Letting himself into his tiny basement apartment, Spike felt a rush of exhaustion hit him. How long had it been since he last fed? Last slept? Going to the fridge, he poured himself a mug of blood and placed it in the microwave. His muscles ached, but he had no serious injuries, all he needed was food and rest and he would be healed by the time he woke. It amazed him that with everything they had faced tonight the three of them had come through the battle fairly unscathed. Gunn and Wesley, of course, could not say the same, and he allowed himself a moment to grieve for the two men who had become, if not friends, at least comrades over the past months.

It was during that moment that he decided he would go home. He’d not stepped foot in England for nearly a hundred years, and he suddenly felt homesick for a place that he knew had ceased to be his home many years ago. The England he would return to would be nothing like the one he’d left behind, but with no other destination in mind it was as good a place as any.

Going to the microwave, he fetched his meal. He threw his head back to down the mug-full, completely unprepared for what would happen next. His body retched in disgust as the blood hit first his tastebuds and then the back of his throat. Blood sprayed everywhere and he coughed hard, gasping to draw breath, his heart pounding as another fit of coughing seized him. His sleep deprived, exhausted brain took a moment to process each of these things. Gasping for breath? Heart racing? What the hell was going on here? Then he remembered the strange voice and the weird white room that had stretched on forever.

Stilling himself as only a creature of the night could, he listened to the sound of his heart beating; he could hear his own blood racing through his veins. Concentrating, he summoned his demon. Reaching out with his vampiric senses, he could hear the roaches crawling in the walls, smell the filth from the rubbish bins outside.

Well now, this was interesting!

~*~

Almost six months had passed since Spike last came to her in her dreams; sleep no longer held an escape from the constant ache his absence had left behind. She threw herself even harder into her work; long hours spent with Giles and the few watchers who’d crawled out of the woodwork once the danger had passed. The Council was being rebuilt, but not the Council as it had been before; it was having a complete overhaul and she and Giles were right in there on the decision making.

The endless rounds of meetings and planning sessions, of setting up the new school, tracking down young girls whose lives had changed dramatically overnight, coordinating with the seers and witches. All these activities, as well as looking after her sister and settling into a new lifestyle in a new country, left her exhausted enough that at the end of the day she was able to fall dreamlessly into the oblivion of sleep for a few hours before starting the ritual over again.

~*~

His first thought upon waking the next morning was ‘Buffy’. He was human now, well sort of, he could go to her—be what she deserved. He waited for the usual twist of longing, the empty ache that only she could fill—it didn’t come. What was it the voice had said about the slayer? That’s it; he had been forced to love her! A geas. Worse even than Red’s bloody spell that’d had them making goo goo eyes at each other.

But that couldn’t be right, could it? Surely his feelings for her had been real. Or had they? If they had, why weren’t they there now? Sure she was a tasty little thing, and a hell of a shag, but did he love her? He thought back to their time together—years of insults and abuse, years of following her around like a fuckin’ trained monkey. Not once had it been good. Not once had she given of herself—well, that wasn’t completely true, right at the end there, those last few nights he had felt her there with him. But was any of that real? She had thought they were all going to die; surely that was all it was. Like that crumb she’d thrown him as the world came crashing down around them in the Hellmouth. She’d told him she loved him—the words she’d known he’d ached to hear. But he’d known—knew by her voice, an’ the way she’d forced the words out, all they were was an offering to a dying man.

Ha! The love of his life, the wonder that had caused him to remake himself, to become a white hat, to fight for a soul, to give his life to save the bloody world because she was in the world—because she was what he was saving. It was all a bloody lie, every bit of it! He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to rip heads off, to shove that blasted white room and its fancy fucking floor fair up the arse of the smug bastard with the self-satisfied voice. He’d been played for a fool and he was furious! Never mind that he’d been rewarded—he’d never asked for any bloody reward. Never mind that he was free now to do as he pleased. He, William the Bloody, had been played like a worthless dupe!

Storming out of the building and into the bright blazing sunlight, he set out in search of something he could kill—vampires, demons, he didn’t care. The Powers that sodding Be were what he wanted, but failing that he would make do with what he could find. The warmth of the sunlight on his face, the miracle of his blood pounding with fury within his veins didn't register, he was too caught up in bloodlust and rage. Those miracles could wait for another day to be appreciated.