•••

“She’s dead.”

The survivors stood around Buffy’s broken form, staring in disbelief. She couldn’t be dead; Buffy was the Slayer, the strongest of all of them. Buffy died doing what she did best—saving the world.

After a few minutes, Spike and Giles bent down and gingerly lifted her up, carrying her to the car. The rest of the gang followed silently, hoping that at any moment they would wake up to find that it had all been a very bad dream.

The funeral was held at dusk, an allowance made for Spike. The vampire had taken Buffy’s death very hard; since that night he had not spoken to anyone, nor had he taken part in any of his usual activities of stirring up trouble among the demonic community and staking fledges. Willow and Giles watched him worriedly; his normally angular face was sharpening, as though he had not been feeding.

“Spike,” Willow began, reaching out for the blonde vampire. “Do you want to come back to the shop with us?” Spike stared down into the grave for a few minutes before tearing his eyes away. When he looked over at the young witch, she gasped. Spike’s eyes were flat and lifeless. The vampire looked at her for a moment, then shook his head slowly and turned away, heading for his side of the cemetery.

Spike wearily entered his crypt, bolting the door before slumping down against the far wall. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the crumbling mortar. The pain that had settled into his chest five days before had not relented; rather, it had stronger and had spread throughout his body. She haunted him. Everywhere he went, he could smell her; hear her clear, ringing voice echoing in his mind. Even the single cup of rancid pig’s blood he’d drunk the night after she died had tasted of her. The blonde was sure he was going insane, if he wasn’t already that far gone.

“Why?” Spike snorted. Cliché. They always ask that. ‘Why’ indeed. She was the Slayer. It was her job—no, her purpose. Of course, knowing that, knowing that she was destined to die young, that she had beaten the odds and lived longer than Slayers usually lived, was no comfort to the grieving man. The only consolation he had was that she knew how he felt about her before she died—he would never regret not telling her how he felt. Even that was a double-edged sword, however. Yes, he had been honest with her, but so had she in return. He was left with no fantasies, no dreams. She would never, could never love him and had said as much to his face. It didn’t matter and it didn’t make the pain any less. She was gone and he was still here.

•••

The weeks that followed were a blur to Spike. Hours and days smeared into each other. He fed only rarely and only off fledgling vampires and animals he caught in the cemetery. He hadn’t left the graveyard since the funeral. He had avoided the Slayer’s friends the few times they’d come looking for him, staying in the lower levels of his crypt until they gave up and left. On some level, he knew that they were worried about him, but he couldn’t rouse himself to face them. At the funeral, it had been obvious that Willow and Giles were taking care of Dawn, and she had been the only concern Spike had had. With her protected and safe, Spike had no reason to interact with anyone.

The vampire was sitting on the floor in a corner of his crypt, watching out the door as clouds obscured and revealed stars as they floated past. He hadn’t left in several days; having not fed in a week he was weak and the effort needed to get up and close the door was more than he could muster. Maybe it’s for the best. Sun’ll hit me about fiveish. The idea of staying where he was and letting the afternoon sun burn him away had its appeal. He had nothing left to live for; he couldn’t feed, couldn’t defend himself against humans, and the only one of them worth befriending was dead.

The idea gained merit the more he thought about it. No one would really miss him. It was death on his own terms—no torture at the hands of some demon or staking by a human he couldn’t hurt. His mind made up, Spike returned to his sorrows, drowning himself in pain. The vampire watched as the sky lightened and the world outside his crypt woke up to the morning. After several hours, beams of sunlight began creeping through the open doorway, drawing inexorably closer to his corner.

Ah, that’s it. Just a little closer. Spike closed his eyes, waiting patiently for oblivion. A thought crossed his mind, eliciting a pained laugh. Hmm…don’t people usually pray when they’re dying? The thought amused him. He certainly hadn’t prayed the first time he’d died, and hadn’t done so in the time since then. What the hell, why not? The Powers That Be could get a good laugh or two out of a prayer from a suicidal vampire.

What to pray for? Spike cracked one eye, checking on the progress of the sunbeam. Not going to heaven meself, so no point in praying for that. The vampire sobered at that. Seriously, what would he pray for? No, he wasn’t religious—for fuck’s sake, he was a vampire—but he also had a grudging respect for the higher powers. No use in pissing them off, even when you’re a lost cause.

Spike sorted through his memories quickly, but he kept returning to one thing: Buffy. Giving up any hope of wresting his mind from the girl, he began wording his prayer, silently sending up his first and last offering.

I…I just want to ask you up there to watch out for her. She’s the best there ever was, never going to be a better Slayer. Fought harder for you than any I’ve ever seen. Spike began, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. She shouldn’t have died, you know. Wasn’t her time. You should’ve been watching out for her, seeing as how that blonde bitch was a god an’ all. Where were you? Spike began to rage at The Powers That Be. She’s your muscle down here! How could you let her die? The vampire’s short supply of anger ran out. Hell, can’t even get mad anymore. Well, I’ve got no reason to be here. Going to hell anyway, might as well get on with it. But tell me one thing. Why her? Hmm? Why not someone else? Why not me? I’d have been glad to go instead. I’ve got no one to leave behind, no one to leave crying ‘cause I’m dust. Why?

The vampire felt warmth crawling up his legs. ’Bout damned time. Spike relaxed his body, waiting for blessed oblivion. The heated sensation grew, encompassing his entire body. He waited for the pain, for his body to explode into flames as the deadly sunlight tore through his demonic flesh.

Nothing happened.

Spike opened his eyes. Something was wrong, had to be wrong. He was a vampire, ergo sunlight killed him. He was in sunlight, so he should be dead. But he wasn’t. He looked around. The crypt was, in fact, filled with sunlight. Shit. I am not a ghost. Vampires do not become ghosts. We go to hell. We get to suffer in eternal torture. Movement to his left caught his eye and he instinctively turned toward it.

A tall, thin woman stood by the wall of the crypt, looking down at him with a slight smile on her face. She reminded the vampire of a librarian—one of the ones in the Sunnydale library, all blue jeans and sweaters and friendly no-nonsense attitude.

“Hello there,” the woman said.

“Hi,” Spike responded automatically. Who the hell are you? He thought.

“Me? Oh, that’s not important. Who I work for? Now that’s a better question,” She said, her smile growing.

“Who do you work for then?” Spike asked, just dazed enough to follow her lead.

“The Powers That Be,” The woman responded, her amusement growing at the shocked expression on the vampire’s face. “You were partially right, you know. They don’t get many prayers from vampires. Most of the time, when demons do bother to pray, they aren’t really praying to The Powers—only when your kind specify them do they get the message.”

“Oh.” Spike really didn’t know what to say.

“So anyway, they got the message and figured that since it was such a rarity, they’d send someone down. Were you serious?”

Spike shook off the remaining fog from his mind. “Serious about what?”

“What you said—that you’d rather have died yourself than the Slayer dying.”

The vampire did not hesitate. “’Course I was. Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” He growled. He hadn’t really figured on anyone hearing that prayer.

The woman grinned. “Hmm…You were right on another point as well. It wasn’t her time to die. Having a god from another dimension on this plane threw some major kinks into the works.”

“So the Slayer dies because your bosses can’t keep their ducks in a row?” The vampire said heatedly. He was fully aware now and was regaining some of his usual ill-temperedness.

“Hey, shit happens! Besides, that’s why I’m here.”

“Yeah? To do what? Say ‘sorry, shit happens’?” Spike struggled to stand. He finally compromised, leaning upright against the wall.

“No, I’m here to offer you a deal. A trade, to be specific,” The woman shot back.

“A deal? Why?” Spike said suspiciously.

“You said you’d have rather died in her place, right?” At Spike’s nod, she continued. “Well, that’s not exactly what The Powers go for. However, they are willing to bring back the Slayer, good as new. For a price.”

Ah, the rub. “What price?” Spike’s mind was racing. Bring back the Slayer? Buffy would be alive! Even if it meant his death…

“No, they don’t want you dead. What would be the point? They could have just let you fry yourself like you had planned. No, The Powers want you around for a long time.”

“Stop reading my mind!” Spike growled.

“Fine, fine. Here’s the deal. You agree to take on a soul, your old soul, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer gets to live again,” The woman said.

Spike’s jaw dropped. A soul? “As in Angel ‘soul’?” He said thoughtlessly.

“Not exactly. Your soul would have no ‘happiness’ clauses. Otherwise, it would be pretty much the same. You would work for The Powers That Be toward your redemption, a Warrior for Light.”

The vampire looked at the woman suspiciously. “So the Slayer lives and I get to go on a massive guilt-trip until your bosses decide I’m a good boy again?”

“That’s not how I’d put it, but yeah.”

Spike pinched his lips together in concentration. There’d be no going back, no more Big Bad. He’d be just like his damned Sire, a broody, mopey freak of nature. Buffy would be alive. Soul. Buffy. Soul. Buffy.

“Well?” The woman asked.

The question pulled Spike from his thoughts. “What?”

“Yes or no?”