Title:  Profundity

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  "Chiaroscuro" is mostly R and PG.  However, some content may be considered NC-17.

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Some stuff in quotes is by W.B. Yeats, Robert Browning, Oscar Wilde, Christina Rossetti, Dylan Thomas, and whoever wrote the Psalms in the Old Testament.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Thanks:  To DorothyL for the beta and for her wonderful friendship.

Notes:   This is a sequel to “Birthday Wish." Warning:  Angst Alert!  It will get better soon.  I promise.

‘What do you make so fair and bright?’

‘I make the cloak of Sorrow:

O, lovely to see in all men’s sight

Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,

In all men’s sight.’

                -W.B. Yeats

        Buffy was standing in a graveyard, and she was happy.  It was a pleasant, sunny cemetery, and all the headstones were very old.  There were no recent tragedies here.  The church behind her was even older than the headstones.  It looked as if it had stood in this foreign place since knights had ridden to battle on horseback. 

        The little blonde girl running in the graveyard looked happy too.  She was yelling wildly, playing some active game at odds with her china doll appearance.  She stopped suddenly, and stooped to pick a handful of yellow flowers.  She turned, and her blue eyes smiled into Buffy’s.

        Buffy was still standing in a graveyard, but now she longed for the pleasant unfamiliarity of the previous scene.  This was a Sunnydale cemetery, full of recent burials and even more recent and horrible disinterments.  She looked down at her hands, expecting to see a stake.  But she was carrying a handful of yellow flowers, much like the ones the child had picked.  Her stomach churned as she looked up from her hands to read the headstone directly in front of her.

        “Buffy, love, it’s all right.”  Spike held her trembling body close to his, stroking her hair.  Buffy clung to him, sobbing.

        When she calmed down, he reached over to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.  He went into the bathroom and brought her back a glass of water.  She drank it slowly, sitting on the bed and leaning against him for warmth and reassurance.

        “The same dream?” he asked after a time.

        “The same nightmare,” she said.  “But the dream part was different.  It always starts happily, but someplace else.  Then it ends badly, and always the same way.  But this time, I got as far as reading the headstone.”  She took a shuddering breath.  “William, you said that you couldn’t interpret any more of that book that demon, the Garglebreath one--”

        “The Giragorsh, yes, love.”

        “Not unless you found some other documents.  The ones Willow thinks they might have in that research library.”

        “That’s right.  But I thought you didn’t want me looking into it.”

        “I’ve changed my mind.  I want you to find those papers and finish that translation.  As soon as possible.”

        Buffy stepped out of Tara’s car and went to unlock the back door of her house.  She should be helping Tara and Dawn with the groceries, but her stomach felt queasy and she didn’t want to subject herself to the smell of food. 

To her surprise, the doorknob turned under her hand before she could put her key in the lock.  Cautiously, she stepped into the kitchen, looking around for possible intruders.  She followed the sound of voices into the dining room, where she stopped and stood staring in astonishment at the two people there.

Tara and Dawn came up behind her and she felt their amazement as they also stood and stared.

Willow, who was seated at the dining room table, couldn’t help laughing.  “I know.  I’ve had a few hours to get acclimated, and it’s still pretty weird.”

Dawn shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.  “Do we know any exorcists?” she asked cautiously. 

Spike scowled.  The effect was not as menacing as usual.  He was sitting on top of the dining room table, near Willow’s chair, but he was dressed as if he had just come in from outside.  It was his clothes that had stunned the newcomers.  He was wearing a long camel-colored coat over a brown suit.  The clothes looked expensive and well cared for, but not brand new.  His silk tie was conservative.  There was a leather briefcase propped up on the table next to him.  His long hair was still pulled back in a ponytail, but in this guise, it didn’t suggest that he was a man too careless of his appearance to bother to get a haircut.  He looked like a member of the upper classes who was so well off and so well bred that he could afford this slight affectation.   He looked like someone who was so rich that he could afford to be cool as well.

“It’s just a costume,” he said.

But it didn’t look like a costume.  Instead of slouching like a thug expecting imminent arrest, he held himself as if he belonged in this outfit.  Buffy felt dizzy.  It seemed to her that Spike slid backwards for a moment, as if moving back and forth in time.  It’s just morning sickness, she told herself.

 “You look good,” said Dawn to Spike in a disbelieving tone.

        “Yeah,” said Tara, shaking her head as if she couldn’t quite take it in.  “Someone could take you nice places and not be embarrassed.  It’s very scary.”

        “Did you do this with magic, Willow?” asked Dawn.  “Because I think you should put him back the way he was.  This is kind of creepy.”

        Spike grimaced.  “Willow did not do this.  For the second time, this is a costume—a disguise.  I tried to get into that bloody research library and they threw me out.  Said I needed credentials and a letter of introduction.  So I got Willow here to write a kosher-looking letter and to change those forged papers Giles had made up for me.  I didn’t want anything on them to lead someone back to this house.  Then I went to the second-hand shop downtown and found this lot.  I went back to the library, and the wanker who threw me out the first time didn’t even recognize me.  I sailed right in and even had the ladies behind the counters offering to help me with my photocopying.”

        “You found what you were looking for?” said Buffy, trying to focus.  She picked up some of the papers lying on the table.  “I can’t read this.”

        “It’s Greek to you and to me, love.  But I managed to swipe a bilingual dictionary while I was there, and I may be able to make heads or tails out of it for all that.”

        “This isn’t in Greek,” said Dawn, picking up some more papers.  “What’s a curriculum vitae?”

        “It’s a résumé that’s a bit full of itself,” said Spike.  “Those are the credentials Willow doctored for me.”

        “Wow,” said Tara.  “You guys don’t mess around when you’re making things up.  A first at Oxford.  Wasn’t that aiming a little too high, Spike?”

        Spike didn’t respond, but Buffy and Willow exchanged glances.  Dawn caught their looks and said, “What?  What do you two know?”

        “Nothing,” said Spike quickly.

        Tara was staring at him.  “Spike, I know that you had more education than you ever let on.  But you didn’t really—I mean the way you talk.  People who talk like you didn’t go to Oxford a hundred and some years ago.”

        “Maybe he didn’t talk like that a hundred and some years ago,” said Buffy softly.  She added when he gave her an outraged look, “You can’t hide forever, William.”

        Dawn finally caught up to the implications of this.  “Do you mean he really did earn this degree?  Wow, Spike, that’s amazing.  I mean, don’t you have to be really smart to do that?”

        “Apparently you can still be stupid enough to throw your life away because a girl offers to kiss you in a back alley,” he muttered.  He jumped off the table and stormed up the stairs.

        “Sorry,” yelled Dawn after him.  She didn’t look terribly contrite.  “I should have remembered that actual compliments were taboo.  If you come back down I promise to insult you instead.”

        “Dawn!” said Willow.

        “Sorry,” muttered Dawn again.  “But I’m tired of always having to pretend he’s still Mr. Scary Vampire.  If I want to say something nice to him, I will.  I don’t care if it does piss him off.”

        Buffy knew that she should be dealing with this situation.  She should get Dawn under control and talk to Spike.  She should find out what, if anything, he had actually learned.  She took a deep breath, realized that was a mistake, and ran for the bathroom with her hand clapped over her mouth.

        It was late in the evening.  Buffy had just come out of the shower, and she was relieved to find Spike lying in their bed, reading from a small hardbound book that he kept on the bedside table.  He had been elusive all day, if not always in body, certainly in spirit.  For once, he had moved closer to groups of people instead of towards solitude, and she knew that he had been avoiding discussing his earlier outburst with her.

        Now, he set down his book.  “Ready for bed, love?” he asked suggestively.

        She smiled at the normalcy of this response and, for an answer, slipped off her robe and slid under the covers.  He pulled her close and kissed her with almost unnerving passion.  Sensing something awry, she pushed against his chest, pulling back to look at his face.

        He smiled at her, and she tried to smile back.  But when she looked into his eyes, her stomach churned again, and this time she could not fool herself that it was morning sickness.  She had seen that expression before, but never on his face.  It had looked back at her from the mirror for months after she had returned from the dead.

        Buffy tried to remember what it had felt like, only a year ago, to feel almost nothing and to wish for non-existence.  Now, she seemed fully anchored to life.  The baby growing inside her had given her something more than the ability to enjoy the present; she now risked optimism for the future, in spite of the fears that inevitably came with hope.

        Her renewed passion for life only made her concerns for Spike more acute.  When she had felt dead, he had struggled to make her feel and want to continue, although he had not been alive himself.  When she realized that she had the ability to give him the gift of life, she had found renewed joy in her own existence.  Why, now that they both had something to look forward to, was he slipping into despair?

        “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, her voice cracking a little with fear.  “Tell me, William.”

        “Nothing’s wrong,” he said in a soothing voice.  “If I’d found anything more in the translation, I’d have told you, Buffy.  I’m a bit worried about it, but you shouldn’t be afraid yet.”

        “It’s not that translation, or even my dreams, that’s making me afraid.  I’m afraid for you.”

        He laughed a bit hollowly.  “For me?  There’s no need, love.  I’ve never been better.”

        “But you’re not.  Especially not since Drusilla died.”

        “Since I killed her, you mean.  But I had to do that, Buffy.  I know it, and I don’t regret it.”  His voice was emphatic and sincere.

        She shook her head.  “I should have killed Drusilla for you.  I said I would, and I failed you.”

        “No,” he said.  “I had to be the one to do it.  It was better this way.”

        “Better for who?” she asked.  But she knew the answer.  If she had killed Drusilla, it would have been more out of jealousy and hate than her duty as the Slayer.  Even with Xander’s life in the balance, she had barely been able to control her rage.  But Spike had destroyed the vampire with something approaching love, out of the need to stop Drusilla’s insane path of destruction.  By taking the task on himself, he had eased Buffy’s conscience.  But what had it done to his own?  Buffy had once been forced to kill someone she had loved, and she refused to believe that Spike could have recovered from that horror after one night of mourning.

        But he seemed intent on denying any lasting trauma.  “Drusilla’s not the lady who’s on my mind,” he said.  “She hasn’t been for a long time.  You know that.”  He began to kiss her forehead, then her cheeks.  His lips brushed hers and then moved to her neck.  “I love you, Buffy.  What could be wrong in my life when I have this?”

        She closed her eyes and once again gave up the struggle to make him talk.  But, for once, their lovemaking was awkward and fumbling.  Buffy sensed that Spike’s demon side was trying to slip its leash and lead her into the otherness.  She was more than willing, but he seemed determined not to let the wilder side of his nature show tonight.  His slow, deliberate caresses should have been incredibly stimulating, but she was too impatient for this leisured seduction.  She climaxed once as his hand stroked her, and she tried to urge him to enter her immediately, but he seemed hesitant to take his own pleasure.

She felt as if she would literally jump out of her human skin and into the guise of the Slayer, but couldn’t allow herself that freedom when he was obviously unwilling to follow her lead.  She was about to utter an involuntary growl, calling to the animal that hovered beneath the gentle lover.  Then she saw the deadness behind his blue eyes again.  It seemed to her that a part of him had fled, and she began to return his caresses in earnest, trying desperately to draw him back to her.  Her hands ran over his body, feeling the tension that resided in each muscle. 

She rolled over, pushing him down onto the mattress beneath her, and now it was her turn to touch him with gentle determination.  He stared at her as if he had been given a gift he did not deserve but had not the heart to refuse.  She kissed him on the lips, her hands running down his belly.  He closed his eyes as she laid her head against his chest for a moment.  She found it oddly disturbing that his heartbeat seemed out of sync with her own.   She rose on all fours, crouching over him, and guided him inside of her, moving her hips over his rhythmically.  She felt as if she were trying to draw his pain inside herself, to release him from whatever agony was tearing at him.  She knew that he was trying to control himself, but she used her intimate knowledge of his body to push him to orgasm.  When he moaned in climax, she was momentarily uncertain if it was out of pleasure or pain, a celebration of life or of death.

He lay back on the pillows, staring at her in a strange mixture of satisfaction and consternation.  “You didn’t let me be fair to you, love,” he said.

“I’m not complaining,” she said, leaning on his chest.  “Sometimes the thing that gives me the most pleasure is knowing that I can make you happy.”

He shook his head, as if he couldn’t understand or accept her statement. 

Realizing that words were useless between them tonight, Buffy curled up on the pillows and pulled his head down to rest on her breasts.  She held him for a long time until she felt him fall asleep.  She lay awake, wondering how much longer he could go on like this before whatever he was hiding came pouring out of him in a torrent of words or, she feared, violence. 

        “Hello, Tara.”

        Tara looked up from her textbook as Spike came into the magic shop through the cellar entrance.  She examined his appearance and shook her head.  “Overdoing it a little, aren’t you?” she said.

        “I don’t know what you mean.”  He tossed a couple of books on the table and rummaged around in the bulging pockets of his black duster, finally producing a fountain pen.

        “Well, let’s see.  You’re wearing a washed-out t-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, and that horrible coat of yours looks like you rolled around in the sewers with it this morning.  You look like you live on the street, if not under it.”

        He tossed the coat carelessly across a chair and sat down.  “So?  I’ve never been a fashion plate.”  He saw her incredulous look and said, “Pet, I know what you’re thinking.  But, despite whatever fancies Buffy sometimes gets into her head, I’m not the man who went to Oxford and wrote bad poetry.”

        “But part of you once was.  I thought we were becoming friends, and that I was starting to understand who you are.  But now I find out that you’ve been deliberately giving me the wrong impression about your past.”  She was irate enough to let the betrayal she felt show in her face.

He looked away from her.  Tara was rarely angry, and even now her censure was mixed with obvious concern.  This sorrowful criticism was harder to bear than the most furious rant would have been.  “I’ve never been one to live in the past,” was all he said.

“Then why deny it?  Why create something that never even existed?  You were never a refugee from some workhouse out of a Dickens novel.”

        “No,” he snapped.  “I was something much worse than that.”

        Suddenly, Tara understood.  “Of course.  You won’t acknowledge your human past, because it means accepting your vampire past too.”

        “Bloody hell!”  She had never realized how strong his self-control was until that moment, when it finally broke.  His features contorted into something beyond rage.  “And you can’t understand why, can you?  Why I don’t want to remind everyone of what I was, the things I did?  It’s bad enough that I live with the memory of it every day!”

        She forced herself to look at his face and was appalled by what she read there.  “It’s tearing you apart inside, isn’t it?” she said.  “Your past is haunting you.  And you never said a word.”     

        “What should I say?  That I was a bad boy and I’m sorry?”

        “Spike, it’s more than that.  I can see it.”

        “Yeah, it’s a lot more.  It’s oceans of blood and acres of corpses.  Do you think I want to tell those bedtime stories to the people I care about?”

“We already knew.  We already forgave, Spike.  But it’s clear that you haven’t forgiven yourself.”

He was obviously regretting his outburst.  “It’s not so bad,” he mumbled.  “At least, it was getting better until Drusilla came.  Seeing her, fighting her, it dredged it all up.”

“Does anyone know this?  Have you talked to Buffy?”

        “What good would that do?”

        “Spike, it’s obvious that you’re in pain, and I’m not the person to help you though this.  But there’s one person who can help and has the absolute right to know.  You need to talk to Buffy.”

        “Oh, yeah, that would be marvelous.  She’s finally starting to reach a place where she can be happy, where she has some semblance of a normal life. And you want me to start weeping on her shoulder and moaning about guilt?  It should be bloody obvious that would only give me something more to feel guilty about.”

        “So what are you going to do?”

        “What I’ve been doing.  I’m going to go on.  Until it gets better.”

        “And if it doesn’t?  Feelings don’t always go away because you ignore them.”

        “Then I’ll live with them.”

        “Spike, this is crazy.  You’re being crazy.  You told me once that being a vampire was like being frozen in ice.  But you’re not a vampire anymore, and you can change.  The way you deal with your feelings can change.  You’re not alone any more, and you can’t keep acting as if you are.”

        “Really?  We’re all alone up here, pet,” he said, pointing to his skull.  “What goes on here is my business, not yours.”

        “So you’re going to shut me out again too?”

        He hunched over his books, ignoring her. 

        “I can’t believe you’re being so insane,” she said.  “You, the person who sees everyone else so clearly and makes them face the truth.  You won’t even acknowledge it yourself.  You listen to everyone else’s problems, however cynically, but you won’t even hint at your own.”  When he didn’t reply she added, “If you’re determined to be a martyr, I can’t stop you.  But if you keep up this attitude, don’t expect any sympathy from me, no matter how bad things get.” 

She got up and went behind the counter just as the front door of the shop opened and Dawn came in, followed by a couple of customers. 

        Tara went over to talk to an elderly woman, who shook her head at an offer of assistance and expressed her desire to browse.  The other customer, a smiling young man, handed over a list of herbs, and Tara went behind the counter to fill the order.  She kept one eye on the table where Dawn had gone to talk to Spike.

        “Where’s Buffy?” asked Dawn.

        “Home,” said Spike.  “She wasn’t feeling well, and I talked her into lying down for the afternoon.”

        “But she’s supposed to train me,” whined Dawn.  “It took forever to convince her to teach me to fight, and now she’s not here.”

        “Yeah, I’m sure she spent the morning vomiting just to make you miserable,” said Spike acidly.

        “Sorry,” mumbled Dawn.  Then she smiled beguilingly.  “But if she’s not here to show me hand-to-hand, you can help me with weapons training.”

        “I could, if I hadn’t promised your sister I would finish this translation.  Besides, Buffy said you should practice your katas.”

        “Doing forms is boring.  And so is translating old papers.”  She flicked the documents on the table with one dismissive finger.  “Oh, come on, Spike.  You hate doing this kind of stuff, and you like fighting.”

        “Fighting, yes.  Brangling with brats, no.  Go do your forms.”

        “Because Buffy says so.  I’m not you, Spike.  You’d jump into a live volcano if Buffy asked you to, wouldn’t you?”

        “Probably.  Fortunately, a volcano is one of the few disasters that we haven’t experienced in this bloody town—at least, not so far.  Go.”

        Dawn picked up her bag and flounced into the shop’s rest room to change.  Spike’s head bowed over the papers again.  Tara saw that he was determined to move back into his old way of interacting with the world, as if their conversation earlier had never happened.

        The bell over the door rang as the young man left with his bag of herbs.  For a few minutes, the only other sounds in the shop were the scratch of Spike’s pen on paper, the occasional rustle as Tara turned a page in her textbook, and the soft steps of an elderly woman who was looking over the racks of talismans and ornaments.  Then the door to the rest room was opened with unnecessary force.

        “Oh, Spike, the toilet is broken again.  It won’t stop running.”  Dawn left the door open and went into the training room without a backwards glance.

        “Why is that my problem?” Spike asked Tara.  “Why doesn’t she fix the sodding thing herself?”

        “Because Dawn has developed her own method of taking care of things like that,” said Tara.

        “Oh?  What’s that?”

        “She says, ‘Spike, I have a problem,’ and you fix it.  You’ve spoiled her, so you can deal with the consequences.”

“Oh, really.  Well, you’re the one in charge of this shop.  Why don’t you take care of it?”

        “All right.  I will.”  Tara looked up at him solemnly and said, “Oh, Spike, the toilet is broken again.  It won’t stop running.”

        Cursing beneath his breath, he stood up and went into the bathroom.  Tara’s eyes flicked in that direction, and she muttered, “No sympathy.”  More profanities emerged from behind the door, followed by some flushing, and the noise of water running in the sink.  Spike exited the bathroom and sat back down.

        He had barely picked up his pen again when the door opened and Janice bounced in.  “Hi, Tara!” she said.  “Hi, Spike.  I’m glad you’re here.  You’re just the person I want to see.”

        He cast her an appalled glance.  “I’m sure I don’t want to know why.”

        She told him anyway.  “You see, I realized you’d be the perfect person to help me because Dawn says you’re always reading those lame poets like Shakespeare and stuff.”

        “I do not--”

        “Yeah, she said you don’t like to admit it, and I get that, because I wouldn’t either if I did read them, which I do now, because I have to for class, but I don’t get them.  Which is why I need help.”  She gazed at him beseechingly.

        In spite of the drama that had occurred earlier, Tara found herself trying hard not to giggle at this scene.  She was sure that Spike didn’t even like Janice very much.  But by virtue of being Dawn’s friend, Janice had become a small part of his life.  He had saved the teen’s life on more than one occasion, and he had frequently acted as chauffeur for her and Dawn.  He was also grateful to Janice’s family for taking care of Dawn at times when he and Buffy were unable to do so.  Tara was quite certain that Spike was incapable of turning down any remotely reasonable request from one of the “ladies” in his life.  He was certainly struggling to do so right now, but Tara was willing to make a sizeable bet that he would lose the battle.      

        “Anyway, I had to write a paper about this Bryning guy.”

        “Bryning?”

        “I was sure you knew about him.  He’s a famous English poet.”

        “Are you sure it isn’t Browning or maybe Byron?”

        “Yeah, that’s right.  One of those.  He was, like, a lord.”

        “Byron.”

        Janice smiled happily.  “I knew you’d know.  Here’s what I wrote.  Could you fix it up for me?  It’s not really cheating.  The teacher said we should have someone read our stuff.  I could give you the disk and you could make the changes on the computer.  That way, I wouldn’t have to read it again.  It’s kind of boring.”

        “I don’t do computers,” said Spike emphatically enough to break through even Janice’s single-mindedness.

        “Oh.  Wow.  Well, ok, then, you can use your pen.”  She picked up his fountain pen from the table.  “This is a cool pen.  How does it work?”  She started to unscrew it.  “Is this going to be the next new thing, do you think?  Like after gel pens?”

        “I doubt it,” said Spike, rescuing the pen before she managed to spill ink all over his books.

        “Oh, and can you put some profound stuff in there?” asked Janice.  “My teacher likes profound stuff.  Only don’t make it too profound, because she knows me and she’d figure out someone wrote it for me.”

        “So you want some superficial profundity?” he asked.

        “Yeah.”  Janice seemed completely oblivious to the incredulity in his voice.

        “That’s right,” said Tara in a serious tone.  “It doesn’t do to let your profundity get too deep.”

        “No,” agreed Janice.  “And don’t fix the punctuation too much.  On account of my teacher could tell.”

        “Because she knows you,” said Tara, nodding in understanding.

        Janice backed out towards the door.  “Yeah.  Oh, and I’m going to have to start work late today on account of I need to pick up some shoes for Saturday.  It shouldn’t take real long.  Feel free to dock my wages.”

        “That’s good of you,” said Tara.  “Thanks for the permission.”

        The door slammed, leaving Spike staring at the papers in his hands.  “‘Lord Byron had two other names, George Gordon,’” he read aloud.  “‘He slept with lots of women for a gay guy and wrote lots of poems about girls.  He also slept with his sister which was gross.’  Bloody hell!  What am I supposed to do with this?”

        “Insert profundity,” gasped Tara, who had started laughing almost uncontrollably the moment Janice had left.

        “And you were a great help,” said Spike.  “Why didn’t you stop her?”

        “Why didn’t you?”

        “I don’t know.  A few years ago, I would have eaten her, unless I couldn’t stomach her and just killed her instead.  Even a year ago I would have slain her metaphorically with biting sarcasm.”

        “No you wouldn’t,” said Tara.  “Janice is impervious to sarcasm.  She has an incredibly literal mind.”

        “Just the trait needed to write an essay on poetry.”  He stared down at the paper, then up at her.  “How can I possibly fix this drivel?”

        Tara suddenly became solemn.  “How about adding some actual poetry to the mindless comments about the poet’s life?  I know—‘Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.’  That’s a good line.”

        He pretended not to understand her.  “Byron didn’t write that.”

        Her voice was harsh.  “No, he couldn’t have.  He didn’t have enough common sense.”

“Seriously, Tara, will you--”

        “No,” said Tara emphatically, giving him no chance to continue.

        “But--”

        She stood up.  “You’re into solitary atonement,” she said, lowering her voice to avoid being overheard by any of the customers.  “That essay looks like a great way to do penance.  Besides, I have to study for an exam tomorrow.  You’re on your own.”  She left him sitting there and went to the front of the shop as more customers entered.  Even when her offer of help was refused by each person browsing the shop, she did not return to the work table, but found something to keep her busy behind the cash register.  Spike hunched his shoulders and kept his eyes on the papers in front of him.

        He was distracted again a few minutes later when Natalie walked into the shop.  She smiled a greeting at everyone present, even the last remaining customer, but her eyes were clearly focused on Tara.  She pulled an old book from her bag.  “I finished this last night,” she said.

        “Oh,” said Tara.  “Did you like it?”

        “I’m not sure.  I mean, I don’t think I understood it all.  I have a lot of questions about it.  Look, I wrote them all down.”  Natalie pulled a small notebook from the bag.

        Tara smiled.  “I’m glad you found it so interesting.  Do you have time to talk about it now?”

        “Only if I’m not interrupting anything important,” said Natalie, looking around the almost empty shop.

        “Oh, no, I have plenty of time,” said Tara.

        “Don’t forget that important exam tomorrow,” muttered Spike.

Tara pretended not to hear him.  “I could make us a cup of tea while we talk,” she said to Natalie.

        “I don’t think so,” said Spike in a louder tone of voice.  “I’ve got a lot of work to do here, and I’d find your discussion very distracting.  I think you should take it elsewhere.”

        “I certainly don’t want to disturb Spike,” said Natalie earnestly.

        “That’s right,” said Tara.  “We wouldn’t want to do that.  We could go to the café.  They have some good herbal teas there.”

        “Don’t you have a teapot at your place?” asked Spike in a voice that managed to make the comment almost impossibly suggestive.

        Tara frowned at him.  “How’s that essay going, Spike?  You manage to get any profundity into it yet?”

        “I’m plumbing the depths, pet.  But my efforts might yield better results in solitude.”

        “Why don’t we go to my place?” said Tara to Natalie.  “Someone asked me to take a new brand of tea on consignment the other day.  I took it home to try it, and I can’t make up my mind whether I should add it to the stock here.  I’d like a second opinion.”

        “Really?” said Natalie.  “What kind of tea is it?”

        Spike’s voice drawled up from the table.  “Passion fruit, wasn’t it?”

        Tara ignored this.  “Spike, would you mind watching the shop?”

        “Yes.  Go anyway.”

        “We’ll bring you back some tea,” she promised.

        “Yeah, and if I hold my breath while I’m waiting, it will be the second longest time I’ve ever done that.”

        He began whistling as they walked to the door.  Tara stopped to glare at him, but said nothing.  The tune was I’m a Little Teapot.

        Shortly after Tara and Natalie left, the customer who had been hovering in the front of the shop for so long finally approached the counter and set down her purchases.  Spike, who had just begun reading again, got up with an indistinct grumble and slouched over to the cash register.  “Yeah?” he said. “I mean, may I help you?”

        The woman did not react with the dismay that greeted most of Spike’s attempts at salesmanship.  She pointed at the selection of herbs, candles, and amulets that she had picked out and said, “I’d like those, and some aconite and bloodflower, please.”  She had a slight English accent.

        Spike looked over the items on the counter.  He made no move to ring up the sale or get the additional items she had requested.

        “Excuse me,” said the woman.  “I said I would like some aconite and—.”

        “I heard you,” said Spike.  “But I don’t think so.”

        “You don’t think I want those things?”

        “I know that I’m not going to sell them to you.”

        “Do you mean you don’t have any?  Because I was told you had a full selection of herbs.”

        “Yeah, we do.  But some of them are kept behind the counter for good reason.  And we only sell them to people we know, when we know what’s going to be done with them.”

        “So you want to know who I am and what I’m going to do with them.”

        “Oh, I don’t have to ask that.  You’re a silly bint who’s going to do a vengeance spell.  Or you think you are.  But you’re not going to do it with anything you buy in this shop.”  He swept up the items she had so laboriously collected and shoved them under the counter. 

        “You are refusing to serve me?” she asked incredulously.

        “Bloody right I am.”

        “Why?”

        “Well, I see three possibilities, and I don’t like any of them.  The best of the lot is that you and the person you want to use this on are both evil, so I could just let you chew each other up like the gingham dog and the calico cat.  On the other hand, the backlash from your spell could still hurt some bystanders, and there’s a slight chance those bystanders could be relatively innocent.  The second possibility is that you’re just a vindictive cow after someone who hasn’t done anything wrong, and I’d be helping you to harm an innocent.  There are obvious problems with that one.  Or perhaps this person you’re after is truly evil and you have a legitimate complaint.”  He leaned over to look her in the eyes. “Sounds all right at first.  But if you use that spell, you’ll draw yourself into the dark magics.  I don’t know if you understand what that means, but I do.  That’s not a path I’d direct anyone down, not even my worst enemy.”  He backed away, and suddenly his tone changed from grave to ironic.  “So it seems to me that I have some product liability issues if I sell you what you want.  And, confidentially, it’s hard to get malpractice insurance in this business.”

        The customer stared into his eyes for a moment as if she were seeing something inconceivable in their depths.  Then she turned and almost ran from the shop.

        Spike sat back down at the table and stared at the pile of books and papers he had been working on, but his mind was unable to face their horrific contents just then.  He picked up Janice’s essay, which was, in its way, even more horrific than the documents Buffy had asked him to translate.  He tried in vain to imagine living inside a mind innocent enough to produce something this shallow.  “Lord Byron’s wife (Mrs. Byron) was weird to,” he read.  “She liked math.”  Spike marveled that a girl who lived in Sunnydale and who was studying one of the most famously dysfunctional personalities in literature found nothing better to strike her with awe than silly Annabella Milbanke’s predilection for parallelograms.

        Suddenly, he was very tired.  He stretched his arms out in front of him and dropped his head on the table.  “Profundity,” he muttered.  “I’m supposed to make that profound, when I’ve been trying to swim out of the depths myself.  ‘De profundis.’ ‘My soul waiteth’—it seems like forever—‘waiteth more than they that watch for morning.’” He sighed, as more quotations dredged themselves out of his unwilling memory. “‘Suffering is one very long moment.  We cannot divide it by seasons.’ ‘Oh why is heaven built so far?’ And why are poets all such bloody, whining poofters?  Well, most of them.  ‘I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, and bade me creep past.  No, let me taste the whole of it.’  That’s better.  ‘. . . the fiend voices that rave . . . shall become a peace out of pain . . .’  ‘Do not go gently into that good night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’  I have more than enough rage.  But is there any peace out of this pain, I wonder?”

        He sat up again as Dawn came in from the training room, holding the small of her back and moaning.  “That was not only boring, it was tiring,” she complained.  She looked at him.  “Sorry, were you saying something?”

        “No, pet.”  He smiled.  “Now that you’ve done that little chore, you can take over the shop.  Tara’s fled and Janice has bailed on you again.”

        “What?” said Dawn.  “And what about you?  If I know you, you’ve done nothing all afternoon but lounge around here enjoying yourself by snarking at people.” 

        “I’ve got to do what I’m best at, pet.”   

        “I can leave if you’re still not feeling well,” said Willow.

        “No, please stay.” said Buffy.  She settled back into the cushions of the living room couch and smiled wanly at her old friend.  Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she was dressed in an old pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt.  She had been too tired to try to find anything else in her wardrobe that would fit comfortably over the small but unmistakable bulge in her belly.  “I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts—or my dreams—right now.”

        “Why, Buffy, what’s wrong?”

        “Something big and bad may happen soon, Willow.  I’m not sure yet, but I’ve been having dreams, and I think I’m beginning to understand what they mean.”

        “I know, Buffy.  I’ve sensed something, even with my powers bound the way they are.  But whatever it is, we’ll help you fight it.  You know that.”

        Buffy nodded.  “If it weren’t for one thing, I would feel more confident about this fight than I have about any really big battle for a long time.”

        “One thing?”

        “Spike.  I’m so worried about him, Willow.  It’s like something broke inside when he killed Drusilla.  I was hoping that it would let him open up to me more, but instead he—I don’t know how to describe it, but his attitude is almost brittle.  He makes jokes, and he—well, he makes love—but none of it is quite right.  I’d say his heart wasn’t in it, but that’s not quite right either.  It’s more like part of him is someplace else.  Someplace I can’t go.”

        “Have you talked to him about it?”

        “I’ve tried.  But he won’t let me in.  I’m beginning to realize just how much I’ve been closed out of his mind.  I’m not—this is going to sound strange—but I’m not even sure how much he remembers of his past when he was a vampire.  At least, that’s not what I mean.  I’m not sure what he feels about what he remembers.  But I don’t even know if that’s the problem.  You said once that he worries more about the future than the past.  He knows something about this big bad, too, and I can’t help wondering if he knows more than he’s told me.  What if he’s dreaming too?  It’s making me crazy, Willow, that I just have no idea what the problem is.  Maybe it’s not even something I’ve thought about.”

        “We all keep secrets sometimes, Buffy.  Even from the people we really love and care for.”

        “I know.  But the way things are is wrong, Willow.  I can’t let it go on.”

        “You can’t think he’s evil, Buffy.  You know better than that.”

        “I don’t think he’s evil for not talking to me, Willow.  He has a right to the privacy of his own mind.  I can’t just walk into his head and demand what I want the way I used to barge into his crypt when he was a vampire.  But just because something’s not evil doesn’t mean it’s for the best, either.  I didn’t tell Spike for weeks that I suspected I was pregnant, because all I had to go by were my dreams.  But if I had told him about my visions of the baby first, instead of waiting for a pregnancy test, he wouldn’t have gone through two days of fear and worry that I was carrying a soulless demon.”

        Willow’s look of anguish reflected her friend’s distress.  “Buffy, if I only knew what it was right to tell you—”  She stopped as the doorbell rang.

        Buffy stood up and opened the door.  “Yes?” she said politely to the elderly woman on the front porch.

        The woman stared at her for a long moment.  “So you are the Slayer,” she said.

        Buffy’s face hardened as she braced for danger.  But the woman didn’t look menacing.  She was very tall and almost compulsively well-groomed, wearing a conservative skirt and blouse.   Her accent was British, and her voice was harsh.

        “Clearly, you have the advantage of me,” said Buffy, wondering as she did so why that bit of Giles-speak had popped into her mind.

         “My name is Miss Ravenscar,” said the woman.  “I’m a member of the Watcher’s Council.  May I come in?”

        “Statements like that aren’t a passport into my home,” said Buffy.  “As you should know if you are who you say you are.”

        “I am.”  The woman produced a letter, which Buffy read through and handed to Willow.

        “I can check this out,” said Buffy.  “It will take some time.  And then, if you have something interesting to say, I may listen to you.  But not in my home.”

        “How strange that the Slayer should refuse entrance to a member of the Council when she welcomes William the Bloody into her house, her life, and her—”  The woman’s glance was coolly suggestive.

        Buffy turned pale.  “What do you mean?” she hissed.

        “You know what I mean.  Of course, I don’t fully understand how Spike can walk in the sunlight.  But I mean to find out.  If you don’t want to talk to me, I may have to go report to the Council immediately.   I’m sure they will have enough resources to investigate fully.”

        At that, Buffy practically dragged the woman into the house.  “No!  We—we’ve worked hard to keep the Council from figuring this out.  They—they’ll go crazy over this information!”

        Miss Ravenscar regarded her with anger.  “And you think they shouldn’t investigate why a monster like that isn’t even restricted to the dark anymore?”

        “He isn’t a monster, and he doesn’t need the dark to restrain him.  He has a soul, and he breathes.  He isn’t evil.”

        “Don’t you tell me what he is, you silly girl!  I’ve heard tales about this strange Slayer who follows none of the rules, but I couldn’t even have imagined this before today.  How could you?  Whatever magic tricks have been performed on him, how could you bed the animal that killed one of your sisters?”

        “Because he isn’t an animal any more,” said Willow, who had been listening to the conversation from a few steps behind Buffy.  “And Buffy has only one sister, and she’s fine.  Spike would never hurt her.”

        “She doesn’t mean Dawn when she talks about my sisters,” said Buffy.  “She means the other Slayers.”  She looked at Miss Ravenscar.  “I think I understand what this is about now.  This isn’t Council business, is it?  It’s personal.  Spike killed two Slayers, but only one of them haunts your memory.  It was the girl on the subway, wasn’t it?  He told me about it, a little, once.  Not all the story, I think.  I’m beginning to understand that no one ever knows the whole story.”

        “I was her Watcher,” said Miss Ravenscar.  “Her name was Elizabeth.  Did you even know that?”  Buffy shook her head.  “You may not be able to know the whole story, but you never bothered to find out more than whatever tale Spike told you, I’m sure.  Elizabeth was beautiful, and talented, and strong, and I loved her more than I have loved anyone before or since.  And he destroyed her.  Without a second thought.”

        “I’m sorry,” said Buffy, helpless before the woman’s anguish.

        “He didn’t bother to drink from her, you know.  It wasn’t about the desire to feed.  He didn’t even have a hungry animal’s excuse for what he did.  All he wanted was her life.”

        “All he ever wanted from the Slayer was life,” said Buffy.  “But it took him a long time to realize what that really meant.  It took me a long time too.  Almost too long.”

        Miss Ravenscar shook her head, as if she didn’t have the energy to try to understand Buffy’s words.  She was too lost in her own memories.  “I obsessed about him for years.  When I heard he was in Sunnydale, I asked for permission to come out here, but it was denied.  I knew that if I jumped on a plane and went anyway they would send people after me, and that they would almost inevitably track me down before I had a chance of finding and killing Spike.  So I pretended that I had reconsidered my foolish desire for revenge, waited, and then tried to arrange for a post in this area.  It took years to get that job at the research library, but I didn’t mind.  I’d waited so long already.”

        The woman closed her eyes in remembered pain and frustration.  “Then the news bulletin came out.  Just a note, in one of those interminable memos that the members of the Upper Council love so much.   ‘The vampire known as Spike and William the Bloody is no more,’ it said.  I felt as if something had been stolen from me.  Then I noticed the odd wording, and I asked around.  I found that that was the precise phrasing used by Rupert Giles when he reported the news.”

        Miss Ravenscar’s eyes opened, and she stared at Buffy accusingly.  “I sent him a letter.  I asked for additional confirmation.  He wrote that he could assure me that ‘the vampire Spike no longer existed.’  It seemed clear enough.  I’d met Giles, and I didn’t have too much trouble believing that the stilted turns of phrase simply represented his naturally stuffy means of expression.  So I sat, and did my job, and felt empty and cheated.  Until yesterday morning.”  The Watcher’s face lit up with hatred.

        “I saw him yesterday.  I saw him twice.  The first time he tried to get into the library, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  The guard sent him off, thinking he was just chasing away a vagrant, and not realizing that a dangerous animal was escaping.  I was so astonished to see Spike alive and standing in the daylight, I didn’t think to follow him.  I cursed myself all morning, but then he came again, disguised as a scholar.  I made sure to get a copy of his credentials and to find out where he lived.  The address on the curriculum vitae was fake, but some of the other documents referred to UC Sunnydale.  I came here and asked around.  I was directed to the magic shop almost immediately.  I’ve spent the past few hours watching him.”

        “You’ve been spying on him?”

        “Why do you say that as if I were some sort of criminal?  I was hunting a monster.”

        “He is not a monster,” said Buffy.  “Not any more.”  Her hands were clasped protectively over her stomach.  “You don’t know what he is now.”

        “I know that he acts as if he feels human affection.  I saw him today, laughing and joking with those girls in that shop.  He puts on a good show, but I know that it’s not real.”

“It is real,” said Willow.

The Watcher looked confused.  “I don’t understand how he can do it.  I saw those girls, giving him orders, pestering him to do things for them.  They were so certain he cared about them, and that he wouldn’t harm them no matter what ridiculous thing they demanded.  That one beautiful child even wanted him to spar with her using weapons.  She was so unafraid.  Even when he refused, it was as if he did it because he thought it was best for her, not because he wanted to say ‘no.’  Those other women let him tease them as if they were sure of his affection.  And he acted as if he would try to save even me from—“  She shook her head, as if rejecting this train of thought.  “If I didn’t know better, it would have been so easy to believe that was all real.” 

“It is real,” said Buffy.

“It can’t be.  I saw—the moment I saw him at the library, I knew he was still evil, even though he stood in the sunlight.  I knew it.”

“No!”  Willow spoke emphatically.  “You’re wrong.  Please don’t tell her things like that.  They’re not true!”

“Yes, they are,” said Miss Ravenscar, interrupting ruthlessly.  “The evidence was there, and it was unequivocal.  Even as he spoke words of friendship to those girls in that shop, it was there beside him.  Whenever I would start to doubt, I would look, and see it there, draped over a chair as if it was a meaningless thing he happened to have with him.  But how could he bear to have it near him if he didn’t still glory in his crimes?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Buffy

The woman looked at her pityingly.  “Do you know where he got that leather coat he wears?”

        “No.”  Buffy was now completely bewildered. 

        “It was the trophy he took from my poor Elizabeth’s body.  That was how I was sure it was him yesterday morning.  I would recognize that coat anywhere.  I had just bought it for her—she wanted it so badly, and I had so much pleasure in giving it to her.  When they found her body, the coat was gone.  I was always sure that animal had taken it.”

        “No,” said Buffy again, but in a different tone of voice.

        “Didn’t you ever wonder why he was so attached to a battered old thing like that?  What did you think it meant to him?”

        “It can’t be,” said Buffy.  “It’s not the same coat.”  But her expression was that of someone accepting a horrible reality.

        “It is,” said Willow.  The other two women turned to stare at her.  “But, Buffy, it doesn’t mean what she thinks.  Spike regrets it all—Elizabeth and every other evil thing he did as a vampire.”  She turned to speak directly to the Slayer.  “He showed me, Buffy.  He let me into his mind for just a second.  He showed me what he feels and what it’s like for him all the time.  He remembers it all, and the memories are agony to him.”

        Buffy looked as if this were an even greater blow than the Watcher’s words had been.  “I don’t understand, Willow.  Why would he show you and not me?  And why wouldn’t you tell me?”

        “He only showed me because of the way I was acting after my trial.  Do you remember what I was like?  I was brooding, and feeling so sorry for myself that I forgot to take care of the people I loved, the people I owed everything.  He did it to snap me out of it.  But he would never tell you, Buffy.  You were still in so much pain from when I brought you back.  He would never add his pain to yours, and he would never let me tell you either.  That’s just not what he is.”

        Buffy’s whole body was shaking.  “That coat.  I can’t believe—  He puts it on every morning, he made love to me on it, he wrapped me in it when I was cold.  How could he?”

        “Buffy, it’s not a trophy.  It may have started like that, but it’s not any more.  He keeps wearing it because getting rid of it or shoving it into the back of a closet would be like pretending her life was meaningless to him.  He puts the coat on every morning because every morning he remembers her and regrets what he did.  He puts it on because he knows he has to fight the battles she never fought because he killed her.  He puts it on because he feels like he has no choice.  It’s not a trophy.  It’s—it’s a hair shirt.  Can’t you see that?”

        “I can’t,” gasped Buffy.  “I can’t take this in.”  Suddenly, she clamped a hand over her mouth and ran out of the room.

        “You see,” said Miss Ravenscar.  “Now she knows what he is.”

        “You think you understand!” cried Willow in anger at the Watcher.  “You think that she didn’t already know about his past!  You think you know what she’s thinking, and why she—you don’t know anything!” 

        Willow turned to follow Buffy up the stairs, but Miss Ravenscar grabbed her arm.  “What don’t I understand?” she asked.  She turned to gaze at the empty staircase, as if remembering certain phrases and gestures.  “What are you saying?  Don’t tell me—you can’t tell me that the Slayer is pregnant with that monster’s child!”

        Willow shook off the woman’s hand and ran upstairs without answering.

        The elderly Watcher staggered into the dining room and sat in one of the chairs, staring blindly at the wall. 

        The front door opened and Spike stepped inside.  He tossed his coat on its peg as he called, “Buffy?  Are you feeling better, love?”  He stopped, catching sight of Miss Ravenscar, who was slowly rising to her feet.

        Spike was in the dining room in a flash.  He had the Watcher by the throat and held her up against the wall.  “You!  What are you doing here?”  He looked around.  “Buffy!” he yelled again, and then turned back to Miss Ravenscar.  “If you have done anything to her—”

        “Don’t hurt her, Spike!”  Willow was standing at the bottom of the stairs.  “She didn’t hurt Buffy.  Let her go!”

        “Do you know what this bitch was doing this afternoon?  She was in the magic shop, trying to buy some very nasty stuff.  I don’t know what she’s up to, but—”

        “I do, Spike.  I know why she’s here, and you have to let her go.  She’s a Watcher.  Her Slayer was Elizabeth, Spike.  The woman you killed on the subway.”

        The anger and fear in Spike’s eyes faded into horror.  He let go of Miss Ravenscar and slowly backed away from her.

        “She told Buffy,” continued Willow.  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stop her.  She told Buffy where you got that coat.”

        Spike turned to Willow, his face a mask of anguish.  “No,” he said hoarsely.

        “I had to explain.  I told Buffy—what you showed me.”

“No,” he said again.  “You knew that you were never to tell!”

“I had no choice.  If you had seen Buffy’s face!  Spike, you have to talk to her and tell her what you’re really feeling.”

        They both forgot Miss Ravenscar entirely until she said, “I don’t think he’ll be telling anyone anything at all.”

        Spike turned to see that the tall woman was pointing a pistol directly at his skull.  She was holding it steadily in both hands and her finger was hovering over the trigger.  He looked past the barrel of the gun and into her eyes.  His expression was unafraid and almost sympathetic.

        “When you wouldn’t sell me the ingredients to that spell, I had to resort to my back-up plan,” said the Watcher.

        “No,” gasped Willow.  She was standing on the other side of the room, too far to touch Spike and use her magical ability to save him.  She had only the power of her words.  “Don’t do this.  You have to believe me.  I once saw him the way you see him now, but I was wrong.  If you do this, you’ll regret it later.  I know, because I tried to do the same thing and the horror of it haunts me every day.  I know, because I understand what he really is.  Look into his eyes and you’ll see it too.  He’s not the thing that killed your Elizabeth!”

        Buffy was on her way down the stairs as she heard those words.  She jumped down the last risers and turned into the dining room at Slayer speed, taking in the tableau with one glance.  But as she began to move on the Watcher, Miss Ravenscar’s arm dropped, and the gun was pointed at the floor.

        Buffy darted across the room, grabbed the weapon, and unloaded it.  She dropped the bullets on the table and shoved the gun in her pocket.  Willow had collapsed into a chair, but Spike still had not moved.

        The danger over, Buffy stared at Spike for a long moment, and then turned to Miss Ravenscar.  “Why didn’t you do it?” she asked.  “Why didn’t you kill him?”

        The woman looked as if she were waking from a nightmare.  “I’m not sure,” she said at last.  “But I know now that what happened to change him was more than some spell or curse, and I’d like to tell myself that I can’t kill a human, no matter what he once was or what he had done.  Or that I’m too good a person to be motivated by revenge.”  Her gaze shifted back to Spike.  “Or perhaps even because, in some strange way, he is all that is left of Elizabeth.”  She sighed.  “But I know I’m fooling myself.  The truth is that I found myself actually liking the little weasel and just couldn’t bring myself to destroy him.”

        “I know the feeling.”  Buffy turned away from her.  Without warning, she slammed Spike up against the wall.  He did not resist.  His eyes were almost empty.  He seemed to be seeing her from a long way away. 

        “What did you think you were doing?” she demanded.  “Why didn’t you stop her?  You’re so fast, you could have taken that gun from her before she could pull the trigger.  You wouldn’t even have had to hurt her.  Why did you just stand there?”

        “It just seemed—like she had the right,” he gasped. 

        “You didn’t have the right!  You didn’t have the right to let her!  To--to let yourself be taken away from us!  You didn’t have the right.”

        “No, love, I didn’t,” he agreed miserably.  “Temporary lapse of judgment.  It won’t happen again.”

        She released him, clearly unsatisfied.  He dropped his gaze to the floor. 

        Miss Ravenscar watched them for a moment and turned on her heel.  She went into the front hallway and took the long black duster off its peg, then returned to the dining room and began rifling through the coat’s pockets.  One by one, she dropped the contents on the table.  No one challenged or questioned her.

        Buffy and Willow stared at each item as it landed on the table: a set of keys, a switchblade, a shopping list clipped to some supermarket coupons, a handful of coins, a plastic bag containing some odd-looking herbs, a parking ticket, a silver flask, a small and battered paperback entitled What to Expect When You’re Expecting, a stake, an even smaller and more battered hardcover entitled The Poetry of John Donne, a receipt for some car parts, a fountain pen, a flyer addressed to PTA members about an upcoming school event, a deck of cards, a doctor’s reminder card for Buffy’s next checkup, picklocks, and a cell phone.  Spike did not look up, but as he heard each item strike the table, his head jerked slightly, as if someone had struck him.

        Miss Ravenscar draped the ancient coat over her arm.  “This is mine,” she said.  “I’ll be taking it with me.  Besides,” she added, eying the motley collection on the table, “I think that William’s life is complicated enough without it.”  A moment later, the front door slammed shut behind her.

        “Willow,” said Buffy carefully, “I’m more grateful than I can say for everything you’ve done today, but right now I need to be alone with Spike.”

        Willow nodded, her expression unhappy but sympathetic.  She left the house quietly.

        Buffy looked at Spike as if she were unsure what she was seeing.  He continued to stare at the floor.

        “William,” she said finally, and he looked up, slightly encouraged by the use of his human name.  But her face was grim.  “You lied to me, William.  Not in words, but you hid things from me.  I think I understand what, and I think I understand why.  I’m not going to demand a lot of explanations.  But there is one question I must ask.  Just one, but I must have an honest answer.  Before we can move on.  Can you promise me the truth?”

        He nodded.  “The truth, love.  Whatever you ask, I’ll give you the truth.  I swear it.”  He looked more like a man standing before a firing squad now than he had when Miss Ravenscar had held the gun to his head.

        Buffy said slowly, in an anguished voice, “Do you wish she had pulled the trigger?”

        He gasped at the unexpectedness of it, as if he had been shot after all.  But his response was quick and sincere.  “No, love, no!  I didn’t—I don’t know exactly what I was thinking, but I didn’t want that.” 

He stood up straighter now, his need to ease her pain and fear overcoming his own torment.  “I want to be with you, with Dawn, with our friends.  I want to be there when Joy is born.  I want to be alive.  I want that--”  He stopped, and she could see that he was remembering his promise of absolute honesty.  “I want that more than I want anything else.”  Even peace.  The last two words remained unspoken, but she heard them clearly.

        She nodded in acceptance and understanding.

I made my coat a song

Covered with embroideries

Out of old mythologies

From heel to throat;

But the fools caught it,

Wore it in the world’s eye

As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it

For there’s more enterprise

In walking naked.

                -Y.B.  Yeats

Chapter 19: Vacation

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