In the late afternoon sun, Spike concentrated on the hum of Angel’s SUV and studiously overlooked Angel and Buffy talking in the front seat.  He couldn’t stand their level of intimacy, no matter that Angel wasn’t *really* Angel. 

 

            Instead, he returned Fred’s sympathetic smile and then examined the sleeping Celeste. 

 

            The child was beautiful with full cheeks and fair skin that radiated health and glowing happiness.  She had a strong hold on the innocence of youth, and she was loved.

 

Spike wondered if Buffy had looked like her when she was little. 

 

He gently stroked her cheek, and she shoved her thumb in her mouth.  His heart constricted, and for a second, he let himself wonder. . . what if?

 

Would a different little girl have his expressive blue eyes, a tendency to be sarcastic, and a penchant for poetry? 

 

He shook his head.  No use thinking such things because they would never happen. . . not between him and Buffy. . . no matter what might have happened this morning when he’d woken with an armful of Slayer.

 

“Spike?”  Buffy was watching him from the vehicle door.  She had the most beautiful soul he’d ever seen. 

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“We’re here.  You okay?”  Her eyes were filled with concern, but he didn’t know what to make of it.  Did she pity him? 

 

Annoyed at himself for trying to understand her yet again, he slammed out of the mini-van, hoping she would be just as uncertain as he was.  

 

Buffy’s expression changed to one of annoyance, and she closed the door to the SUV so hard, the vehicle shook.  Spike was glad.

 

He turned to the startled Angel.  Spike knew he was being unreasonable, but he didn’t care.  “Look.  I don’t really want to interfere with happy family reunions and all, so I’m just gonna. . .”  He glanced around.  They were at yet another hotel.  “Go hang out at the bar. . . if you need me. . . not that you will.”

 

Spike brushed past Fred and Celeste who were staring at him with wide eyes.  Screw them all.  He needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

            He’d chosen the darkest corner of the bar, and he nursed his beer without enthusiasm.  His stomach was a virtual melting post of anger, hurt, and guilt. 

 

            To distract himself, he studied his surroundings.  The bar was small and cramped but smelled of some sort of air freshener as if the owner was trying to disguise the torn, ratty carpet, the scarred tables and chairs, and the cracked, well-used glasses.  The ceilings were low, and the owner kept the lights dim.  Very few patrons haunted the facility, and most were so shrouded in darkness that Spike’s human eyes couldn’t make out their features.  Even the bartender was non-descript.

 

            Buffy consumed his thoughts despite his attempts to deny her.

 

She’d kissed him this morning. . . held him like he might disappear, but then, as soon as she found out that she and Angel had a child in this dimension, she forgot him.

 

The events of the last week or so had his mind and heart in a tumult, and he honestly didn’t know how much more he could take.

 

He took a swig of warm beer and frowned at the bottle. 

 

“So, you feeling sorry for yourself?”

 

Spike blinked.  His thoughts were so loud that for a second, he thought they were outside his head. 

 

“You’re not daft.”  A familiar figure slid into the seat next to Spike. 

 

Spike decided to ignore what *had* to be a hallucination, some left over torment from when he attained a soul.  Perhaps becoming fully human again triggered a momentary bit of insanity.  He set aside the alcohol.  He didn’t need to further cloud his mind.

 

“So, the Buffy of your world is chatting it up with the poof, eh?”

 

“Go away,” Spike said.

 

People at a nearby table looked up at him.

 

His twin leaned forward, smelling of cigarettes and old leather.  “I’m not a figment of your imagination, Spike.”

 

Spike dragged out a smirk and sat back, crossing his arms, so he could get a better glimpse of whom he was dealing with.  “So, you’re me, and I’m you.”

 

“Sort of.”  The Spike of this world was still a vampire. . . still a vampire with a soul.  “That’s better.”

 

Hey, at least vampire Spike would be a distraction.  “This could be entertaining.”

 

“Could be?  It *is.*”  Vamp Spike snatched the beer from Spike’s hand.  He grinned as he took a long drink.  Then, he surveyed Spike.  “So, this is what I look like human.  Hmm.  Good strong heart, still in shape, still got the same hair.  Damn.  I look good. . .well, except for the bandages.”  He leaned in closer.  “But you know what?”

 

Spike squirmed a little.  “What?”

 

Vamp Spike sniffed.  “I’m not making good use of my humanity.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You still got a Slayer by the name of Buffy Summers in your world, and you’re human while the big poof isn’t.  And you’re not even going for her.”  Vampire Spike drained the rest of Spike’s beer and set the bottle down with a thump.  “You’re like I was when I first got the soul, all sour and brooding.”

 

Spike’s temper flared.  “I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.  Things between Buffy and me are complicated.”

 

 Vampire Spike waved a dismissive hand at Spike.  “Complicated?  Every relationship is complicated.”

 

“You don’t have a clue.  This world is different from mine.  And by the way, where is *your* Buffy?”

 

For the first time, vampire Spike seemed sad.  “That’s a good question.”

 

“And is there an answer?”  Spike was feeling petulant.

 

“First, I need another beer.”  Vamp Spike stood and dug a tangled wad of bills and a crumpled cigarette package from his pocket.  Pulling out a cigarette with his lips, he asked, “Want one?”

 

Spike melted a little at the offer.  “Sure.”

 

A few minutes later, Spike was stubbing out his first cigarette in years and was nursing his second beer of the afternoon.  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”  No use skirting around it.  Besides, he drank so infrequently now that he could blame the alcohol for loosening his tongue.

 

Vampire Spike closed his eyes.  “She is.”

 

Something familiar and sharp stabbed into Spike’s chest.  He swallowed past the lump in his throat and kept his words simple lest he choke on them.  “How?”

 

“I blame Angel.”  Demon Spike paused.  “But I also blame myself.”

 

“Okay, that’s clear as the Gulf of Mexico.”

 

Spike’s counterpart grinned.  “Remember that thing with Dru in the Gulf?”

 

“Those were the days.”  Spike sighed.  Things had been so uncomplicated when he didn’t have a soul. . . when he was still a vampire.  “But this is now.”

 

Vamp Spike continued without further prompt.  “There was a turning point. . . a point in both our dimensions that led to Buffy’s demise in this dimension but not in yours.”

 

“The battle at the hellmouth with the First.”

 

“Yes.  Do you remember that little scene where Buffy greeted our dear granddad with a kiss?”

 

Spike rolled his eyes.  “Of course.  Better than I want to.”

 

“That’s it. . . that’s the turning point.”

 

“The kiss is the turning point?”

 

“No, you idiot.  That’s when Angel presented her with the lovely medallion.  He gave her a choice.”

 

“She sent him away.”  The truth was seeping into the fibers of Spike’s being, and he felt pieces of a puzzle falling into place. 

 

Vampire Spike took a gulp of beer.  “Yep.  In *your* dimension, she sent him away.  In mine, I’m afraid the lovely Peaches stuck around to aid in the final battle at the ole Sunnydale hellmouth.”

 

Spike’s soul felt like it was humming.  “She sent him away in mine. . .”

 

“She chose *you* in your world.” 

 

The truth was stunning, and Spike’s mouth hung open.  Vampire Spike stuck a cigarette in it for him.

 

Lighting the fag for Spike, demon Spike continued, “Funny thing is the Powers that Be have the power to set things a certain way, but humans still have free will.  They granted humanity to whomever Buffy chose as the champion.”

 

“So the reason I’m human is. . .”

 

“Buffy chose you to be the recipient of the gift.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

“Yeah, oh.  That’s why I hate to see you wasting your time when you still have a chance with her.”

 

Spike was silent.  Then, “What happened to your Buffy?”

 

Vampire Spike shifted his eyes to the main area of the bar.  “She passed away.”  He stared down at his lap, and Spike could tell he was trying not to cry.  When he spoke again, bitterness laced his tone, “And she didn’t even die a Slayer’s death.”

 

Spike averted his gaze as well; it was hard to see his other self under normal circumstances, much less tearful.  He didn’t quite know what to say. 

 

“Spike!” a familiar voice rang in his head.  She sounded glad to see him, and her tone contained more than a little concern.

 

Immense relief filled him as he witnessed Buffy across from him with a puzzled expression.  “Buffy!”

 

Buffy narrowed her eyes at vampire Spike.  “And other Spike.”

 

Spike’s counterpart seemed disconcerted by her presence, but then, he quickly tucked his feelings away behind a sneer.  “Slayer,” he acknowledged, hooking his thumb in the waistline of his jeans. 

 

Shaking her head as if to clear her senses, Buffy regarded Spike.  “It’s like you of old.  Spike with. . .bite.”

 

Spike wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but before he could respond, vamp Spike said, “Still got the soul though.”

 

“Angel’s back.  Wesley and Lorne. . . er, the Wesley and Lorne of this dimension waited in the woods.  They used some sort of dimensional-disturbance detector to locate him.” 

 

“And, we’re off to join him, then?” demon Spike asked.

 

“Yeah,” Buffy said, “we are.  We need him for this prophecy to work, so we can destroy Vamp Villa.”

 

“Can’t wait to see the old bloodsucker,” he returned.  “There will be four of us, then, won’t there?  And one Buffy.  It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out.”

 

Buffy ignored him and centered on Spike.  “And the Angel here filled me in on some info about Stephan and our situation that you might find interesting.”

 

            Vampire Spike wasn’t muzzled by Buffy’s disregard.  “Did he talk about Celeste?  Or about the Buffy in this world?  Or about how he’d like to keep you here, prophesy be damned?”