I'd think so. There's also a community at LJ, [link]

But I've no objections to the gauntlet being tossed here.

OK, I'd like to see HP/BtVS crossover fic. Since the principles of the supernatural operate so differently in the two 'verses, I'm thinking parallel universes with some sort of magical crossover, and the character flung out of his/her own universe would be a bit discombobulated at first. I'd like to read one or both of the following:

1. Spike wakes up from dying in Sunnydale to find himself in HPverse England. He becomes the next Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.

2. Hermione comes to the Jossverse. For this, I'd assume that the HP stories are running a bit behind our timeline, and that Hermione et al. are actually about the same age as Buffy, Willow, and Xander.

Damn! As a Harry Non-reader, I'm a-gonna watch.

Susan, that sounds worryingly like a gateway drug to the Spike/Draco/Lex I dreamt I wrote last night.

Deena, I like your Willow, and I'll think on what y'all have said about Americanisms.

Anyway, as I DO NOT WRITE HARRY POTTER, I think I'll give you the next bit of this EditIP. Warning: darkfic was an alien concept to me.

Chapter Four

"Come in, Rupert," he says, opening the door as I’m getting my keys out. I look at him to smile my thanks, and do a quick double take. He’s wearing something very akin to a zoot suit and, strangely, it looks stunning. I’m not sure if it’s the clothes themselves, the body inside them, or simply the fact that they don’t include and denim or leather. Perhaps all three. Anyway, it renders me speechless.

"Like it, pet?" he asks. When I nod, he pulls me indoors and grabs a brief kiss prior to my taking any notice of what he’s done to the room. Not that it’s in any way bad, you understand, just—tidy. No books strewn all over. No coating of dust on the shelves. No old pizza boxes, on the table—instead, candles. China plates.

"You want to eat now, or later?"

"Now," I reply. Apparently my brain hasn’t completely seized up from the shock- yet. I sit at the table—a table with wine glasses—while he briefly disappears from view, only to reappear within seconds bearing dishes of food that smell—to be precise, they smell like the things like used to emerge from my mother’s kitchen. Alright, so now I’m extremely hungry, not just the very I was on the way home. So much so that my mouth is watering.

He lifts the lids one at a time, explaining as he goes.

"Potatoes with mint in, like the maid used to make; mushy peas, just the way you like them; lamb—it wanted mutton, but I settled for lamb; and Yorkshire pudding, because… well, it’s what you’re supposed to have."

He looks at me, his clear blue eyes brought out by the colour of the fabric and soft curls of honey coloured hairs hanging down his forehead. For a moment, I am captivated by the sight, but then I realise he is looking for something. Appreciation? Acceptance? Encouragement? I’m not sure, and so I plump for an honest reaction.

"It looks wonderful, William—and it smells better. Am I allowed to taste it, or am I to wait until I’m drooling onto the tablecloth?"

That earns me a grin much more Spike than William—and, dear lord, I sounded like I was channelling Xander. I still do. Shut up and watch William, as he picks up a spoon and begins to serve out. The way the suit…no, eat now, other things later.

Later, when my suspicions have been laid to rest (the food tasted just like it had been cooked from the recipe book my mother used, probably the same one William’s mother used, but certainly the one I keep on the shelf (the single shelf, now everything has to be here or in the shop) of non-demonology books.

I also suspect that William didn’t do the cooking. He is incapable of following instructions to the letter, and my guess is that Willow or Buffy helped, maybe Tara. I deem it best to keep quiet, however- it’s the thought that counts, and he did set the table. He’s left handed, and always sets the knife on the left. It must be some measure of how I feel about him that I notice things like that, and spend time thinking about them, imagining those clever fingers handling the cold metal… but be careful, Rupert, you’re getting distracted). We move over to the sofa, but the television stays off, the only source of light the flickering candles.

He sits awkwardly, half facing me, half turned away. We are holding hands, so, watching his face to gauge the reaction, I lift his hand with mine and kiss the back of it. Immediately his eyes are on me, smiling at the gesture but also with a spark of nervousness, even fear, within their depths. As that was the general sort of thing I was hoping for, I twist all the way around to face him fully, left knee bent so that my foot tucks under my right knee. Then I let go of his hand just long enough to move it to my other one, and slide my arm up behind his shoulders, ready to pull him close.

I take the time to send whatever spirit is guarding me today a quick prayer of thanks that Anya didn't wake me when I fell asleep on the pile of new invisibility cloaks I was meant to be cataloguing, because that is the only reason I’m still awake, before I say, "Thank you, William."

He has been watching me all along, tensing his muscles so as to remain still, and now he widens those expressive eyes in surprise, asking for more details.

"Thank you for being here," I continue. "Thank you for dressing up for me, for supper, for not trying to make me talk when I was eating, for cleaning the apartment. Thank you for setting up this evening for me."

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything, apparently deciding that it’s now my turn to do the work. Which is fine by me—I've got plenty to say.

"I’ve really enjoyed it, but there is something missing."

• * *

Something missing, he says. Yeah. I’m not human, and he doesn’t love me. I don’t trust myself to speak without letting him see my tears, so I just concentrate on staying where I am, not snatching my hand away and running off to stake myself. Any time with him is better than no time.

"… what we’re missing is honesty. We’ve been a couple, living and sleeping together, working together, for nearly six months, but neither of us has ever really begun to talk about how we feel."

Ah, so this is where he asks me how I feel, and I…I should have written and rehearsed that declaration of love after all. Here it comes, the dreaded- no, it doesn’t sound like a question.

"I really don’t know how you’re going to react to this, but I’ve got to say it."

• * *

He continues to look at me, carefully hiding whatever he is feeling behind ‘the mask of Spike’, the picture of I’m-a-bad-vampire-with-no-feelings-and-I-don’t-care-about-yours.

It must have been cultivated over many years to transform him into what he believed Drusilla wanted him to be, but now he uses it to hide when his emotions are in turmoil. When he’s wearing jeans and boots, it suits him very well, and must have protected him from much heartache over the years- if not the pain of feeling, then the pain of his feelings being known. On the other hand, it doesn’t quite go with what I can now see are patent leather shoes.

Stop thinking, Rupert, look down at his hand in yours and say what you have to say. He can’t- won’t- wouldn’t- bite you.

"William, I…I love you."

• * *

What! That’s supposed to be my line, and he’s supposed to reject me! Does that mean I should—no, William, you want this, react the way he does when you fantasize the ideal way of telling him about your feelings. Let a little smile out past the mask, turn around a touch, and lean forward into his embrace.

• * *

He frees his hand from mine, as I’d feared he might, but it is only to run it up my arm, and my fears are calmed as he leans forward into my embrace. It makes me supremely happy, even though the position is more than a bit awkward, because as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper, "Love you too, Rupert."

I clasp him tight at that, and know that this will rapidly turn into something else. I know because he has begun to pepper light kisses up and down my neck and over my ear, all the bits of exposed skin he can reach. This evening will go down in my private diary as one of the best of my life.

I'm literally nodding off here in my chair, but I wanted to finish this bit, it's rather crucial. What happens next. Inevitable errors will be fixed tomorrow, and I'm afraid it's not as angsty as I want it.

[link]

I like, connie. Commented in the LJ, too-- but... wow.

And... more William and Rupert. This section was once three songfics. It's... strange, that it's changed so much.

Chapter Five

What the fuck?

Warm body… living, human body… Rupert.

Here, with me, after last night's dinner and… everything that followed. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what I'm doing here.

It’s like the chit sang. And why do I, former evil vampire, know songs from Jesus Christ Superstar? I have no idea. Anyway, it's like she sang.

“I don't know how to love him. What to do, how to move him. I've been changed, yes really changed. In these past few days, when I've seen myself, I seem like someone else.”

Barring the fact that I can’t see myself, that’s spot on. The soul has messed me up, and I think maybe I really am a different person. I’m truly William again—he called me that before, but now it’s for real.

He’s just another man—but he’s more than that. No other man is like him. When I look back of the loves of my life and unlife—Elizabeth, when we were only seven; Cecily, when I was old enough for rejection to really hurt; Drusilla, the woman who gave me eternal life, who loved me as only she could; Angelus, who taught me what I needed to know, my Sire—emotionally, if not in fact; Dalton, my sidekick and help-mate, when Dru was ill and I needed strength only he could give; my infatuation with Buffy—there is a pattern, of sorts. They all were superior to me, even the one I dominated. They were a class above me, at school or socially, physically or mentally, in age or wisdom. The people I fall in love with see things I don’t, sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically, but only Rupert Giles has ever offered to share that knowledge with me.

He didn’t want to be Ripper, and, in those days, I tried to bring that out in him. Now, things have changed. Even after Buffy died, I taunted, teased, nearly shagging him, then slipping out into the night to find something to punch. I had to take my anger out on someone, but it wasn’t fair to choose him—I love him. I see that now. The love I have for him is deeper than I ever felt for Buffy—love, not infatuation.

He’d make a fine vampire. I can’t turn him, and I’d want him to have his soul back afterwards, but I want to turn him because then we could be together always. My love for Drusilla is eternal, but my love for him is stronger. She’s more like a sister to me than the mother a Sire is meant to be, though we will always have that connection.

Strange, how I find I want men when they have souls, and women without. Not true of Buffy, of course, but then I lust after her, my desire to kill the Slayer turned into something else, twisted and poisoned by a piece of plastic and my own romantic notions. My new soul has all but cured that- it was the obsession of my demon, not the love of my true self.

I told him, last night. That, and that he returns the feeling in some measure, isn't in doubt; what I doubt is that he's forgiven me.

Being with him again is wonderful. What I had with Buffy wasn’t fulfilling, it didn’t give me what I need. He can. There’s real love there, caring, and he feels things as deeply as I do. You can’t always see it, but Rupert has a poet’s soul, like mine. We’re soul mates, us two, and I’m so drunk on the feeling of being with the man I love I can hardly think stright. Well, since it looks like I’m being gay for now, I guess that doesn’t matter.

I sold them out to Adam, because I couldn’t cope with being caged by the chip. I slept with Harmony, with Buffy and with Anya—what's a creature of the night if he can’t seduce young girls? Okay, young women. I did and do love Buffy, but I can see that what I did hurt her more than my poncey Sire ever did, so I curb my impulses and care for her safety, not her satisfaction. I like Anya, but she seems to want to be with Xander, and I don’t like her that much.

I'm confused.

It’s about needing him, it’s about wanting someone to care again, it’s about wanting to make amends for what I did. It’s about whether he’ll take me back, despite my inexcusable actions.

It’s almost funny. I’m scared of him, even while he's lying next to me, sleeping, soft human sleep with little snorting snores.

The fact that he has taken me back, even if it's (and in some ways, I know it must be) just for a little while, makes it all easier to face. The Slayer still doesn’t know that I have a soul, though she might have heard that I’m back in Sunnydale. I think Rupert will want to keep our relationship secret a bit longer- let them take me back one step at a time, first “Spike, with his new soul,” then “William, who went and got a soul of his own free will (excuse the pun)” and finally, “William, who went to get a soul. Who loves me.” It’ll be a while before they know that we’re a couple, but I’m cool with that.

I guess I just have to try and make this work—and the first part of that would be to get some sleep.

But, Rupert, before I got to sleep, even though I know you can't hear me: don’t say you’re not sure. When I ask if we’ll tell them eventually, say, “when it’s time,” not “maybe.” Maybe always means no, I’ve learnt that much over the years.

• * *

Damn, that was a strange dream. I can still feel… William, lying next to me.

He's there. Either I'm still dreaming, or I've at last been driven mad, or this is for real.

I think back, to the time I first knew how he felt. He probably doesn't remember much of what happened that night—he's never talked about it—but I'd never have been able to be so calm about the revelation if I wasn't warned some time in advance.

I remember thinking, maybe I should have whiskey. My back’s still bruised from when it met the ceiling. I reached for the bottle, but a knock on the door halted me. Who would it be, at this time of night? Buffy, probably, I thought, sighing, and went to let her in.

A blond vampire stood on my doorstep, his eyes a little wild. “Spike?”

“Err, yes,” he said, and his voice had changed—no, not the voice, but the accent. It’d moved up the class scale a notch, and gained some hesitations. “May I come in?”

I nodded, and stood back. He stepped forward, only to find there was a barrier. He flinched away from it. “Sorry, Spike. Come in.” Blue eyes studied me suspiciously, then he moved forward. I noticed that he limped a little. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Which is why you’re limping?”

He stopped, only a few steps inside the door, and looked at me—not quite a challenge, but nearly. “It’s not your concern.”

“Actually, Spike, I think it is. If there’s something out there than can hurt you like that, it’s very definitely my concern.”

“It’s not coming after Bu… the Slayer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know?”

The tone of my voice must have been harder than I thought, because he looked down, moving back. Suddenly, a rush of clear seeing come over me: I noticed that he wasn’t wearing his usual leather coat, just a cheap waterproof, and that he hadn’t put his left arm into the sleeve. He’d been badly hurt by something. Even if he wouldn’t tell me what, I decided I’d try to help him.

“Sit down, Spike,” I said, my voice softer. “Do you want anything to drink?”

He sat carefully, as if his leg pained him, and nodded.

“Blood or alcohol?”

“Blood.” His voice was quiet, and I heard a tone of—is it regret? I couldn’t tell. I poured the drinks, blood for him and whiskey for me, handed him one, and sat in the chair opposite where I can watch him.

“Want to take that coat off, Spike?”

He didn’t look up, drinking in great gulps as if this is the first he’d tasted in a long while. Looking at the prominent cheekbones, and thin wrists, I concluded that it probably was. To lose weight like that, he’d have to have gone without for weeks, maybe even months.

“What happened to you, Spike?” I didn’t really expect an answer. He swallowed the last of the blood, and spoke without looking up. I realised that, without thinking, I’ve given him ‘his’ mug, the one with ‘Kiss the Librarian’ on the side.

“Not your concern.”

“Are you sure, Spike? William?”

“What do you mean, calling me William?”

“It’s what I used to call you. Before all… the betrayal.” I fought to keep the pain out of my voice.

“She told you what I did, then, did she?” He lifted his head, meeting my eyes. “Come and stake me, then. I won’t stop you. Can’t stop you.”

I shook my head. “I won’t do that, William. And I want to hear your side of the story.” I’d heard some of Buffy’s side—that they had sex, and an argument, then Spike left town—and Xander’s accusation of rape, but Buffy wouldn’t talk about that.

“I tried to rape her,” he said, fighting to keep his calm face. “I tried to…” The mug fell to the carpeted floor, and he was weeping. Unable to sit and watch when the man I love is in that state, I pushed the mug away and knelt in front of him, wrapping my arm over his shoulders.

“Oh, God, Rupert, what did I do? I know I’m evil—I know I’ve done terrible things-- but that was worst of all. And she was hurt, too. I could see that, and I couldn’t stop myself!”

All I can do is keep holding him, keep running my hand through his hair, keep listening to what he says.

“I couldn’t cope with that, Rupert. I… I shouldn’t be allowed to live!” He jerked out of my hold, wincing but determined. “Stake me, Rupert,” he pleaded.

I looked into his eyes, the colour of clear sky. For a moment, the desperation I see there tempted me, but then I see that this is only what Willow wanted—to end the pain. And to live means to work through that. I shook my head. “You know I can’t do that, William. I want to help you.”

“Help me? You can’t do that, either. I’m evil, Rupert, evil! Even now!”

“Even now what?” I asked. Clearly there was more to this tale.

“Stupid demon! It tricked me. I wanted to be free of the chip—I wanted to kill her, or have her stake me first. Instead, it starts talking about ‘restoring me’. Isn’t the world cursed enough with one flaming ponce?”

Cursed… ponce… the madness and guilt, not to mention suicidal tendencies that have overtaken him… I know this malaise. He’s been given his soul back.

“The demon gave you your soul, didn’t it?”

He nodded. “And made me fight for it, too.”

So that’s how he was injured. The demon was an agent of the powers, I supposed. “That’s how you were hurt?”

“Yes.” Being reminded of that clearly reminds him of the pain, as well, and his handsome face registered the way his body felt.

I took his left hand in mine, pulling it free of the jacket. He hadn’t put it into the sleeve, and soon I saw why—there was a long burn down the forearm, which must have reached almost to the bone at first. He watched my face as I inspect it.

“Can you move your fingers?” I asked, wondering if there’s been any nerve damage.

“Only a bit,” he said. “But I can move these ones.” He brought his right hand up to my forehead, stroking my hair. His actions aren’t as precise as I would have expected, but it was impossible to say if that’s because he’s left handed or very weary. “You’re very handsome, Rupert,” he went on, almost dreamily, on the verge of passing out. “I love you, you know.”

I didn’t know, and it crashes into my previous thoughts. I loved him, as well—he'd helped me in a dark time, even before he had a soul. No matter what he did to Buffy, that was the action of a soulless demon, not something that the souled man can be held entirely accountable for.

I know there's hypocrisy in that, but I can't explain it all for you.

"Stay here tonight—get some rest,” I replied. It was all I had. Saying anything deeper required more preparation.

He drew back, seeming shocked. “But, I’m evil.”

“Not with a soul, you’re not.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It does. Angel is no longer evil—neither are you.”

He considered this, slowly, then smiled, not the sneer of the ‘mask of Spike’; but a genuine smile, childlike and happy. I couldn’t resist any longer. I kissed him.

Now, several adventures, four months, and a romantic dinner later, I smile in the darkness, feeling his body near mine in the bed, and wonder. Is my love for William real? I’ve felt it all along, and it hurt me deeply when he betrayed me, first to Adam, then by ignoring me for Harmony; then by sleeping with me and refusing to admit he felt anything for me—then, in my absence, sleeping with (well, I doubt they did much sleeping, but I’m English, and she’s like a daughter to me. I don’t have to deal with it) Buffy, and Anya.

They are all quite capable of handling things now. I’m not needed here any more. If I'm needed anywhere, it’s in England, and I should take Willow with me.

I let go of William, because I couldn’t deal with my feelings, and he took it, and left. The others had accepted the idea that I loved him, but in the end I kept pushing him away. It was too soon after Jenny, after Olivia, too much like Ethan all over again, and I couldn’t cope with being hurt.

Well, sometimes I can. William is one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever been privileged to have—his love is deep, and before I rejected him it was true. He must have thought I didn’t love him. It wasn’t that—I did, I do—but that I wasn’t ready for it. With Buffy’s training to attend to, the Magic Box to care for, and his growing affection for my Slayer, not to mention the other troubles in our lives (and unlives) it was all just too much for me.

I thought it was that way with him, after Adam, after he went for Buffy again, after I went back to England. It couldn’t be—how could he still love me? We would sleep together occasionally, when we needed company, but it didn’t really work because neither of us felt we could be honest. I was afraid he might lead me back to my dark side, make me into Ripper just as Ethan did. I was in enough danger of that when Buffy was dead anyway—only just before, I killed a human. Perhaps only Willow really appreciates how much danger I was in, since she’s the one who fell.

I love him, and I need him to know: but I have to go back to England. Willow needs me there.

He has a soul now. That is a true surprise, and that fact that he went through trials to get it, made up his mind and went, is both impressive and almost frightening. If he can get a soul just by setting his mind to it, what can’t he get if he tries?

I love him, and he loves me. We have a long way to go, but the possibility exists that we will succeed. I have to give it a try. If I don’t try, I will never be able to forgive myself.

We broke up all those years ago because he was falling more and more for Buffy. That’s what I said at the time. Now, I think maybe I had more issues than he did. I thought-feared- that he’d bring Ripper out again.

When he told me that he wanted to be with me, that was the sweetest moment ever. It must have been. He apologised for all the things he’d done, for not being able to see his feelings for Buffy for what they were—lust—and asked me if he could stay in the apartment for a day or two. I said yes, and we slept together for the first time since I left for England, over a year ago. No sex, just the sleeping, curled up against each other, his smaller body cradled in mine. Proper love-birds, we were, in our little nest.

I hope I can be with him for the rest of my life. The part of me that never submitted to the Watcher’s Council says ‘and beyond’. I want to be with him forever, always able to feel him in my arms, hold him when he dreams and talks in his sleep, let his arms slide about me, lift me, when I’m tired. This love is eternal.

Knowing that he has come back, that he has made up with me, that he is with me even now, brings a whole new light to my life. I still have things to face, problems in England to deal with, Buffy to help, Willow to assist, but it is easier to face anything when you don’t feel so alone anymore.

Let me tell them, one thing at a time. First your soul, then why, then us. Don’t say ‘maybe’ in that sulky tone of voice, and tell them anyway. It’s got to be slow. They don't need to be shocked.

And for heaven's sake, let me get the trip to England out of the way first.

The Resurrection Gambit

Part One: Quiet Drinks in a Foreign Land

China, 2023: “Shanghai,” muttered Xander as he dodged the vampire's punch. “Why the Hell did it have to be Shanghai?”

Dawn just rolled her eyes at him. The vampire—old one, she thought, her usual glamours weren’t throwing it—took a swing at her. She ducked, and its fist shattered brick behind her. She didn’t stop to see the spectacle. She fell to her back and kicked out, tripping the vampire’s feet out from under it. It fell forward, and Dawn let gravity do her stake’s work for her.

“Hello!” she said, springing to her feet. “Doing all the work here! Complain later!”

Xander got his bearings, turned, and staked the vampire before it could get another shot at him.

“You sound just like your sister sometimes.”

Dawn shot Xander a withering glance. They stepped back to back to assess the potential danger from the remaining vampires. The vampires obviously didn’t like the odds. One swore in Mandarin, and they retreated into the night.

“We never go anywhere nice,” said Xander. Dawn shook her head, but was smiling. “Twenty years," she thought. "And in some ways, he hasn’t changed.”

She was glad of that.

They pushed on to the waterfront bar they’d been headed toward when they were attacked. Dawn noted that the vampire gangs were getting larger, more organized.

Xander nodded, more serious. “They’re coming together for protection,” he said. “The war’s starting.”

Dawn said nothing. They approached the bar in silence.

Inside, a seedy, underworld—in both senses of the phrase—crowd hid in plain sight, obscured by each other’s efforts to remain unseen. Through the dim light, they sought out their colleagues. Xander knew they’d have beaten them here.

He was right. Wesley and Spike sat in a corner, obviously as unhappy with their location as Xander was. Shanghai had not been good to them.

Xander and Dawn pulled up chairs.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” said Wesley, smiling thinly.

“Vampire attack,” said Xander. “They’re coming fewer now, but more viciously.”

“Like bloody wolves pushed out of the woods by construction,” said Spike. “They’ve got nothing to lose now.”

“The balance is gone,” said Wesley. “We need to set it right, before the Slayers are gone.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“So,” said Dawn, all business. “Is everyone in place?”

“Buffy’s group is in London,” said Spike. “Willow’s got the wards cast, and is dead sure the spell will work. Faith and Vi have Slayers spread out across the globe. We don’t know exactly what the reaction will be. Could be bloody chaos.”

“It’s not like we have a choice, Spike,” said Xander, grimly. “We’ve got to finish what we started in Sunnydale. The fate of the world depends on it. Angel died for it.”

They were silent then. Wesley went pale. His stiff upper lip was quivering a bit, Dawn thought. Xander and Wesley had become close—nearly brothers, in some ways. At first it was because they were at the core of the new Watcher’s Council, but then Angel’s death, in this very city… it had affected the two of them hardest of all.

Wesley raised his glass.

“To Angel, and to everyone else that’s died to set this sorry world right.”

The four of them toasted in silence. Four heroes, each of whom have been through the fires more than they could count. They drank silently for a moment, and then Spike smiled maliciously.

“They’ll never forgive us for what we’re about to do to them,” he said, his dark mood evident despite his voice’s lilt. “Trust me mates, “I know.”