As Buffy rode in the back of the taxi, watching the scenery of England pass by her window, she felt herself being transported through time. And, she smiled.

Just how much of this land has Spike’s footprints on it? She didn’t know why, but Buffy found herself comforted by that thought.

Then, as she continued to watch the English countryside pass by the car’s windows, Buffy began to realize that Spike could be anywhere. As she made her way to Devon, he could be anywhere. The Council, if they had him could have taken Spike anywhere they wanted to. And, she didn’t know where to even start looking.

What did I think was going to happen? Did I think that Travers and his buddies were just going to say, “Hi Buffy, here’s the vampire you’ve been looking for. We just wanted to borrow him for a bit. You can have him back now.” Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.

Buffy suddenly realized just how big this little island was. Spike could be anywhere now. They could be doing anything to him.
***************************************************

LONDON, ENGLAND-

As he sipped his morning tea, a calm came over him because for the first time since he, and the Council, had the dubious pleasure of Miss Summers’s acquaintance, Quentin Travers slept peacefully. He knew that, given enough time, William would break. And, when he did, the Slayers would once again be focused on the mission that they had been created for.

“William the Bloody” would finally be seen as the monster he was. Given enough time, and enough pain, the vampire would do what came naturally for it, and its kind. And in so doing, the Council would remain. The prophecy would be thwarted, and his hands would remain clean.

Quentin Travers was certain that, before the end of the day, his guest would be considerably more amenable. Time is all that was required now.
*******************************************************

The bare light that flooded his cell pierced his eyes and threw his surroundings into sharp shadows. The shadows only accentuated his sense of isolation and despair.

He squinted to see the photographs on the pin board that wavered like a mirage in front of him, forever out of his reach. They were familiar to him, and had always been so. But what worried him now was the fact that the Council seemed to know him. A lucky guess about phobias could be just that- a stroke of luck. It wasn’t that fanciful a conclusion. His particular phobia, waking up in a casket, was a common one.

In the times he grew up in, many were declared dead who were not. And not because they were undead, but because they were in comas that the physicians of his era could not properly diagnose.

That was why people were employed to patrol cemeteries, and why coffins were often equipped with bells to alert the people on patrol that a tragic mistake had been made.

Any knob could hit on that if he was the slightest bit interested in history. But he thought he’d been so careful about his family. He’d hidden them so well, even from Dru and Angelus, that even he had started to forget.

He’d almost forgotten. Almost.

But, as his vision blurred, the photographs dimming in and out before his eyes, the pain of his failure added to the pain in his body.

As Spike lain on the floor of his cell, his failure began to overwhelm him. So much so, that a small whimper escaped his throat.

He’d worked for years to keep his secret. But he realized now, as he stared at the features of the person that was his true blood staring back at him, mutely, that all his work was now for nothing.

If the Council knows this, then they’re not safe. My future is staring back at me. If I give that up, then I truly am dead, body and bloody soul. I’ve worked too hard. Seen too bloody much to let that happen.

I won’t let that happen!

He fought the wave of nausea that came upon him. His demon was still outraged at the treatment it had received at the old Watcher’s hands, and though the pain of his missing fangs made letting his baser instincts take control extremely painful, he needed the pain.

The pain made him angry. Beast and soul were both in agreement on this point- there was no way the Watcher would get what he wanted. It didn’t matter what was done to him. I’ll rot in this box before I give you what you want!

He needed the pain. You want a junkyard dog? So be it. Best be careful Watcher, junkyard dogs tend to turn at the slightest provocation.

He let the pain go through him. He used it to harden himself, to prepare himself for what he had to do. In order to keep his family safe, he had to deny his own blood.

The very thought of looking… oh God… at what his reflection could have been if he’d had enough time, and denying all that that meant to him, made him ill. But it had to be done.

To keep his life safe, it had to be done.

Because, there was no way he was killing the Slayer.

As he stared intently past the white light at the edge of his vision at his family, he smiled.

The Council’s been wrong before. They can be wrong again. Don’t worry Rupert. I’m not giving you up.

His thoughts were interrupted by the hiss of the security door and the sound of the Watcher’s voice, “Well William, it has been some time since we’ve spoken,” Quentin said, “I hope the pain has subsided somewhat.”

The defiant glare of the vampire’s amber eyes gave him his answer and he let out a cold chuckle that chilled the room, “I see that it has,” Quentin’s face came up close in his vision, “Perhaps now we can continue our conversation?”

Spike tried to speak in a casual, mocking tone, hoping to mask the extreme pain he was in, “Watcher,” his voice was a trembling whisper, which he only hoped added to the menace he was trying to evoke in the man, “your research is faulty. I’ve got no family. The family I had died. I should know. I killed them myself,” he took a deep breath, still hoping that his deception would be enough, “And that man,” his gaze drifted fleetingly to Rupert Giles’s face before coming back to the Watcher, who was crouching, big as life in front of him, “looks like he’s about as old as Methuselah. He could drop dead any day. Why get your hands dirty? You want him dead?” Spike swallowed the pain the thought brought him, both physical and emotional, “Just wait a week. Mother nature will do the work for you. What do I care? Means nothing to me. Have your fun. I’m not killing the Slayer for you. So, you might as well dust me now, ‘cause it’s not happening.”

A slow smile crept over Quentin’s face, “Don’t be so sure, William,” he said.