Rating: nc-17

Pairing: spuffy (obviously)

Summary: Following on from the end of As You Were. Spike, devastated by Buffy's rejection, finds solace in a bottle shared with Anya and finds his unlife turned completely on its head. He finds that vengeance might not be for losers after all as he is thrust into the opportunity of a lifetime. But can he convince Buffy to take the risk? 

"Stop it! You're scaring me. No small feat for an ex...exciting type like myself." Spike couldn't help but flinch back in the face of two of the most deliriously excited and proud smiles he'd ever seen spread across the face of a human while in his presence.

"Would you bleeding well stop it?" His voice held a tinge of whine and he cringed when even more of their teeth became visible. "Bloody hell, just talk would you?" He was honestly scared; they looked like they'd been taken over by some kind of happy parasite, their faces frozen in a grin reminiscent of the absent but pure pleasure of The Gentleman.

Instead of a dimming of the dual beaming, Spike found himself with an armful of exuberant elder Summers and he shot looks of pleading to the other member of the Happy Club.

"Rupert, get this woman off me right bloody well now."

Without intervention, Joyce stepped back and Spike took his chances. He leapt away from the two and took refuge behind the huge block of sofa. Waggling his finger at the still frighteningly chipper pair, he warned them to keep back with an unaccustomed shaky voice.

"I remember this!" he almost shouted in desperation, feeling a lot like Harris on one of his usual lightbulb moments about three hours after the fact.

"Band Candy, you two had a tipple. Bloody magical chocolate!"

Too late Spike remembered his slip about things yet to happen. The mention of magic might not have been the smartest thing he'd ever done, either.

At last the wattage dimmed and the smiles slowly slipped in confusion.

"Er, we were just excited about the success of the auction," offered Giles, and just like that the scary good humour snapped back on their lips.

But this was alright, he could cope with this, understand even. The auction. He'd forgotten it was to be last night, which was unusually negligent of him.

"Right then. Went off okay, did it?"

Joyce started jumping on the spot, her sophisticated smile and laughing eyes infectious enough for him to venture two steps back around the sofa.

"We're rich," she screeched loud enough to make his eardrums vibrate extra violently.

"Made a few thousand then, did we?" he asked in relief, glad that he'd made the money more legitimately this time rather than trying to deal with those stupid and bleeding dangerous eggs again.

Giles gasped. "A few thousand? My God man, I asked collectors of these kinds of artifacts, and I'm still reeling over the wonderful pieces you allowed me to pick out first. Absolute treasures. It has set you up for life."

Spike watched the realisation leach into the good humour, and blinked.

"Er, well, perhaps a reasonably, er, lengthy life?" Giles amended hastily with a wink, thrusting a handkerchief against his clean lenses as he attempted to wipe his small gaff away and distract Joyce from the strange interaction.

It made Spike attempt to share their mood, and he allowed a trademark smirk to tilt his lips.

"So, would there be enough for me to get my own place? Just a small flat somewhere?"

Spike became alarmed at the look of incredulity on faces of the older generation, though he did think the bugging of Giles's eyes was moderately funny.

Joyce's charming giggle brought the focus back and she whispered a total that made Spike's own eyes bug.

"What was that, Joyce?"

"You've made me a comfortable woman, Spike. I am extremely grateful to you for choosing my gallery to host your auction."

"Will it make you comfortable enough to pay off your house? Get good life insurance? You know, to cover Buffy if anything ever happens. She doesn't get paid for sl...slummin' around, you know." He aimed an evil, angry glance at the Council representative in the room before beginning to get concerned that he'd set Joyce onto a line of worry that wasn't necessary. "Not that that matters," he rushed to reassure. "'M here now. I'll make sure she's taken care of."

Joyce blessed him with confusion. "You know Buffy?" A quick look to her right brought Rupert into her line of vision and she shrugged her shoulders in understanding. "Of course you do. I never made the connection."

It hadn't occurred to him before, but Spike could feel himself haunted by the fact of what he was, and Joyce's lack of knowledge about his and Buffy's world.

"Buffy and I have sort of been seeing each other." The thought of Joyce hating him, of wanting to keep him away from Buffy, was a hot lance that seared his heart. "I'll take good care of her, Joyce. I'll never 'urt her. I know she's young, but I...I care a great deal for 'er. I hope you don't mind."

He was unable to continue looking at her, knowing that finally his luck was at an end, and no matter what tremendously fantastical total the auction of demon artifacts had made him, the mother of the woman he'd give his unlife for was about to sweep her away from him. Not because he was dangerous; not because of what he was. She was going to forbid him Buffy because of who he was. Irony was a bitch. A great big, nasty Hellmouthy bitch. He felt like falling to his knees and crying his heart out. Foiled at every turn.

He'd forgotten about Joyce. All the new situations meshing with the old, he sometimes forgot that Buffy hadn't yet died for good-- or at least until out-of-control power-mongering witches let loose with her magic box and hauled her best friends out of the sodden ground. Forgotten that he needed to pave the way, allow Joyce to get to know him and see that he was a wise choice for her daughter. It didn't help that he was hard pressed believing he could have her, that she was even interested in exploring a relationship with him. The turn around of attitude of his two Buffys was so acute it near twisted off his head.

The hushed quiet was getting to him and he finally risked an upward glance, only to be confronted by a simple warm and accepting smile from the girl's mother. He sighed in emotional relief and sat heavily on a nearby table chair.

"How old are you, Spike?"

And just like that he was back, wavering on that line that meant he could easily tip over onto the side of bereft, of being the loser. Again.

"I don't wan' to lie, Joyce. Please don't ask me." He could feel the futility of it all prickling at his eyelids and he buried his head in his hands, all excitement about the possibility of being as rich as blazes surrendering to his terror of losing Buffy to her youth.

"Are you twenty-five?" She levelled him with a hard eye and his hope shrunk in on itself.

"Nope," he countered mournfully. "Long way from twenty-five."

At first he didn't understand her relieved sigh, nor could he grasp the meaning behind her brief hug while he sat.

"You are a houseguest of Mr. Giles. How can I do anything but trust you? Buffy holds him in such high esteem. And she has mentioned you, though I hadn't put it all together before." She dished him a saucy wink and he felt his throat scratch in its dryness.

"I bet you got those artifacts and jewels as an inheritance. How could a mother be so negligent as to prevent her daughter dating a millionaire?" The easiness of her permission stunned the seated vampire to such an extent that he couldn't expel words.

Giles saw his inability and took over.

"Yes, Spike has hung onto those family heirlooms for quite a while, but other than a few choice stones, there was really no reason for him to hang on to so much of it."

Joyce nodded her agreement just as Spike was coming back to himself.

"A lot of it was right ugly, hey Rupert? Though I do have the perfect birthday present for Buffy." Spike's eyes rolled back as he leaned into the chair and thought back to the sword he'd swiped from the hidden tomb. The warrior in Buffy would adore it, and he wouldn't mind borrowing it on the odd occasion, either.

"Well, in answer to earlier, I will definitely have enough to pay off the house. Hadn't thought of life insurance, but I guess that is something I should look into. We never think we won't be around forever." Her laugh was a tinkle that brought tears to his eyes. The knowledge of what her loss would do to this group—all of them, not just Buffy. Her death deprived the lot of them of one of the too few adult influences in their midst.


He made it to his feet in a cautious move and wrapped her awkwardly in his leather-clad arms. He kissed her spontaneously on the top of her head, grief mingling with his second chance.

"Thanks for all you've done, pet. I 'preciate all your help."

Joyce rewarded his generosity of affection with a warm palm to the side of his face.

"I don't mind you dating my daughter, Spike. But please keep in mind her age?" The last was a veiled warning disguised as a suggestion, and Spike could feel his agitated body project to a foot shuffle as he recalled the birthday plans Buffy had blatantly outlined to him.

"I'll do that, Joyce. Thanks again."

Her exit brought with it two sighs of relief that the pretence was at an end.

"Forgot she doesn't know about the supernatural world," he offered lamely as Giles returned from securing the door.

"Yes, sometimes it makes things rather awkward. I'm rather afraid I'm still confused how she can be so blind to the goings on of this town. And Buffy's bruises, cuts, ruined clothing. There is an abundant amount of...demon blood and gore....that I am unsure how Joyce manages to miss."

"Maybe Buffy's just good at covering her tracks."

"Well, she certainly has been in regards to this dating you were referring to."

Spike was suddenly the focus of a full Watcher glare, knowing that the friendly camaraderie was at a disadvantage. Spike groaned in resignation. He felt like he had to fight for every single one of his breaks and it was bloody exhausting.

"Look, Rupes. Didn't think it was a bloody secret. You and Red knew as soon as I swallowed the Gem I was off to see Buffy. She's much better off with me than the Wanker. I'm never goin' to bugger off and leave her to whatever fate dishes out."

Giles pinned him with a considering look, his brow arched in thought.

"With all the knowledge and years of training through the Council, I never thought I could see that it was possible for a soulless demon to actually do good deeds. But you, Spike, are the antithesis of everything I've ever believed. I can't help but still feel a little nervous that we are possibly being fooled by you, that you have some grand plan to kill us all. We are all taking a tremendous risk by inviting you into our lives. I would hope that you mean what you say in regards to Buffy. If this face you have been showing us is genuine, then I wholeheartedly give you my blessing with Buffy. And I agree with you about the Wanker, as you call him!"

Spike was two seconds from banging his head violently against the wall. He struggled in an effort to control his impulse to thrash everything in the place in explosive frustration. It was his driven impulse to give in to the fury, to allow them all to see his talent for destruction and murder. But just as his demon started to flicker in the back of his consciousness he came back to his senses, a sparkling blond image circling his haze of red to calm and protect all he had been striving for.

And just like that the fight went out of him. His muscles loosened, his demon took again to the backseat and relaxed as Spike wondered how he was ever going to have them trust him. And then he accepted that they probably never would. He was a threat. He had the power, the ability to dominate this group, snap them like brittle twigs. Completely annihilate their sweet little world and allow the Big Bad to rein once again. But he chose to use his superior strength for good, to protect them all, even if they were so bleeding well small minded they couldn't tell the difference.

He hated to admit it, but killing them off now would actually hurt him. He'd become attached to the lot of them over the years, their abuse notwithstanding. Even Harris, though he was like a scab you couldn't help but peel so it would continually reappear unhealed. Giles was someone he could respect; someone he could relate to on an intellectual level in a way he'd never attempted to before. So, the fact that that barrier had been diverted was enough to show that at least a modicum of trust supported his presence.

"I'm not much of one for plannin', Watcher. If all I was about was to kill you all, I'd 've done you in your sleep ages ago. I'm not gonna hurt the girl. Buffy is special. I want her to survive. If I have my way, she will."

Not once had he lifted his head to study the expression of his fellow converser, not eager to see anything but acceptance. His body shuddered on a sigh, and his biceps flexed against the fabric of his black tee. He ran both hands through his gelled hair in an agitated front to back sweep, releasing the curls to riot over his head and reflect the tear of his mind.

"'M doin' everything for her. Can't you see that? Being able to walk in the sunlight, selling off the other jewels and artifacts so that I can support her, make sure she never wants for anythin'. I want her to not have to worry 'bout the little things, yeah? She's enough on her plate without worryin' about unnecessaries. I'll do anything she wants."

The silence buzzed in his ears, overlaid by the thought, the knowledge that Rupert was dying to say something, challenge something, and once he did, Spike wished he'd gone on that rampage to open it all up, paint the town red. He'd never win.

"Would you get a soul for her?" The tone was inquisitive, yet it held every condemnation the Scoobies had loaded at him for the years he'd been amongst them since the chip. Before that, having a soul was not something they expected of him. They knew him as an evil bloodsucker. But since the day he had stumbled into their protection under the exposure of sunlight, they had damned him for not being Angel. For not being a trendsetter in the soul department. But none of them had ever asked. Actually put the option out there and let him consider it.

Even weeks ago he would have said 'hell no'. But would he? Could he do that if it would put their doubts behind them once and for all? This Buffy seemed happy enough with what he could give her. He'd been trying so hard, keeping his lips closed against some of the stupider things that wanted to roar past his lips. And so far he'd succeeded, and she'd asked him to bite her, mark her, make her his. But how long could it last? He wasn't known for his cool restraint, wasn't sure how long he could control the demon inside under his own steam before it would demand carnage. And here he had no chip to stop him should he go too far.

If he killed, Buffy would never forgive him.

If he lost control around her, he'd never forgive himself.

But the one thing he couldn't bear, getting souled up would achieve. He'd be just like his pansyarse of a sire. Angel. Cursed Angel. He knew the teacher was probably close to finding the spell, but what if the nature of that soul was what caused Angelus to emerge so enraged? The Angelus of Sunnydale was different to the Angelus of old. Sure, Angelus was mighty, was evil in the extreme, was vicious in his swathe cutting. But to his family, he'd been tender. There were shades of that in Angel's attentions to Buffy. The Scoobies were all in the dark about the truth of Angelus. Losing his soul made him badder, meaner, and bent on revenge. And for some reason he'd blamed his family, even though it was he that had deserted Spike and Drusilla, not a word of warning or explanation, just up and gone in the slink of darkness.

And yet, Spike he'd punished. To this day, he had no clue why. Maybe there was no thought to it at all. Maybe it was just him reasserting his place in the family. And Spike, wheelchair restrained, was unable to challenge for his long held place as head of the small family.

So, the losing of the soul changed Angelus. He was no longer the vampire he'd once been. He came back with something to prove, and a Slayer to torture and play with. He'd done one hell of a job, shutting her off for the rest of her life. Living through Angelus had closed off her heart, damaged her faith in her decision-making skills.

So, would Spike willingly don the cap that would likely make him like his elder, brooding and sullen, while he watched the love of his unlife from afar? Knowing that a decent shag was way down on his list of happies. Just being in her presence, holding her hand after all the 'I'm using you', 'you make me feel' bollocks from the future was diverted for a much nicer set of phrases. And he knew it wouldn't take much to push the boundaries of the curse. What was the point of a dispensable curse?

It was selfish of him, but being cursed with a soul wasn't going to make things better. And if he lost it on a whim and came back as mean and ugly as Angelus, well, he wouldn't fail to kill the girl. He knew that from experience.

Giles, who'd sat unmoving yet watching intently the play of emotion crossing Spike's flickering features, had left his contemplative quiet alone. Short bursts had revealed the demon to the Watcher, and he was fascinated with the play and thought Spike gave the concept of a soul. He'd expected a soulless demon to do nothing less spectacular than reject the notion quite out of hand. To jump to his feet, fangs bared and dripping as he struggled with the option of running like hell, or leaving the unarmed man pale and bloody on the carpet.

To Giles's tremendous relief, Spike did neither. After a substantial degree of time had passed, and darkness teasing at the open curtains, Spike spoke. His consideration had been deep, and his resolution unfathomable.

"Yeah. If that's what she needs. I'll get my soul. But not like Angel." He looked up, his cool but bright blue irises glittering with a furious fire that Giles had not thought possible. "I won't be cursed. I've heard of a demon. In Africa. Will reward you with a wish if you complete his trials. Not a bloody cake walk, either, Watcher. Could well end up dust. But I'd do it. Have him give me what she deserves."

Spike looked across the flat at a darkening window, remembering his Buffy. The Buffy who'd come back from Heaven angry, and alone. He'd tried to give her everything he was, but instead of dragging her back to herself—returning her to the light she seemed depleted of—he'd come up with the sterling argument that she belonged in the dark. Doing it over, he now knew how wrong he was. She never belonged in the dark. His Buffy had lost her way, but not her light. Only Spike had tried to pull her further away from it.

How would things have been different if he'd left to reclaim his soul? If instead of walking into the Magic Box, getting drunk and commiserating with Anya and being wished right back to where it all started, if he'd hopped on his bike and made it to some transport off the continent and off to Africa? Could he have changed things? Might she have appreciated his efforts to become the opposite of everything she had accused him of being? Was it possible that she might have finally come to him, her heart open and willing if he'd made that kind of sacrifice for her?

He couldn't help but think it was possible. He hadn't given her any reason to call him different to being a soulless monster. The first opportunity he had to use his fists without cranial payback and he'd planted them on the woman he claimed to love. He'd been pushed into fighting for his love in a physical way, but when she finally surrendered to him it was in anger and disgust.

The pain welled way down, because he knew. Even then he knew. She felt something for him, and it wasn't as negative as she liked to think. He could feel it in her more tender moments, in the way she kissed him. Just the fact that she came to him and let him touch her at all. Contrary to what Buffy thought, she wasn't the type to use. So, her claim was to pacify more herself than him. She was past caring about how he felt about her actions.

No, the somber let down—her dumping him—had meant more to try and free herself of guilt, than to let him down softly. Deep down she kept her feelings buried beneath her subconscious, unable to acknowledge them to herself. If she had, her denials and her hate would have been unfounded. And after punching her way through dirt and wood to crawl from her grave, it was the hate she needed to cling to. Either that or the Scoobies might have ended up as finely-ground mince meat.

So, yeah. To make up ground from that little mess, he would have had to make some grand gesture, do something drastic to prove to her that he could change, wanted to change so she could feel secure in her feelings for him. Show her there was no need for guilt, for hiding.

He couldn't do it for that Buffy now, what with Anya wishing him way into her past. But he could do it for her now. Could set their future up to be secure. And it wouldn't be a burden. Wouldn't be a hundred years of disgrace and hiding from his past. Not with her by his side. Not with her friends by their side.

Still, it filled him with a gutful of fear. Truly, he'd rather crawl belly flat over flaming hot coals and risk ignition than go and fight for his soul. But his demon wasn't cringing away as much as he would have expected. It was William, hiding in his corner and too afraid to climb out and claim centre stage. William who'd been made fun of, who couldn't do a thing right in his life. Even his one true passion—the one thing that gave his life meaning—was a whole load of bollocks. His awful poetry was better at feeding a fire in winter than being spoken out loud. Buggering everything up with his pathetic ramblings of love and his non-knowledge of women. Yeah, William was terrified of showing his face in public again. Afraid of being exposed in front of another woman he loved, and found wanting.

It was a question that was better addressed now than in some state of future where it was brought up again because he'd shown an inability to control his impulses. What if he somehow managed to do the opposite of what he professed he wanted? What if by some sad turn of fate he did hurt the girl? Then it might be too late. When love wasn't enough to get him through the barrage of betrayal, or hurt and perhaps hate.

He could make it his own. His demon was in control, and clamouring for a say on the condition. To Spike's complete surprise, his demon was joyous in his permission, seeing the strategy for what it was. A conscience. A leg-rope to tie down his evil. For sure he had the most fucked up demon a vampire had ever been saddled with. Was it any wonder his sire, his grandsire, his great grandsire had always been ashamed of him?

The demon could fashion the soul, however, could expend enough influence to keep William in check. And that was all Spike could wish for.

Giles sat with his bum firmly glued to the seat and an incredulous turn to his mouth. It hung open, his glasses dangling from his lax fingertips as he struggled to make sense of this revelation. A demon willingly submitting to the idea of a soul.

"This is between you and me, Rupert. You don't tell Peaches. You don't tell Red or the Whelp. Not your teacher lady-friend. And especially you don't tell Buffy. I'll investigate the demon some more and when I have the details, we can discuss it then."

The event hung on the night air once again, swift in the discovery of its possibility while the struggle for gravity with its weight battled on. A change of subject was desperately called upon, and Spike thought back to earlier when Joyce was here, crowing about how wealthy he now was.

"So," rushed past his lips as he fair bounced out of his chair, beginning an agitated pace around the living area. "I'm a bloody millionaire vamp." He stopped his pacing, a look of wonder crossing his lips and changing the shape of his lids. "Think I'm feelin' a bit faint, mate." And he collapsed on the sofa, changing the night's venue for chat once again.

Giles was not long in steadying himself in a chair beside the thunderstruck vampire and offered him a half-filled glass of his finest bottle of scotch.

"A toast. To new beginnings. And lots and lots of money." The glass pinged the air with a celebratory tinkle, and Spike began to see the benefit of an ever-widening grin. It felt all right to be happy.

The two settled down to steady drinking, expounding the virtues of expensive liquor over the cheap stuff while their heads filled with the heady influence of said liquid.

"Another toast," Spike belched later in the night. "To pretty girls and flashy red penis-mobiles."

Giles replied with a spray of scotch and a mirthful liquored giggle.

"I can just see you," he tittered. "A bleach blond vampire with the top down, hair blinding in the sun in his little red sports car."

The image made Spike nod in approval as he contemplated a choice of red or black.

"Not me, mate. You. Got to get rid of that hunk of junk you got out there sometime. When you do I'll bet you go for bright and flashy." His insider smirk was just the ticket to get Giles wondering.

Giles furrowed his brow in deep thought, and then he brought up the next expenditure.

"So, shopping for a place to live?" His tone did not convey an urgent desire to see the back of Spike, but rather an interest in his choice of lodgings now he had the money to consider.

Spike thought about it, his fingers drilling absently over his denim clad thigh. Just what would be the perfect set up? he wondered. A house was too much work, inside and out. Something like where Harris lived in the future would be perfect. And a gigantic step up from the Harris basement where he had spent some less than pleasant moments in his life. Spike had set foot in the apartment once, and that was only because Anya had bullied him into transporting some great chunk of furniture up the stairs for her. Once was enough to see that the place was pretty fancy. A decent place where he could make himself a home.

His memory recalled only one bedroom though, and something whispered in his ear that it might be better to locate a two-bedroom place. Memories of the screaming matches—heavy emphasis on the shattering glass—from when he'd made Xander's basement his home brought about a little touch of commiserative feeling. Yeah, wouldn't hurt to have a spare bedroom should anyone need a place to sleep.

His mind made up to look for a semi-posh flat like Harris's future place, his ears stumbled upon a suggestion from a more than half inebriated watcher slash librarian.

"Wha's that?" he asked in his own altered lazy tongue, wondering when the fuzzy had settled over his head and dragged his lids to half-mast.

"There's a lettle bung'low for sale, right here in th's block."

Spike smiled drunkenly and filled his cup by half again. He slurped at the amber liquid as he calculated.

"How close 'gain?"

Giles watched the vampire on his sofa and rolled to the side of his own chair. Its arm prevented him from sliding completely to the floor.

"What's close?" he asked, taking the time to pronounce the two words as precisely as he remembered how.

Spike's eyes widened as he tried to recall the original strand of the conversation, only two sentences deep into it. A flash of the Harris basement brought it back in desperate clarity, and he almost leapt forward in an effort to beseech the watcher to stay on task.

"The Bunglow, how's close you say its isses?"

Giles watched him blankly, then began to giggle. "Isses? Oh my!"

The giggling continued until Spike flashed his fangs in annoyance and Giles jumped, spilling the rest of his glass against his shirt.

"Oh, close? Um, upstairs and to the left."

Spike rested back into the sofa, thinking over the wisdom of living so close to Buffy's watcher. They would be on call in case of apocalypses, or even other demon emergencies. Wasn't too close for them to draw attention to themselves. If he had the place soundproofed, it would be a bit of all right.

Making up his mind to check it out as soon as possible—and still holding out a mini prayer for the second bedroom for those who might occasionally need it—by mutual consent the two men slumped back in their chairs, empty glasses of grog slipping slowly from slack fingers, and they gently fell asleep.