it."

"I can't."

"Then I will. You're alive, Buffy."

She shook her head. "No, I'm not. Being alive means feeling things, like love and hate and passion. It means going through each day happy that I'm still breathing. But I'm not happy, or sad either. I'm just ... numb." She looked up at him. "The only time I feel anything is when I'm with you."

"So why fight me?" he asked, his mind flashing back to the previous night.

"Anger is better than nothing."

"I don't want to fight with you anymore."

"Then what do you want?"

The question caught him by surprise, and a thousand answers raced through his mind. I want you to let me love you, and I want to hear you say you love me. I want to see some spark of life in those dead eyes. I want to take your pain away. I want --

"I want to see you smile again." The words rushed out, and her eyes widened. He took the opportunity to step toward her, so close any movement would cause their bodies to touch. "A truly free and happy smile. I know I will see it again. Someday."

"Not tonight," she murmured. "But will give you something else you want."

"And that is?"

She backed away a step, and, without a word, reached up to her shoulder to slowly, so slowly slide one dress strap down her arm. Her eyes never left his, and he could only watch in disbelief as the other strap followed. The dress slipped off her body like water and pooled at her feet, leaving her naked and unashamed, and more beautiful than Aphrodite. She kicked off the sandals. Spike couldn't bring himself to move for fear of waking up.

"I'm dreaming," he said, quiet and stunned.

"It's not a dream. I almost wish it were." She stepped up to him, took his hand and pressed it against her flushed skin. "I want you to make love to me, Spike. Please. I want you to help me feel. I need to feel."

He swallowed hard and tried his best to focus on her eyes and no lower. Certainly not on his hand, which she still held against her breast. Before anything else, he had to make her understand exactly what she was asking. He absolutely could not let this go awry come the morning. He couldn't finally have her, only to lose her again.

"Buffy, if we do this, there's no denying anymore what's between us. You can't walk away from me again. There's no going back. You understand that, luv?"

She looked up at him coyly from under thick lashes. "Do you want me, Spike?"

"God, yes," he breathed.

"Then I want it, too. Now. Please."

She didn't have to ask again. He crushed her against him, she ripped his T-shirt down the center in her desperation to touch skin. Spike never remembered how they made it downstairs to the bed, only that he had her there, beneath him, around him, filling his universe. Making him feel human, making her feel loved.

Afterward, she fell asleep, curled against his side, and he pressed his cheek to her hair. She started to snore softly. For the first time in his existence, he felt completely at peace.

##~~##~~##

Spike awoke alone, hours after sunrise. He didn't know when Buffy had left, only that his sheets still smelled of her and what they had done. What they had done. He had made love to her, his Slayer. After all this time, she had finally set aside her reservations and had given herself to him completely.

As Spike rolled onto his back to contemplate the ceiling, he wondered what had happened to trigger her surrender. Perhaps, on the path she had been walking since her resurrection, it had been inevitable. She had such heavy heartache that she had almost crushed him beneath it. She needed so much, to feel secure and loved, to feel anything at all. He marveled at her strength, that she had endured these past few weeks with such an emptiness inside her.

They needed to talk, now more than ever, but he couldn't leave the crypt until sundown. The hours would pass slowly until then, but there was no help for it.

He rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans. Buffy had ripped his only T-shirt off his back, so he went bare-chested to the crypt's upper level in search of breakfast. He pulled a blood packet from the fridge, popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds, then started to feed.

"You know it doesn't matter how many times I see you vamps suckin blood, it still gives me the willies."

Spike spewed blood across the crypt in his surprise. His eyes bulged as he saw his visitor, a short man dressed in a well-tailored tan suit and matching hat. No, not a man, not in the human sense, although he could pass easily enough for one on the street. He smelled like demon, and every vibe radiating from him promised a bad ending.

"OK," the visitor said, shuddering, "that was even worse. At least keep it in your mouth, huh?"

"Bloody hell! Who are you?" Spike choked out. "How long have you been up here?"

"Now calm down, Spike. I would think after your tumble with the Slayer last night you'd be in a better mood."

"What? How do you know about that?" Spike threw down his blood packet and stomped toward him. If this clown had been spying on them ...

"I'm just saying, I get the feeling that she's, you know, good in the sack. Hense the theoretical good mood."

Now that was too much. This cocky, arrogant little piece of demon needed a serious lesson in how not to talk about a lady. And how the hell did he know about Buffy? The demon backed up and raised his hands to ward off Spike, but that didn't stop the vampire from grabbing him by the neck and lifting him off the ground.

"Who are you?" Spike growled. "Talk before I rip your head off and use it for a bowling ball."

"Whoa, check out the imagery," he squeaked.

"Talk!"

"I'm Whistler. And I have a message for you from the Powers."

Chapter 2
"The Slayer Stands Alone"

Spike growled, deep in his throat, and unceremoniously dumped the demon on the crypt floor. Whistler landed flat on his bottom, scrambled to his feet and brushed his hands over the back of his suit. The whole effect was rather comical, as though Whistler had jumped straight out of a film noir with beautiful temptresses and smoking guns. Except he was one of the little guys, the ones who always got stepped on.

"Watch it, will ya?" he said. "This is an expensive ensemble. It doesn't take well to dust and blood stains."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

Spike grinned coldly. "You got me there, mate. Now are you going to tell me what you're doing in my crypt?"

"I already told you, I have a message for you from The Powers That Be." He spread his arms wide and looked to the heavens. "They've been keeping an eye on you and the Slayer for a while now, and after last night, well, they decided it's time to step in."

"What are you talking about?"

"You. Buffy. Making with the smooches. Not good."

"I think you need to tell your Powers to sod off."

Spike deliberately turned away, returned to fridge to recover his blood packet, which was dripping on the floor. He took a sip and almost spat it out again. Cold. He could pop it back the microwave, but reheated blood didn't taste the same. Yet another reason to detest this intrusion -- it had ruined his breakfast.

Whistler was wandering the crypt now, examining every half-melted candle and piece of dilapidated furniture as though it were a museum exhibit. Spike watched surreptitiously, ready to jump into attack mode at any moment. He still didn't like this guy -- reminded him too much of those kitten collectors -- but he was reasonably certain Whistler was no more than what he said. A messenger, albeit one with unwelcome tidings and a serious lack of tact. No one could insult Buffy, then order Spike to stay away from her, especially now that he finally had her.

"Nice place you got here," Whistler said. "Probably a little drafty in the winter but, hey, if that doesn't bother you, then you've got it made."

"Is there something else on your mind?" Spike asked, rather impatient. "You have your answer on Buffy. I'm not giving her up. So you can go back to your Powers and tell them to leave us alone."

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," Whistler said. "You see, Buffy is on the wrong path. She's scared, unsure of herself. She's been hiding behind her Watcher, but now that he's gone, she's gonna start hiding behind you. She knows you'll protect her, give her a sense of security."

"Bloody right, I will," Spike retorted. "She deserves it, after all she's been through."

"It will make her weak."

"She's stronger than you know."

"Not for long." Whistler twirled his hat in his hands in what Spike guessed was a nervous habit. "The girl hasn't had an easy go of it. No Slayer does. But she's been strong because she's always known that, in the end, she can count on herself to pull through. The moment she believes someone else will save her, that will be her downfall. She'll get herself killed."

That got Spike's attention. Buffy dead, again? No, he wouldn't let that happen. The world needed her too much, as did the Nibblet and all her friends. More importantly, he needed her.

"Buffy won't die. Not again. I'll protect her."

Whistler snorted. "Stupid vamp. You're not hearing a word I'm saying, are you? You can't protect her. There's some nasty stuff coming, and the only way she'll prevail is if she relearns to stand on her own."

"So what, then?" Spike said, getting angry now. "You and your soddin Powers expect me to stand by and watch her suffer? I won't do that."

"No, they expect you to leave her."

Spike blinked, unsure he had heard that right. He studied Whistler closely.

"Say that again?"

##~~##~~##

Buffy woke shortly after sunrise feeling rather groggy and disoriented, took one look at her surroundings and panicked. She was on an unfamiliar bed -- naked, no less -- and was curled up against an equally naked Spike. He hadn't woken up yet, and had one arm draped over her stomach and a contended smile on his lips.

It all crashed back, everything they had done. How she had thrown herself at him the previous night -- oh god -- how tender and loving he had been, at least until those last few moments when he had slipped into vampire face and bit his own arm to satisfy the bloodlust. Strangely enough, at the time, she hadn't cared. He had rekindled the fire; that was all that mattered.

In the daylight, though, things were, well, different. And this situation with Spike had gone way too far. She gently disengaged herself from her lover -- my lover, oh my god -- who rolled over but didn't wake, and she tiptoed upstairs to dress.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she muttered while pulling on her sundress and sandals. "Oh my god what did I do? Oh god ..."

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she crossed the cemetery, which was still shrouded in an early morning mist that condensed on her bare arms and legs. The air hadn't been nearly this frigid last night, or maybe she hadn't cared enough to notice. The cold inside had been much worse. Then he had touched her, and she had started to thaw. His passion had seared her to the core.

She had needed that, so desperately, especially after Giles' abrupt departure, and Tara moving out. All the secrets had been revealed, and her band of friends had not emerged unscathed. They were breaking apart. Willow had sunk into post-breakup depression, Dawn was angry at them all for messing up her happy home, and Buffy herself ... well, she had been reckless enough to sleep with the one person she trusted most.

Spike had been her anchor through the weeks since her resurrection. No matter how many times she had abused him, insulted him, demanded that he get out of town, he had stubbornly refused to leave. He had even stayed with Dawn after Buffy's death, merely because of a promise. Through it all, he had been the only one who hadn't betrayed or abandoned her, and now she had gone and ruined it by sleeping with him. Things got weird after sex. Men had a way of disappearing.

"Ohgod ohgod ohgod ..."

She circled the house and snuck in the kitchen door, hoping maybe the others wouldn't be awake yet even though it was a school day. She eased the door shut, winced when it squeaked -- yet another fix-it-up job to add to the list -- and jumped when she saw Willow leaning against the opposite entryway, arms crossed and mouth set in an angry line.

"Buffy, where have you been? Dawn and I have been worried sick for the past half-hour. We called Xander, and he's out looking for you. I would have done a locator spell, but, well, magic is kinda out of the question right now."

"Geez, Wil, overreact much?"

Willow blushed and looked at her feet. "I don't think it is overreacting. Since you told us about ... you know ... you've been acting a little crazy, and we've been extra worried. Then you vanish for an entire night ... We worry because we love you. You know that, right? That we all love you?"

Now Buffy felt embarrassed. She hadn't realized her tryst might have other unintended consequences, beyond the obvious complications with Spike. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, but you know I won't break if you look at me the wrong way. I can take care of myself."

"I know, but --"

Willow looked like she wanted to say more, but footsteps thumped down the stairs and Dawn raced into the kitchen. Her makeup was only half-done, and she was wearing one sock. Obviously Buffy's entrance had interrupted her morning routine, but Dawn didn't seem to care. She took one look at her sister and crushed her in a hug.

"You're OK!"

Buffy sighed and smoothed Dawn's hair. "I'm fine."

"Where were you?"

She felt her face heat. "I was, um, at Spike's. We were talking, and I fell asleep."

"At Spike's? All night?" Dawn pulled back, so that her hands rested on Buffy's shoulders. She sniffed. "You know, you kind of smell like him. All smoky and --"

"So, Wil, what's on the schedule for today?" Buffy squeaked out. "Any baddies to kill, or research, or anything at all?"

Willow and Dawn exchanged a look, then Willow studied Buffy so closely that Buffy thought maybe her friend was using magic to read her mind, to discover her most recent secret. Probably just her imagination, then again, how did someone keep their thoughts from a witch? Just think about anything else. Um, popcorn, candy canes, algebra and two-times-two. Anything but Spike and sex and ...

"Oh, god," Buffy said, pressing her palms to her eyes.

Her night with Spike had been ... amazing and exactly what she had needed. Still, she had no clue how to explain that to her friends. Dawn might understand, but the others mostly regarded Spike as a hanger-on, not a card-carrying member of the gang. Those times had passed, though, when he had stood on the outside. She had to make them understand he had become her shield and confidant.

"Dawn," Willow said, her eyes never leaving Buffy, "why don't you go finish getting ready for school."

"But --"

"Dawn, go." Willow's voice dropped to deadly quiet.

"Fine, I can take a hint," Dawn said, throwing her arms in the air. "I'll run along so you can have interesting discussions without me. Just don't go making her forget things because we've all had enough of that."

She stomped out. A guilty look flickered across Willow's face as she and Buffy took stools at the kitchen bar.

"You want to talk about it?" Willow asked gently. "Whatever 'it' is?"

So she hadn't been reading thoughts, after all. Buffy relaxed. After the debacle of the memory spell, Willow had sworn off magic, at least for a while, in the hope of winning back Tara's trust. It seemed that she planned on sticking to that.

Buffy shook her head. "I'm not ready to talk. I mean, I will, but not yet. Understand?"

"Yeah, I get that."

"Thanks." She reached out to squeeze Willow's hand. "How are you?"

"I'm OK," Willow said, giving her a brave smile. "I mean, when I remember to keep breathing and talking and everything else, then I'm OK." Her eyes started to water. "I know it was my fault and that I deserve to be punished, but I miss Tara. I feel so lost without her."

"It will get easier."

"I know."

"Just don't do anything drastic, like making Giles go blind or turning Xander into a demon magnet, all right?"

Willow crooked a grin. "Or making you fall in love with Spike."

Too late for that. Buffy almost said the words, then caught herself and covered with a coughing fit. The mere thought of it floored her. In love with Spike. It sounded strange, and not quite right. Friends, sure. Lovers ... last night she had all but promised him there was no going back. But in love?

Willow patted her back. "Buffy, are you OK?"

"Fine," she choked out. "I just -- I need to go take a shower. See you later at the Magic Box?"

"Yeah, sure."

She felt Willow's eyes, brimming with concern, follow her flight from the kitchen. She wasn't ready yet to talk with her friends about this newest development, but she did need to talk to Spike. Tonight.

##~~##~~##

"Let me explain something to you and your Powers," Spike said from his seat atop the sarcophagus. Whistler slouched across from him in an overstuffed recliner. "Just about every man Buffy has ever cared for has left her, starting with her father. Then there was my poof of a sire, soldier boy and her Watcher. If I left, too, it might destroy her. The bloody straw that breaks the bloody camel's back. Get it?"

"Someone's on an ego trip," Whistler muttered.

"What?"

"Look, she survived all the others, right? And she was stronger for it. She'll survive now, too."

Spike crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving."

"What is it with vampires fallin for this girl?" Whistler rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm gonna lay it out for you, nice and simple. You stay, Buffy dies. You leave, she has a shot at living. And I'm not talking about this wandering around in a dream world thing she's doin now. I'm talking about really living."

Spike visualized it, Buffy playing, smiling in the sunlight, doing things normal people do. "You mean that? Buffy would be happy?"

"Well, I'm not promising anything. All I can guarantee is that if you stay, she will come to depend on you too much and she'll end up in the ground. Again. Which would be too bad since she's the only one who can stop what's coming."

"And what's that?"

Whistler shrugged. "Oh, apocalypse stuff, the whole world on the brink of destruction. The usual. You know how it goes." He leaned forward, his statement serious. "So save the world and save your Slayer. Get out of town."

Spike couldn't bring himself to answer -- or to refuse to listen when what the demon said made sense. Instead he laid back on the sarcophagus lid, his forearm covering his face and the tears that were threatening to fall. He refused to show weakness, even though his dead heart broke with every moment. Leave Buffy. Leave his beloved, to save her. He tried to recall, in his mind's eye, an image of her, smiling, laughing and enjoying life, all those things Whistler said might happen if he left. All he could see were her tears, after she would find him gone.

Whistler rose from his chair and looked down at Spike. "It's not like you'd be left out in the cold completely. We'd keep you updated on her progress, of course, while you're out on missions for the Powers."

Spike did a double-take. Whistler had dropped that all too casually. "What missions?"

"Infiltrating groups of bad guys, gathering information, then taking 'em out."

"What do I look like? James Bond?"

"You'd be stopping the bad guys before they could get within a hundred miles of your Slayer. You'd be keeping her safe, from a distance of course. There's a certain romantic charm to it all, you got to admit. Plus, the pay is great."

"You're off your nut, you know that."

Spike sat up, swung his legs around to dangle off the stone coffin and pressed both palms to his eyes. Why, when everything was looking up, did something have to come along and ruin it? Happened every soddin' time.

"So what do you say?" Whistler said, jumping up beside Spike. "Help her live, or help her die. It's all up to you."

##~~##~~##

At sunset, Buffy was crossing the cemetery, humming a tune and swinging a plastic bag she had gotten at a nearby department store. She didn't bother knocking at Spike's crypt. Never did. She rather enjoyed his jabs about her lack of decorum, and just because they had slept together didn't mean she had to start treating him differently.

She marched in, expecting to hear some snide comment at any second. Then she'd spat back with some witty retort, and he would smile mischievously and pull her into his arms ...

No, no, no. She shook the fantasy from her mind. She had come here for a specific purpose: To tell Spike that although she appreciated his friendship, they couldn't be lovers. Every man she had sex with ended up leaving, and she couldn't bear to lose him, too. So friends they would remain. He wouldn't react well, she knew, but it had to be that way.

The upper crypt was empty. He hadn't bothered to light candles, so Buffy let her eyes to adjust before venturing inside.

"Spike?" she called. "Are you here?"

No answer. Maybe he had gone out on patrol, or looking for her. Then again, maybe he was still asleep downstairs, stretched out across the bed, naked and ....

"Spike? Hello? I bought you a new T-shirt. It's black."

She descended the ladder, turned around and jumped in surprise. She had expected a vampire. Instead, a strange, short man sat on the edge of the bed, twirling his hat with both hands. Buffy's Slayer instincts went on heightened alert.

"I know you," she said, as she cautiously approached. "You told me how to defeat Angel. Whistler, right?"

He grinned. "Glad to know I'm so memorable."

"What are you doing here? And where's Spike?"

He shook his head sadly. "Listen, kid, I'm sorry. I really am. But this is the way things have to be."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Whistler gave her one more sympathetic look, withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. "Spike asked me to give you this."

She accepted it with trembling hands and stared at it, but couldn't bring herself to unfold it. The paper was crumpled at the edges. She had no doubt what Whistler had handed her, although she didn't know how she knew. This was Spike's farewell note. He hadn't even cared enough to say good-bye. Her sight blurred, but she held back the tears.

"Why?" she whispered, looking up at Whistler.

"Because the Slayer stands alone. That's the way it's always been." He nodded toward the note. "Go on. Read it."

She unfolded the paper. Spike had penned it in his own loopy handwriting, and his tears had smeared the ink. The message wasn't long. She read the words three times before refolding the note, stuffing it in her pocket and nodding to Whistler. Without a word, she left, Spike's new black T-shirt forgotten on the floor near his bed.

The tears that so recently had threatened had dried up now. Buffy felt a curious detachment spread throughout her, like she would wake at any moment. None of this was really happening. Only a dream. She floated in a haze as she left the cemetery, crossed town and wandered into the Magic Box. All her friends sat at the table, poring over musty books and chatting about inconsequential things. Xander and Anya whispered to each other while Willow watched them in mournful remembrance of her own lost love.

Dawn saw her first. "Buffy, hi! Where have you been?" She paused and studied her sister as Buffy crossed the shop. "Are you all right? You look kind of, I don't know ... bad."

They all broke off their conversations to stare, in obvious concern, as Buffy pulled Spike's note from her pocket and handed it to Dawn. Her sister's eyes watered as she read, then she grabbed Buffy in a one-sided embrace. Buffy was too numb to respond.

"I'm so sorry," Dawn said.

Xander piped up, "So is this a secret between sisters, or can anyone know?"

Dawn handed the note to the closest person, Willow, then eased Buffy into a chair at the table. Willow read and looked from Buffy to Dawn, then to an anxious-looking Xander and Anya.

"It's Spike," Willow said. "He's gone."

The words touched Buffy's heart in a way that reading the note itself hadn't done, and reality came crashing in. Not a dream, not if her friends had seen it too, not after Willow's confirmation. Spike had really left her. Just like all the others, he had left her.

Buffy laid her head on the table and cried.

Chapter 3
"It's Something About Bad Boys"

I hate goodbyes. It's better this way. Be strong, Buffy, and live.
-- Spike

She read the words over and over, crumpled the paper and threw it as far as her Slayer strength allowed. Then, dressed in her favorite comfy pajamas, Buffy curled up on the living room couch and rested her cheek against her knees. Her thoughts were far away, with the vampire who had reawakened her emotions and had left, all in one day. She had tried to resurrect her walls, impenetrable to hurt, but it seemed rebuilding would take time. Yet rebuild she would. Better to feel nothing, she reasoned, than the emptiness of his departure.

At least her friends had determined that Spike hadn't committed suicide. Xander had had the presence of mind to check for Spike's car, which had also vanished. That indicated he had simply hit the road, that he hadn't gone for a sunlit stroll. The knowledge gave Buffy some consolation because it meant next time she saw him, she would have her chance to stake him, the bastard. Never trust a vampire, she thought in mantra. Never trust a man to stay.

So where had he gone? Was he still in state, or even in the country? After regaining her composure, Buffy had returned to the crypt, hoping to find Whistler and beat the crap out of him until he spilled on Spike's location. That plan had fallen through, though, when she had found the crypt deserted. With no other leads, she had gone home to mope.

She didn't understand why she cared anyway. She had been trying to get rid of Spike for months and had finally succeeded. Victory at last secured when most unwanted.

The front door opened with a whoosh of cold November air, and Willow walked in, two plastic bags hanging off her wrist. She shed her coat, plopped onto the couch beside Buffy and started pulling out the bags' contents.

"We have chocolate, and a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and ... two sappy romantic comedies about people who are more pathetic than us. The perfect ingredients for a bonding night for a couple of girls who are down on their luck."

Buffy tried to show interest, to humor her friend. "What movies?"

"'Sleepless in Seattle' and 'Bridget Jones's Diary.' Seen them?"

"Nah. Well, I think I might have seen that first one once. Was that the one where Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan fell in love over e-mail?"

"That was 'You've Got Mail.' This is one of the other Tom Hanks - Meg Ryan movies, and the best one, to my way of thinking." Willow set their loot on the coffee table and bounced a little on the cushions. "So, ready for some ice cream and cheesy hollywood romance?"

"I don't know," Buffy said, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. "I guess so."

"Not the enthusiastic response I was looking for."

"I'm sorry, Wil. I'm just ..."

Willow cocked her head. "Just what? Do -- do you maybe want to talk instead? We can do the movie thing some other time, if you want to talk."

"No," Buffy said, hurriedly. At her friend's hurt statement, she added, "I can't -- I'm just not ready to talk yet. I need awhile to process the overload of information."

Willow looked disappointed. "All right. I'd like to know what was going on with Spike that has you so upset, but I guess it can wait. You'd think after all the crying and moping that you'd been sleeping with him, but I know you would never be stupid enough to do that."

Buffy sighed. "That would be a very stupid thing for me to do."

"So, um, what do you feel like doing, then?"

Feel. An alien word. Buffy had to admit she didn't feel much of anything beyond a soul-numbing depression, except maybe ...

"I feel like killing something," she said frankly.

"Oh," Willow said, taken back by the answer. "I don't think I can help you with that."

"Maybe I should go out on patrol, see if I can scare up some nasties. The wicked never sleep in Sunnydale." Buffy uncurled from the couch and went to the closet for her coat. "Sorry to ruin girls' night. Maybe Dawn would like to eat ice cream and watch movies. After she's done with her homework, of course."

"Sure, but, Buffy ..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't you think maybe you should change first? Unless you think bunny slippers will strike fear into the hearts of the undead."

She looked down at her pajamas and blushed. "Um, right. I'll just go upstairs and slip into something a little more Slayery. Be right back."

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, shuffling her bunny slippers on every step, her thoughts drifted again, from visions of dusty vampires to Spike's cocky smile. The quintessential characteristics of a bad boy. He always had a glint in his eyes that suggested some evil plot lurking behind those baby blues. God, she missed that. I wonder, she thought, what he's doing right now.

##~~##~~##

Spike rubbed a finger and thumb over the bridge of his nose, trying to banish the noise in his brain. Then he downed another shot. It didn't help. Vampires didn't feel guilt -- a convenient side effect of having no soul --and yet he did; he felt guilty for abandoning Buffy, even if it was to save her life. Then again, maybe this emptiness was actually caused by the neglect of his true, selfish nature. He wanted Buffy, wanted to own her, love her or hurt her. Now he could do none of those things.

The clatter of the tavern also did little soothe his nerves. He had driven north from Sunnydale at sunset and had stopped, about a hundred miles out, at this place, a demon bar in the middle of nowhere. Tonight, it was hopping. Every imaginable monster crowded inside, drinking, kicking back and having a fine time. Occasional spats had broken out, and a couple of female vamps had approached Spike's lonely booth to suggest they go out back for some fun -- he turned them both down with images of Buffy's accusing stare in his mind -- but other than that, it had proved a normal night for drinking.

He poured another shot of whiskey from his half-empty bottle and focused single-mindedly on the task of getting raving drunk. So far, all he had managed was a light buzz.

A small demon stopped beside his table as Spike forced more alcohol down his throat. The whiskey tasted better the more he drank, or maybe he just cared less. He looked up at his visitor and groaned.

"What do you want now?"

Whistler slid into the seat across from him. "When I suggested you come here, I didn't mean for you to drown in a bottle of Jack Daniels."

"Hello. In case you hadn't noticed, this is a bar. What else is it good for?"

"How about eavesdropping?"

"What now?"

Whistler gestured to the crowd. "This is the place demons come to meet and make their let's-destroy-the-world plans. It's close to the Hellmouth, but not close enough to attract the Slayer's attention. Perfect place for you to do some spying."

"I already told you I'm not James bloody Bond." He poured another shot and downed it while Whistler watched in disapproving silence. "I left Sunnydale because of you and that's enough. I'm not going to do your dirty work, too, so sod off."

"Whoa, that's some bad attitude."

Spike leaned across the table, fixing Whistler with a dark glare. "Are you hard of hearing? Leave. Me. Alone."

"Fine," Whistler said, easing out of the booth and straightening his coat and hat. "But you might want to take an interest in the conversation in the booth behind you. I think you might find it interesting."

Spike watched him disappear into the mass of demons. "Bloody wanker. Thinks I'm gonna do what the Powers want after that stunt they pulled with me and Buffy. Stupid poof."

Still, Whistler had sounded confident that whatever was going on in the next booth might be important, and the guy should know, thanks to his connection to the Powers. With a groan -- why did he always fall into these messes? -- Spike strained to hear the conversation.

"... in the planning for years, but it's gonna go down soon," said a deep voice. "So be ready."

"How soon?"

"Can't say. The Big Man would stake us both for sure if I spilled."

OK, Spike thought. We're dealing with a couple of vamps, maybe more but only two voices so far. And the Big Man. Wonder who that is.

"But these things take planning," said the second vampire. "I need to have a time table. It's not like we can saunter into Sunnydale on a moment's notice. The Slayer --"

"The Slayer won't be a problem."

Spike's fists clenched.

"But --"

"Come on, man, show some backbone. The Slayer might be able to take out a dozen of us, at best, but what good will she do against a hundred? Or two hundred? She'll be dead within seconds." A pause, and then, "So can you be ready at the signal?"

"Yeah," the second vamp said, hesitant. "Yeah, I'll be ready."

"Good. That's what the Big Man likes to hear."

Spike's hand tightened so hard around his shot glass that it cracked. These idiots were plotting against the Slayer, his Slayer, but so far they had spilled very little solid information. He needed more. He slid from his booth and strutted the few steps to the vampires' table. There were only two -- one rather chubby and wearing an NFL sweatshirt, and the other skinny and more pale than a vampire had a right to be. He smiled at them in false cheer.

The chubby one looked up. "What do you want? Get out of here."

From his deep voice, Spike recognized him as the one with most of the information.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you're planning a go at Sunnydale," he said. "Sounds like fun."

"Yeah, so?"

"I want in on the action."

The skinny vamp snorted. "And what makes you think that we need you?"

"You'll be needing to get the Slayer out of your way, right? Meet one of the few vampires who has faced her and lived. I know her speed, her strengths, her weaknesses. I can help you take her out in short order. But if you're not interested, I can go ..."

"No, wait." Chubby looked interested. "Tell me more."

Spike grinned and slid into the seat beside Skinny, who looked at him strangely. Spike quickly sorted a convincing story to feed them. "I'll make you a deal. I'll give you the goods, in exchange for details on what you're planning."

"Hey, wait just a minute," Skinny said, and he reached out to pinch Spike's duster.

Spike pulled away. "Watch it will you? You'll bruise the leather."

Skinny snorted. "I thought so. I know you, and we're not telling you shit."

"Trust me, mate, you don't know me," Spike said, trying his best to sound calm despite the alarms going off in his head. He unobtrusively reached under his jacket for a stake. "I think I would remember a wanker like you."

"I know of you, then. The stories have reached across the globe about the master vampire who turned against his own kind and fights beside the Slayer. His name's Spike. Word is he's an English bottle-blond who has a thing for black leather. I've got your number, mate."

"And I've got yours," Spike growled. His hand closed around his stake, and he plunged it into Skinny's chest. The vamp went to dust, and Spike shrugged at Chubby, who stared in open-mouthed amazement. "He had to do it the hard way, huh?"

"What are you, man?" Chubby asked, "Some kind of spy?"

"Not too bright, are you?" Spike grabbed the vampire's sweatshirt and yanked, pulling him halfway across the table. "Now, listen carefully. You could end up like your friend over here. Or you can give me the information I'm looking for and walk away. What do you say?"

For his answer, Chubby swung a powerful fist at Spike and knocked him back into his seat. Spike rolled his jaw, where the punch had connected, and grinned. The vamp had some power, and Spike hadn't had a good fight in ages.

Chubby said, "Let's take this outside."

Spike gestured to the door. "After you, mate."

##~~##~~##

Dawn curled up on the couch and leaned her cheek against Willow's shoulder, and Willow smoothed her hair. They were watching some movie that starred a bunch of British people and Renee Zellweger, who was pretending to be British. It had been interesting for a while, but since Hugh Grant wasn't on screen anymore, it had lost Dawn's interest. Still, it was better than math homework.

"So, um, did Buffy say when she was gonna be back?" Dawn asked, lifting her head to look at Willow.

"Nope. She looked all business, so I'd guess it won't be for a while. After we go to bed probably."

"Did she say what was up? I mean, with Spike leaving and all."

"I have theories, but Buffy's not talking." Willow sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sworn off magic. I mean, I could do a spell to help her. Make her feel better or something."

Dawn tried to ignore the wistful tone of Willow's voice. Last time the redhead had done a spell, they had ended up helpless in the sewers with a vampire on their trail. Hoping to steer the conversation to a safer subject, she asked, "Do your theories involve Buffy and Spike and kissing?"

Willow gave her a lopsided smile. "You're thinking that, too, huh? But I seriously doubt Buffy would go that far. She's smarter than that."

"I don't know. I mean, look at Bridget Jones," Dawn said, waving toward the TV. "She's all mooning over bad boy Hugh Grant when really the man of her dreams is the sensible one who's right in front of her nose. I think it's something about bad boys. They tend to cloud judgment."

"Yeah, maybe."

They watched the movie for a few minutes. It was Bridget's birthday, and a pathetic-looking Hugh Grant crashed the party. The scene reminded Dawn of Buffy's last birthday, when she had snuck out and run into Spike, lurking outside the house with a crushed box of chocolates. He had helped her break into the magic shop. That night, she had learned the terrible truth about herself, which had started a chain of events leading to the Scoobies' flight from Sunnydale and the kidnapping and Buffy's death ...

"I'm not sure I like this movie," Dawn said, frowning.

"We can watch the other one."

"No, it's OK. Um, Willow, can I ask you something? About magic."

Willow sat up straighter, with a wary look, and said, "What is it?"

"Is there a spell that could locate someone who is missing? Like maybe a certain vampire."

"No. I mean, yes, there is a spell. But we're not doing it."

"But --"

"No."

"Why not?"

Willow shifted, uncomfortable with the subject. "I think maybe it's a good thing that Spike left. As much of a help as he's been, especially this past summer when we didn't have Buffy around, he's still an evil, soulless vampire. He's all about the gratuitous violence and killing. Too much potential for bad endings."

"Well, I think he's changed, and Buffy's not the only one who misses him," Dawn said, but she didn't press the subject. Again she rested her head on Willow's shoulder. "So do you think Buffy might get back soon?"

##~~##~~##

Spike and Chubby went out back to a vacant area of the parking lot. With no street lights and a new moon, the night was darker than Spike was accustomed to, but his eyes adjusted quickly enough. Chubby had stripped off his sweatshirt; Spike laid his duster on the cracked asphalt and put up his fists.

"All right, then," he said, grinning. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You're dead, turncoat."

Chubby charged him like a linebacker, but he wasn't quick. Spike easily stepped aside and, when Chubby's momentum carried him past, Spike kicked him in the back. The vampire stumbled, caught himself and spun around to growl at Spike in his game face.

"Ooo, scary," Spike taunted. "You think that's gonna improve your chances?"

Again, Chubby charged, and Spike slid to the side. He said, "Can you try something else now because I'm getting bored."

"This maybe?" Chubby swung around with a right hook.

Spike staggered back. He felt blood trickle down his chin, and he laughed. Now that was more like it! Fresh night air, and a good old fashioned fight to get the adrenaline pumping. The perfect cure for brooding.

"That's the spirit," Spike said as he punched back, landing a hit on Chubby's left eye.

"Stop talking and fight," the vampire spat.

"Oh, but the whole point is to get you to talk. I want to know where to find the Big Man."

Chubby's eyes widened. "I can't say that. They'd kill me!"

"I'll kill you if you don't."

"Not a chance."

Spike shrugged. "Have it your way, then."

He launched a kick with both feet at the vampire's chest, landed on all fours and, as Chubby advanced, he kicked back like a mule. His opponent crashed to the asphalt, and Spike rolled over to straddle him with a stake at his chest.

"Tell me."

"You'll have to kill me first."

Spike's eyes narrowed, and he felt blood singing in his veins. "Oh, you're going to wish I had killed you. You're gonna be begging for it." He punched the stake into the vampire's chest, just left of the heart, and Chubby screamed. "Talk, or it's about to get a lot worse."

Blood trickled from the vamp's mouth. "I can't do that."

Spike stabbed him again, this time in the stomach. God, this felt good. All out fighting ... back to the wall, nothing but fists and fangs. How he had missed it these past few months, since he'd gone all soft over Buffy. Buffy. She would disapprove of the torture, but this lard of a vampire had information that he needed. Information on a plot that apparently involved an army of vampires and Buffy's death. Not if I can help it, Spike thought savagely. No one hurts my Slayer.

"I could keep this up all night," Spike said, deadly soft. "Just keep plunging in the stake. There are a lot of body parts to puncture. Or you could tell me what I want to know. Where can I find the Big Man?"

Chubby groaned, then said in a strained voice. "I don't know."

"Then who does?"

He hesitated, until Spike poised the bloody stake for another blow.

"My -- my contact would know. Vamp called Carlos. Lives in London."

Spike blinked. "London? As in England?"

"That's right. Now let me go."

"Right then," Spike said, standing up. He really wanted to dust the wanker, but he always honored his deals. "I find out you're lying, I'm going to track you down and we'll continue this conversation. We understand each other?"

Chubby nodded, which was enough. Spike retrieved his duster, threw the vampire's sweatshirt at him and sauntered around the building to his car. He felt better now than he had all day. The fight had rejuvenated him, and he even smiled when he saw Whistler leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.

"I see you've had your fun," Whistler said, his eyes raking Spike's blood-soaked clothing. "Did you learn anything useful?"

"Yeah. Say, can I have one of those cigs?"

Whistler tossed him the pack, and Spike lit up.

"How did you know?" Spike asked. "About those two vamps?"

"I didn't exactly. I was told that the big vampire, the one you pulverized back there, was meetin up here with a bunch of other vampires and demons. I got the feeling he's a recruiter. Anyway, it looked like he was up to no good, so the Powers thought it was a good idea to put you on the case."

"Great," Spike muttered. "First I was James Bond, and now I'm Columbo."

"So, what did he tell you?" Whistler asked.

Spike grinned. "That it's time for me to pay a visit home."

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