Author(s)'s Notes: Well, this here is the first part of the first story in what will very soon become a series of stories. "Five by Five" was created when Isis Rose and I decided we didn't like how AtS ended, with the killing of two of our favourite characters and all that. So, we took five of the choice-iest picks and brainstormed at length so that we could canonically (try not to laugh) drop them in a pile in NYC. We're quite fond of the idea and many more parts of the series (written by one or the other of us, and occasionally both) are forthcoming. So read and enjoy!

Disclaimer: The delightful people you'll read about below belong not to us, but to the Great and Powerful Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy and whoever else.

Prologue

By Diocletian

Wesley didn't know why he was alive. He was supposed to be dead. He remembered, quite distinctly, dying. Pain, blood, slowly encroaching numbness and then… black, as he either passed out or his brain stopped processing the images his eyes were presenting it with. Either way, death had immediately followed.

And then, somehow, a return to life, or perhaps the start of a new one, had immediately followed THAT. And Wesley did not understand how.

Vail's blood was a possibility, he thought as he observed the spatter that had been the crimson-skinned wizard's head spread across the walls, floor and, to a lesser extent, his own face and clothing. The blood of certain demons had restorative properties like that sometimes and this one in particular had been a powerfully magical individual.

It may have been the knife Vail had used to stab him with. A very fancy, ornamental thing. It hadn't been a very practical design, Wesley recalled, but it had been sharp enough to get the job done. It had been more than enough to finish HIM off. But it could have been enchanted or it might have been some kind of sacred dagger pledged and consecrated in the name of some patron demon spirit or another that Vail worshipped or owed a favour. For all he knew, Wesley could soon be claimed by this demon-saint and subjected to unspeakable services in Vail's name.

And there was always the possibility that Illyria had unknowingly done something to him as he had lain in her arms. Heaven knew that she didn't seem to have any grasp of the extent of her own powers. Who knew what she could have done?

In any case, it all added up to the Powers-That-Could-Kiss-His-Ass deciding that it wasn't yet time for Wesley Wyndam-Pryce to die. Apparently they had some puppet theatre awaiting him yet and the fact that he was being clumsy and inconsiderate enough to get himself killed before they were finished with him was seen as nothing but a mere speed bump to get over as quickly as possible. However it had happened, the fact remained that it had happened.

Wesley sat in a pool of his own cold blood, staring aimlessly around the room, running his hands fretfully along his bloody yet presently gaping hole-free abdomen, pondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

Spike's first thought upon waking up was that he must be in hell again. After all, Lindsey was there, smirking at him. It was a weak, tired, unusually pale smirk, true. But it was still a patented, I-know-I'm-the-most-intelligent-person-in-the-room-now-lets-see-how-much-fun-I-can-have-waiting-for-everyone-else-to-figure-it-out Lindsey McDonald smirk, just the same.

Then Spike remembered what real hell was like, with the fire and the sharp and the pain and all. So maybe he was just in one of Wolfram & Hart's little holding cell-esque mini-hells, like the one Lindsey and then Gunn had been stuck in recently. It took a minute or two for Spike to realize that, compelling evidence though it might be, Lindsey's presence alone was not necessarily enough to PROVE that he was in some kind of hell. He was a mean little bastard, that much was certain, but the last time Spike had seen him, he hadn't even been dead.

He sure looked it now, though. Aside from the irritating smile on the man's face, the heartbeat his vampire senses allowed him to hear and the fact that his chest was still moving up and down as he breathed, Spike could easily have mistaken him for a day-old corpse.

"You look almost as bad as I feel, mate," Spike observed in a hoarse voice. The smug look on the former lawyer's face faded and he unconsciously glanced down at his own chest.

Both men were lying down on beds with crisp white sheets in an unpleasantly white and sanitary room, Spike realized at last. A hospital room, then. And judging by the fact that he wasn't in a body bag and didn't have odd instruments sticking out of him wondering why, from a medicinal prospective, he wasn't dead, probably a Wolfram & Hart hospital room.

After a long pause, Lindsey finally made a reply. "I can't imagine you're feeling very peppy right now, then. Because apparently, getting shot twice makes you look like shit."

"Weren't you and Lorne supposed to be going after a bunch of demon thugs? Not generally the shooting type, them. You must have really pissed them off. Frankly, I'm surprised you lived long enough to manage it." Lindsey's face looked strained and Spike was not displeased to note that he seemed to have hit some sort of nerve, even if he didn't know what it was exactly. But hey, if it got Law-Boy's panties in a bunch, it worked for him. "Lorne here somewhere, by the way?"

"No. That son of a bitch is gone," Lindsey snapped. "If he knows what's good for him, he'll stay that way."

There we go, Spike thought. "Wasn't he supposed to be watching your back? Angel's orders and all," he asked, ignoring Lindsey's obvious fury. What was the hick going to do from a bed seven feet away, with two fresh bullet holes in him? Glare him to death? "You'd think he'd be here keeping an eye on you."

"Fuck off, Blondie," was the response. "Mind your own goddamn business."

Spike smiled to himself. His insides may feel like they'd been forcibly ripped out of him through his belly button and then carelessly replaced (upside down and backwards), but as long as he had somebody nearby to piss off, he would be okay.

"But so long as we're on the subject," the other man added and something in his voice made Spike's hackles rise warily. "None of the rest of the team seem to be here, either. I wasn't exactly expecting a welcome committee for myself, but you're a member of the Fang Gang. You'd think they'd want to check up on you. Unless, of course, you're the only one left?"

Ouch.

Spike's mind flashed to Gunn, clutching his stomach as he stood there, bleeding to death in front of them, determined to fight right on until the end. To Illyria, jumping down into the alley to face them all and state simply, "Wesley's dead." To Angel hefting his axe and running toward the demon hoard that was also running towards them, only with about a thousand times more warriors.

And all of a sudden, Spike couldn't remember any of the details of the battle. He'd launched himself at… something. In his mind's eye, his first opponent suddenly blurred out of focus as he tried to concentrate on it. He couldn't remember who or what it had been, or what the next one or any of the ones he'd moved onto after that had been. He dimly recalled a flash of blue light and hurtling through the air at one point, but…

Here he was. Alive, if not exactly in peak condition. But he couldn't think, for the life of him, of how he'd gotten here. He could remember next to nothing about the "Apocalyptic" battle and, even though he raked his brain, he couldn't recall if he'd seen any of the others die. He had a vague picture of them all throwing themselves into the furious crowd of followers of the members of the Circle of the Black Thorn, but after that—there was nothing. Surely they couldn't have survived that, could they?

But he was here. Somehow. Spike would have given anything at that moment to remember how he'd managed it. Well, maybe not his soul, but he'd be willing to kill Lindsey and offer up his in its place.

Realizing suddenly that his silence was allowing the slack-jawed yokel in the bed next to him to think he'd gotten the better of him, Spike tossed out a careless, "Shut your gob, Cletus. I'm too tired to be bothering myself with you right now."

So, he'd apparently survived the most recent apocalypse, if, of course, his original assumption about being in hell wasn't true. Lindsey had been shot by somebody or another, probably had a very close brush with death himself, but he'd unfortunately lived through it too. And somebody from some division of Wolfram & Hart had found them both, brought them in and fixed them up. Spike suddenly hoped desperately that he hadn't died again only to be brought back AGAIN by these people. He hated the thought of owing them anything.

He thought idly that it was interesting that the law firm would try to help either of them, seeing as they had worked for Angel, who had done his damnedest to destroy the place when he left. But he remembered Wesley telling him about how everybody in the building had been killed by some Beast last year, only for the AI team to come visit a few days later to find the place buzzing like nothing had happened. An interesting thought.

If Angel and the rest of the team were dead, which Spike supposed they must be, even if he couldn't remember it, who was in charge now? He hoped it wasn't him, because if it was they were going to be disappointed when he grabbed the nicest company car and took off. A horrifying possibility presented itself: He hoped it wasn't LINDSEY. He knew that the Senior Partners had been gunning for the guy's blood mere days ago, but they were weird like that sometimes.

Maybe neither of them would have to worry about it. Maybe the Senior Partners had promoted some homicidal eager-beaver up-and-comer to the seat and the new person just felt obligated to the old boss to help out his associates. Then, the best possibility that Spike could come up with, as soon as they were healed, they'd get kicked out on their asses with little more than a "keep out of our way, and we'll have some meetings to see what we can do about keeping out of yours."

It was really quite pathetic that that was the BEST possibility.

New York City. It was louder than LA. That was Faith's first real observation about the place. It was darker and colder than California, but that was expected. It had the tall buildings and traffic that came as part and parcel of all large cities. But, for some reason, there seemed to be more pretzel vendors on the streets than any other place she'd been. Plus, the whole place smelled faintly of urine.

She didn't really like it, but she hadn't much cared for any of the places she'd called home over the years. She'd traveled a lot in the past year, not staying anywhere for more than a few weeks. It had gotten old surprisingly fast and she'd yearned to come home.

She wouldn't go back to California, though. That was a finished chapter in her life. They had their own protectors. And she wasn't positive that LA's finest didn't still have her posted on their "Most Wanted" boards. But in a city, on the other side of the country, disappearing into the crowd wasn't that hard. Big cities drew danger of all types and species like light drew moths, and they didn't come much bigger than the Big Apple.

Sure, she was alone here. But she could deal. Robin and she had had a bust up and parted ways back in Asia or someplace when they were only a couple of months out of Sunnydale. She'd been surprised he could stick around THAT long, to be completely honest. Driving off good guys was something she had a special talent for. It had been nice having a traveling companion, but his ways weren't her ways and she couldn't deal with that.

She kept in touch with Giles occasionally and he was in touch with most of the others, so they knew they could reach her if they wanted to. Not that they wanted to. And eventually she'd gotten tired of moving around, deciding to pick a place to settle down in, at least for a while. NYC was as good a place as any.

There were thousands and thousands of people here who, as New Yorkers, thought themselves prepared for all sorts of trouble, but most of them had no idea about the kind of world they really lived in. Faith came to help them and protect them.

It was a place where she could still feel needed.