A/N: This is a story from awhile ago, completely AU…the first part is done the second halfway. Let me know how you like it.

Anne Finn always listened to talk radio, nothing else.

She always drove her shiny new tan SUV and let the drone of politics and social commentaries fill her car. If asked, which she never was, she would laugh and say that she always had listened to talk radio because she hated music stations. She actually hated music in general.

Which wasn't entirely true.

For Anne Finn didn't listen to music, but Anne Finn had only existed for three years.

Anne Finn was perfectly constructed though. She was the successful owner of Summer, an elite line of cosmetics that were bright and cheery. She was the wife of a General in the Army and she lived in the posh suburb of Sunnydale, California. Her house was light and airy and obsessively clean. Everyone said she was golden. She was touched by the sun and by Midas.

But her existence in the sunlight wasn't entirely true.

In her purse there were fragments of truth. If her bag was examined closely, which it never was, one could find the remnants of those who had paid life's tolls in order that Anne Finn could exist.

There was a snapshot of two girls. One was light and one was dark and they both stopped people on the street. Even as children, even through the awkward teen years they were stunners. They were three years apart, but most people simply considered them twins. They had lost their mother before either one of them could create a solid memory, so they were always referred to as Hank Chase's daughters.

Cordelia was the eldest and the charmer. There wasn't anyone she couldn't wrap around her finger. Elizabeth Anne was quieter, but she was a spark. They had been happy children, even with the constant influx of changing stepmothers.

If asked, which she never was, she would simply say that they don't exist anymore.

Which is almost true.

One was lost to excess and the other was lost to reality.

In the purse there was also a thin disk with the word Harris on it. For a short time there had been a bleak eyed woman who had given up on hope and given up on love. She had shown up on the doorstep of Xander Harris' household and he had taken her in. If fate had been kinder he would have been her brother, but the pair of them had learned that life wasn't happy or soft. He had given her his name and his home. For a little while he was the brother that she had been denied.

Between Elizabeth and Liz there had been another, but there was no piece of her in the purse.

Mrs. Buffy Summers existed somewhere long ago. Buffy had been alive and had demanded darkness and light. She had felt all that life had to offer and she always wanted more.

Which can and cannot be a good thing.

Anne didn't need reminders of her, she carried Buffy much closer than her purse. There was a scar on her heart that had never ceased to ache.

Buffy had loved music.

Which is why Anne abhorred it.

And that was the truth.

Anne Finn drove on another of her ordinary days, it didn't matter that the sun was shining on her, like it always did. It didn't matter that everything around her was blooming or that she was happy. It didn't matter that she wore pastels and was the very picture of suburbia.

When there is a bullet out there with your name on it you can't outrun it.

Because even as she mired herself with the background of talk radio, the life that she had been fighting to hide from found her anyways.

"Rocker Spike formerly of the band Big Bad and more recently a solo artist, has been in a motorcycle crash. Born William Summers, this legendary partier and womanizer, has always led a fast life. Now his need for speed has found him head over heels on his motorcycle. He was found unconscious by a motorist and rushed to the hospital. His status is critical and there was extensive damage to his body. The only news that we have received puts Spike in critical condition. There is no further information."

Anne Finn felt her heart constrict. She pulled over on the side of the road. She couldn't tell you how she had gotten there.

Anne Finn couldn't tell you how her cell phone ended up in her hands. She didn't know how she knew the numbers she was dialing. Anne Finn didn't have a single reason to be freaking out on the edge of the highway.

But Buffy Summers did. Buffy Summers had every right to panic. She had endured too many emergencies. She had seen too many hospitals.

The first number she called led to a voicemail. She had to hang up, she didn't know how to formulate the proper sentence. The second number was disconnected. She tried the third number that had once been a familiar friend. She closed her eyes. She had to do this.

In an Interlude. After they met, just before fame.

Buffy lay back against the comfortable curve of his shoulder. She pulled her leg over his and pulled herself closer to his side. She loved the feeling of the curve of his shoulder bone against her cheek. She loved the way that breathing caused his chest to expand in time with the beating of her heart. She loved to feel him. She always wanted to be as close to him as possible, which explained their incessant desire to be having sex.

They lay in the mattress on the floor. This had become their haven after they realized that the constant pounding of the headboard could be heard through out the building.

Buffy let her fingers roam over his chest. His body didn't look particularly lovely, splotches of blue and red marred the pale skin. The fight tonight had been about some guy who was too drunk and Spike too brash to stop. It wasn't a daily occurrence, but it happened more often than Buffy liked.

They both knew that this was an interlude. This was an interlude before morning, between the bursts of reality and the delusion of parties. This was time between the constant demand of the music and the drone of the silence. This was just them.

Buffy could feel his pulse speed up beneath her cheek as she ever so lightly traced the contours of his abs.

They also knew that this was an interlude between their favorite indulgence, sinful delectable mind bending sex.

It was an interlude.

Buffy lightly traced the outline of the six stitches under his bandage. The stitches had only recently been placed and hadn't yet begun to heal.

"Why didn't you stay?" she asked him, "The doctor said something about concussions and observation."

She shifted and propped herself up on her hand. She looked down at him with those clear green eyes.

He had the witty retort ready. He was renowned for his flip answers, but now was an interlude. Now wasn't the time for such comments. He saw the concern in her eyes and he knew why he loved her.

She always wanted to know more of him. She was swallowing him whole and he wanted to encourage her on. He loved her fire. His drive had been for fame, it had driven him from London to New York to LA in a haze of music and booze. But that need was quelled as long as he could feel her radiance.

For a moment he didn't speak. He didn't have to be sarcastic or witty. He didn't have to be Spike with her. He could just be William Summers.

He traced the outline of her face, too in awe to speak right away.

Her lips formed a sad smile and he knew that he was loved.

"I can't wake up in hospitals anymore," he admitted.

Admissions cost him nothing with her. She was the only place in the world that he just was.

She touched his heart, a place that wasn't black or blue, a place that he would eternally think of as hers.

It gave him the strength to continue.

"I can't. I've woken up in too many hospital beds. One more would break me."

She didn't say anything because she already knew. She knew the stories before she had ever met the man. As wild, as madcap, as impossible as those stores were, they were all true.

He had fought often and hard, drank and drugged until he was a raging tornado, and screwed more girls in more places than was probably healthy.

He saw the hurt and confusion in her green eyes and he prayed that he would be able to take that away from her. She may reside in the darkness with him, but there was something about her that would never be tainted. He loved the honesty in her eyes.

"After…" he trailed off and didn't say it. He didn't really want to bring up an ex when she was curled up next to him. It seemed sacrilegious. He conveyed enough with a look that she understood. That other woman had shown him leather and punk rock, but he hadn't gotten big enough fast enough. The other woman had left for someone with more fame and more money.

Less was more and he prayed that she understood.

"After all of that I fell into every cesspool in New York that had ever offered me. Before I hadn't taken them up on their offers because I didn't want to bring her into places like that. I didn't want to be like that with her. With her gone I could do what I liked and that was everything. There are more police reports than memories of that year. Every few weeks I'd end up in the hospital. A few over the top fights, too many pills, too much powder, forgetting to eat for a few weeks, I was falling apart. Each time I'd wake up, at some hospital and stare up at the ceiling before someone would come and get me. Sometimes I'd be restrained, some times not, but it didn't matter it constantly got worse, as if I was being closed in. I couldn't get away. About eleven months ago I woke up with the post haze of Xanax, Valium, and a bottle of Jack. I knew before opening my eyes that this was the last time. I would never wake up in a hospital bed again. If I found myself there that would be the end. If I found myself staring up at another one of those ceilings I was going to kill myself."

He could feel her lips on his forehead and warm tears touched his face.

"Luv," he said hoarsely pulling her into his arms again. He ignored his screaming muscles and the jarring that this action caused. He held her close to his chest, praying that the stitches would hold, because he needed this, he needed her.

"Tis okay," he whispered, "That is when I got Ripper and Oz and we high tailed it to LA. That is when I found you."

He pulled away slightly and looked at her. He green eyes took in his exposed skin, putting it in the permanent memory base.

"You don't have to worry anymore," she told him quietly.

She watched him with the calm assurance that he never knew that anyone possessed.

"You will never be in that position again."

"Why not?" he asked, lips lilting into a grin, the snarky smirk that had made him well known and would go on to make him famous.

"Because I am here to keep you safe and if anything unfortunate were to happen you wouldn't wake up alone."

He kissed her softly as he tried to remind himself that Big Bads don't cry.

"Promise?" he asked against her lips.

"Promise."

Now.

"Hello?"

The voice was weary and Buffy nearly dropped the phone. The voice was simply polished and upper class. She thought for a second that she had the wrong number.

"Ripper?"

The silence on the line was too deafening not to signal a correct number.

"Giles, its Buffy," she said softly, the names sounding strange on a tongue that had until just a few minutes ago been Anne Finn's.

"I know," the voice replied, sounding tired. She had never seen Ripper tired. He had always been older, but she had never seen him act like it. It seems that everyone had another name, another guise. Ripper had been a wild child of North London who had orchestrated some of the greatest punk groups. He had been brash and unpredictable and a little crazy.

Rupert Giles sounded like a businessman.

"Buffy this isn't a good idea," he said with a sigh, he knew what she was calling for. There was only one reason that she would call.

"Giles," Buffy interrupted, "Everything has changed for me over the past four years, and everything is perfect."

"I'm happy for you," he said dryly in the way only British people can say one thing in a flat tone and mean one of a thousand things.

"I don't want to, but I have to."

"Buffy it's been four years. You've moved on, let us deal with this."

She wanted to. She didn't want to back track. She didn't want to be making this call, but he had always been her compulsion.

"Giles, if he wakes up in that hospital room he's not going to make it through the week."

The sigh came again, "I know this, but it isn't your concern anymore. There is no need to bring both of you into this mess."

"It isn't your responsibility."

"And it stopped being yours a long time ago. You changed your name to hide from him. Don't do anything too rash, if you go you can't take it back. Do you realize what you are risking?"

Buffy rubbed the ridge of her nose. She knew this. She hoped that she was sure.

"Get me into that hospital," she told him, thinking of the swarm and the security that followed him where ever he went.

"And what do you suppose you can do to save him?"

Buffy bit her lip.

"Giles I am the only person in the world who has enough to save him."