Scenes from the Hellmouth
Sunnydale
September 2002
"Nibblet," Spike mumbled, standing up.
"Where do you think you're going?" Buffy asked, her voice sharp.
"Bit needs me." He swayed on unsteady legs, glancing around the dark room and trying again to understand where he was.
"Right, Spike. She needed you," Buffy agreed, "but you weren't there for her, remember? You thought you killed Doc, so you went back to your crypt. You never even touched him. He tricked you, and while you were asleep, he killed Dawn and drained every last drop of her blood."
"No," he whispered, sinking back down into as small a crouch as he could, his hands over his ears. He could still hear the accusing voice in his mind, though.
"She died because of you. It's your fault. You said you were going to protect her, but you were sleeping when she died. Some protector you were. She might as well have died on that tower a year ago." Buffy crouched down next to him. She sounded almost bored. "Dawn did need you, Spike, but not anymore. She's dead. Can't you remember that?"
He looked up at her, tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, so sorry." He put out a hand to her.
"Don't touch me," she said, standing to stride a few paces away. "Never touch me again. It's your fault she died. You failed her."
"No, no, God no, Dawn," he said, the last word a moan of pain.
"I'm leaving," Buffy said, disgust in her voice.
After a long time, Spike lifted his head. It was always dark down here, no sun and no problem for his monster's eyes. Sometimes he knew where he was (under the school, can't believe those idiots built it over the… over something, not after the first…), but mostly he was inside himself.
Too often, he saw people who were long gone or who couldn't be here, his mother, his father, people he had killed, Drusilla, Harmony, Angelus, even Darla, once. But there couldn't be vampires, could there? Buffy wouldn't let vampires live in her town anymore; she told him so every time she came. Only him, because she couldn't bring herself to stake him. She told him he had to stay here because he wasn't safe around people. This was his prison. The chip had failed, and his soul was forfeit when he let Dawn die.
The worst thing was that he could still feel Dawn, almost hear her calling for him. It was like the afternoon Tara died (had that been his fault, too?), when he had known something was wrong, that his girl needed him. Maybe he should go to Revello Drive. Maybe then he could believe she was really gone. Only he was so weak; he hadn't fed in so long.
"My Spike?"
He raised his head. "Dru?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He had no idea how long it had been since Buffy left him.
"Look at what a mess you are!" she scolded. "Let yourself go, all rawboned and shaggy like a winter pony. You've been up the wooden hills to Bedfordshire, but it's time to wake now. You need to eat." Drusilla swanned into his line of sight, almost dancing. "Are you hungry, my Spike?"
"Hungry," he repeated. The word had no meaning.
"You want it," she said with certainty, "all hot and red and flowing. Just like when we hunted during Rio Carnival, with the sounds of the drums, the drums." She swayed side to side, her head cocked as she listened to the memory of the music. Then she stopped and gave him a sly, sidelong look. "Can you smell it, Spike?"
He could, he realized, catching the scent of rich, coppery blood.
"Mummy's got a treat for you," Dru sang, and she moved away. Instead of turning to keep her in sight, Spike closed his eyes and focused on that lovely scent, lifting his head toward it the way he used to sniff the air on bake day, when Cook always made a cinnamon bun just for Master William.
Spike's eyes widened when he opened them. Two tall, burly figures in rough robes were supporting an unconscious human between them. The man's captors had X's sewn over the empty sockets where their eyes had been. His body tensed for a fight, but his eyes were riveted on the slow trickle of blood coming from the human's temple.
"All for you, Spike," Dru said, clapping her hands in delight. "Mummy's going to make you all well, just like you made me all well." She was behind him now. "Go on, eat," she urged, as the robed figures hauled the injured man within inches of him.
"He looks so real," he whispered, and realized he had gone to demon face without intending to, his mouth watering. The unconscious man was older than he would have chosen for himself, but as starved as he was, the blood smelled nearly as good as a Slayer's. Spike raised the back of his hand to his mouth, afraid drool might drip off his fangs.
"Of course he's real, silly, silly Spike," Drusilla chided. "Real and yummy. Nothing but the finest for my black knight."
Even slowed by weeks of deprivation, his strike at the man's neck was too fast for human sight to follow. He pulled the blood into his body, feeling the heat like an explosion in his torso. The wonderful warmth filled him, spread strength from his abdomen into his limbs, and he rose up on his knees to push the two wardens away. Mine, he thought, unaware that he had snarled, and fed ravenously.
Then he pulled free, wiping his hand across his lips even as his human features came into dominance. Open-mouthed, he took several ragged breaths. No doubt that was real, more potent than any drug. He'd fed off a human. The chip hadn't fired. Spike fell to his side, trying to wrap his mind around those two disparate thoughts.
"Your turn, Spike. Share now. Mustn't be greedy," Drusilla said, her words a hiss near his ear. "Give him a little drink."
He turned his head to look up at her, shocked. "Dru… you know I don't sire."
"We need minions. Do it for me?" she wheedled, her luscious lips making a little pout.
Spike stared up at her mouth, her dark hair falling until it was almost a curtain around him. The blood he'd consumed slid into his groin, and he reached for her. "Maybe you can convince me…."
The dark-haired beauty flashed away. "Naughty Spike. No puddings for you if you don't finish your dinner."
"You want him turned so much," Spike said, irritated, "you do it."
Drusilla looked disdainfully down at the slumped human. "Don't want to. Don't like him. He's all full of worms and dandelion fluff."
Spike gave her a sharp look. Even for Dru, that was an odd combination. "Anyway, you got minions, I guess," he said, gesturing at the two mute shapes against the far wall. "Poke their eyes out, did you, poodle?" She'd done it before, had been fascinated by it after briefly losing her own sight in Paris so long ago.
"None of your pet names," she growled. "I'm very cross with you." She clapped her hands together twice. "Take him away," Dru ordered imperiously, and the two robed minions came forward to drag the man out of the room.
"Let him go, Dru." Spike looked up at her. "Put him outside for the night watch to find. You know it attracts attention if people go missing."
She gave him a serious look. "Why should you care if he lives or dies? He's dross, human. You're a splendid dark creature. I made you that way, to tear and slash." She raked her fingers through the air in example, then the sly look slid back onto her face. "Think you should care because you've got a soul? Lost it, went away, all gone." She washed her hands in front of her. "Only Daddy has a soul now." Dru looked at him avidly, as if waiting for his reaction.
"What's with you tonight?" he asked, really puzzled now. The thought of Angelus having a soul inevitably put her in a weepy mood.
Dru's chin went into the air and anger glittered in her wide eyes. She waved a hand at him and a bright shard of pain knifed into his brain. Crying out, Spike's hands flew to his head, cradling his temples with his palms, hoping that might keep his mind from flying apart. The chip still worked, apparently.
Some unknown time later, he woke up. Taking a couple of shallow breaths, he tried to get a lucid grasp of what was going on. First, physically, he felt better than he had in some time, if light-headed. He ran his hand down his arm. The punctures from the tree Willow had sicced on him had finally healed. He tried the wounds on his torso. They were gone, too, not even scar tissue left, but his ribs seemed oddly prominent. I really had human blood, right from the tap, he thought. It's the only thing could have done it.
Spike sat up cautiously, checking the long room he was in with his peripheral vision first, then turning his head to scan each corner. He was alone, but where? Absently running his fingers across his legs, feeling the whole flesh under each hole the limbs of the tree had made in his jeans, he let his awareness drift out as far as he could, checking for the presence of any human or demon.
The high school, he remembered. I hit an express tunnel to the Hellmouth. How long have I been here?
"Spike?" Buffy's voice was tentative. She was standing at the door far back from him, as if ready to run.
"Buf – Slayer," he corrected himself.
"How are you today?"
"Better, I think." He pulled himself to his feet. It was easier to stand now. "What's been going on?"
"You… got loose the other night. Killed a man, a human."
He stared at her, then began to shake his head. "No. No, I–"
"You're not well, Spike," she said, a miserable look twisting her face. "If my friends knew you were alive and killing again… But I can't make myself do what I should…" Buffy raised her hand high enough for him to see the stake she held.
"Buffy," he said firmly, "if I were killing again, I'd do it myself."
"Spike, you've fed from a human."
"Well, yeah, but I never killed any–"
"You're not well, Spike. You don't remember things right. Think. What's the last thing you remember, other than this room?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Being ventilated by your best friend, escaping, hiding from the sunlight in the tunnels, ending up here."
"Do you remember," she hesitated, cutting her eyes away to avoid the look on his face, "about Dawn?"
Everything crashed down on him again, driving him to his knees. Dawn, as drained and pale as if from a vampire, as dead as if he'd done it himself. The image of her, cold and still and betrayed, filled his mind. Had he seen her like that, or was it a nightmare? Didn't matter. His fault. No escape. He heard her plaintive cries in his mind. I need you, Spike. Where are you? Why did you leave me? Oh, Nibblet, 'm sorry. So sorry. Spike crumpled to his side, drawing up in a fetal position, keening in the darkness.
Buffy watched from the doorway, a clinical look on her face. She needed him strong, needed him to be a killer, but the human blood had made him strong in the wrong ways. His love for the girl was the key to controlling him. Buffy frowned a little. That word, 'key'… she couldn't chase it down in his mind, couldn't persuade or torture its meaning out of him. There were a few locked places in his head that she simply couldn't get to.
Yet.
⸹
Dawn was looking at gold earrings in the display case when a hand touched her arm. She jumped, feeling guilty. She supposed she was going to feel that way for a long time whenever she was in the mall.
"Excuse me," the dark-haired clerk asked, "but did a man named Spike give you that bracelet?"
Dawn touched her wrist. "Yes. He did."
"He got it here."
Dawn nodded. "I really like it." She studied the woman's face and clothes, finding her marginally less skanky up close. "You're Mindy, right?"
She lifted her nametag from the waistband of her short black skirt. "That's me."
"I'm Dawn. I saw you at the wedding." They shook hands. "So, have you worked here long?"
The girl nodded. "This is my last week, though. I'm getting married at the end of the month."
"Oh, uh, congratulations."
"Thanks." Mindy didn't look very happy, and she didn't look friendly, either, though she was acting that way. She tilted her head, studying Dawn. "I had a good time that afternoon, at your friend's wedding. Afterwards, too. Spike is the best kisser. I haven't seen him for a while."
"Me, neither," Dawn admitted.
"I never did get to see as much of him as I would have liked."
Dawn giggled a little at the forlorn look on the clerk's face. "Oh, I know what you mean. I had, like, this huge crush on him when I was a lot younger."
"Well, he really thinks the world of you," Mindy said. "He spent more time picking out that bracelet than he did your sister's ring."
"Her ring?" Dawn echoed.
Mindy nodded. "I woman would have to be crazy to turn down a ring like that. Then he brought it back, in a burned box, no less…" She trailed off and waited expectantly for the story.
"Yeah, that's my sister," Dawn mumbled, covering, "crazy." Burned box… It would have happened around the time Riley was in town and burned the lower level of Spike's crypt. "Do you still have the ring? I never saw it."
Mindy nodded and led her over to one of the interior display cabinets. "There, the second one from the right."
"The emerald with two diamonds?" At Mindy's nod, Dawn bent closer. It was gorgeous – posh, Spike would have said – but tasteful, and she could picture Buffy wearing it. She looked up at the clerk. "Trust Spike to pick something unusual."
"Do you want to try it on?"
"Oh, can I?" she squealed. Dawn almost jumped up and down, but remembered in time that she was outgrowing that.
Mindy went around the counter and unlocked the cabinet. "It's really good quality. He knows his gems."
Dawn nodded distractedly. She had just seen the price sticker. That was a lot of numbers. "I can't believe how much this is," she said, deciding that she wasn't going to try it on after all.
"Emeralds are the most expensive stones," Mindy said.
"I thought diamonds were."
"Diamonds aren't even all that rare," the clerk said, studying Dawn again. Her expression never changed. "The supply is very tightly controlled, though, so that the price stays high."
"Is that legal?"
Mindy shrugged. "No one cares. It's not as if diamonds are a necessity like food. OPEC does the same thing with oil, anyway."
Dawn pushed the ring back across to Mindy, who locked it up. She had a feeling that the clerk had wanted her to see the price on it, but didn't know why. It just made her feel sad, and she thought of the afternoon that he apologized to her for not being able to forge the three of them into a family. "Thanks for showing me."
"No problem." Mindy clipped the key back onto her nametag. "So, how did you and your sister get mixed up with a vampire?"
Her jaw dropped. "You know?" she whispered, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard.
"Hard to be that close to a guy and not know."
"I managed to do it once," Dawn said dryly, then added, "not Spike, some other guy."
"I figured you and your sister must be pretty special for a vampire to care that much for you. They mostly don't have the higher emotions."
Dawn shook her head. "Not so much us. Spike's special that way." Love's bitch.
"You miss him?"
"I do." She met Mindy's eyes.
"That's the bad thing when people break up. Friends tend to have to take one side or the other. I guess sisters don't have much choice."
"No, blood's thicker than whatever," Dawn agreed. It was way too complicated to explain. "Well, I'm supposed to be shopping for back-to-school clothes." Buffy had allowed her forty dollars, and she also had two hundred saved from what Spike had given her.
Mindy was looking glumly at a couple who had wandered in to look at wedding bands. "Look, when you see Spike, tell him I said hi and to look me up if he's ever in Beverly Hills."
"I will," Dawn promised, hoping she would get a chance to keep it. While Mindy was talking to the other customers, she fled the store.
⸹
"Slayer?" The sound of his hoarse voice was shocking in the silence, and Spike cringed a little. Even as he did it, he took an uncertain step toward the door where Buffy stood. "What's wrong?" Her face had the familiar pinched quality from the time she'd started the useless job at the Double Meat, and her eyes were glittering.
She took a hitching breath. "I'm tired, Spike. So tired."
Another halting step. "How can I help? Let me – I can help."
After a long moment, she met his eyes. "You can help."
"What do you need me to do?" Please, don't let it be anything beyond me, he thought. I'm so weak right now.
"Kill me. That's what you do to Slayers, isn't it? Kill them. I need you to kill me, Spike."
He shook his head and retreated to his original spot by the wall, covered his ears for a fleeting moment with his restless hands. Unsure of what to do with them, he crossed his arms and tucked his fingers in his armpits, and refused to look at her.
"Please, Spike. I-I want to go," she said in a soft voice, the smell of her tears in the dank room, "back."
"No." It was small, a mutter, but it seemed there was something he could deny her.
"I know you'd make it quick."
"No!" His body protested as he stood with a straight spine and squared shoulders for the first time in so long, roaring his dissent into her suddenly expressionless face.
"You owe me! You let Dawn die, and that means there's nothing for me here, nothing for me to live for. Come on, Spike," she spat, "you know you want to. That's what you do, isn't it? You kill Slayers. You kill everything. Everything you touch ends up dead, and God knows you've touched me." There was disgust on her face now, and he wondered which of his treasured memories were her hated ones. "Just finish it," she said, weary again, letting her hands fall limply at her sides.
"No." He said the word precisely.
The Slayer was silent for a time, then she turned away. "I don't know if I can come back here."
"Bu…" Spike watched the door close behind her, unable to say her name. His weak and battered body ached, but it was nothing beside the pain of knowing that the Slayer was hurting. Spike slumped against the wall, then crumpled to the dirty concrete floor, his knees giving way. Covering his face, he sobbed into his hands. When she looked at him, she only saw a monster. And he was a monster; he knew that. But even before he had a soul, he'd been just a little more human than other vampires, a tiny bit less demonic. He knew he had, even if no one else ever saw it – except Angelus. There were things he'd done, if not good things, things that exasperated his grandsire enough to punish him. He could prove her wrong, prove that he'd never been as vicious as all that, if he could only remember, but all he could see was Angelus' grim disappointment and the flash of his fists. Exhausted, Spike's brain simply shut down, and he fell into a restless sleep. After a while, he dreamed.
⸹
[Author's note: This section has graphic violence and fairly explicit sex, as vampires use and consume humans.]
Paris, 1886
"Those two, then."
The rest of the family followed Angelus' gaze, which rested on a boy of ten or so and his mother. The boy had stopped at the intersection below the balcony of their current home in Paris to watch a street performer's monkey. The four of them were dressed to go out for the evening, and they leisurely stood above the avenues watching people stroll by, like lions viewing the savannah from a cliff.
Spike knew why Angelus had chosen the pair to be their prey tonight. The mother had been impatient as she stood near the boy, not as captivated by the monkey's antics as her son. Angelus had dismissed them at first, his eyes roving over the many couples and groups passing below, but his gaze kept settling on the child. He was a beautiful boy, dark of hair and eye, and just before Angelus decided, he had turned to say something to his mother. The woman had laughed in surprise and pride, then wrapped him in a hug that he tried to duck. She regarded him with delight, her loving smile transforming her face from fair enough to beautiful. She had the look of a mother who would do anything to protect her son, and that had put a smile on the dark-haired vampire's lips. Doomed by love, Spike thought. Poor sods.
Angelus turned to leave the balcony, Darla on his arm. Drusilla slyly moved up on his other side to ask a question and place an innocent hand on his sleeve, wanting to be escorted, too. Spike gave the mother and son a final look, then began to follow, pulling down the cuff of his shirt so that the itchy wool coat could no longer scratch his wrists. Darla loved the guise of rich and respectable, so Angelus loved it, too, wool coats and all. And Dru was always up for a new dress. But he had spent his life in formal, uncomfortable clothes like these. It didn't seem fair to have to wear them even after being dead.
They would stroll out onto the wide streets, two young, wealthy couples of leisure, when he was so tired of a measured gait. He wanted to walk with long, vulgar strides, rolling his hips, feel like the predator he was instead of a horse mincing on shortened bearing reins. They were going to sip; Spike wanted to quaff. They were going on a surgical strike of a hunt; Spike wanted a brawl. But it didn't matter what he wanted. He was the youngest, only six, younger in vampire years than the doomed boy outside was in human years.
He watched Drusilla, who had indeed attached herself to Angelus' arm. He wanted her, too, but on his own terms. He was trying something new, and it was failing miserably. He had not sought Dru out intimately since they had moved to Paris two months ago. He performed as expected within the large bed the family was sharing in their new home, but had not touched her otherwise. She hadn't noticed. She hadn't sought him out, either. He'd avoided being caught alone by either of the two older vampires, though, so there was at least one good thing about sodding France.
Angelus leaned over and murmured something wicked to Drusilla, who squealed with delight. Spike put an automatic smile on his face as he held Darla's cape for her, waiting until she deigned to let him drape it over her shoulders. Dru was an idiot if she thought she was the cause of her 'Daddy's' good mood. More likely, he was considering how much he could coerce the young mother to do once he had her son by the neck, or vice versa.
Angelus lifted Dru's little paw from his arm and turned to help their matriarch tie her cape. The smile faded from Dru's porcelain face, petulance and hatred flashing in her eyes for a moment. She feared both senior vampires equally, wanted attention from them equally, but did not love Darla. She'll never understand why his attention has moved on, Spike thought with a flicker of sadness. Or maybe she did, and that's ultimately what kept her insane, knowing that she could never be fixed enough for Angelus to want to break her again.
"Here, love," he murmured, more softness in his tone than he'd allowed for weeks. He held her cape out, too.
She stared at it for a moment, then gave him a smile full of discovery. "You're a matador!"
Spike blinked, then realized that the cape was red. "I am your matador," he agreed, recovering quickly and fastening the frogs at her neck, "and you are strong and beautiful as an enraged bull," lifting her hands and fashioning her index fingers into little horns at her temples, "who will defeat me utterly." She giggled, and he backed away from her as she ran in little circles, trying to poke his chest with her horns. He almost laughed himself, it was so good to have her back as a playmate on any level.
"Stop being ridiculous," Darla said, her voice sharp. "You're making us late for our supper date."
They stopped immediately, and Spike went to hold the door, snaking out a hand to snag his own overcoat as he passed. He had no fear they would miss their dinner companions. He just hoped that most of the blood would end up inside his family instead of on the carpets. It was his job to clean up anything that might upset the human servants.
He tucked Dru's hand into the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own, playing the attentive lover even as he became more distant. He wished he didn't have to try these little experiments. There was something fundamentally wrong with him, he knew, obvious in these attempts. He hadn't needed the bloodlink with Angelus to know it, the older demon prowling through his mind like a patronizing buyer at a disappointing auction. Why couldn't he just accept things? He knew his role in the family: he was the youngest and had the most to learn. He was nurtured and indulged, not in the way humans understood it, but nonetheless. His job was to watch the masters and learn, which he did. He had no doubt that he could fend for himself with only his fangs for, well, forever.
What Angelus and Darla had to teach him, however, went beyond hunting expertise. They awed him; there was nothing so heinous that it exceeded their grasp. But he never understood why they did it nor had the desire to revel in the depravity. He liked open battle with the odds at least close to even, just to keep things interesting. He was, he supposed, too impatient. If Angelus had bored him enough, he would bring up the lack of glory in toying with prey, ensuring a quick, painful end to that boredom. And when the day burned brightly outside, he would admit the ultimate, shameful truth to himself: it mattered to him that there was no honor in it. He wondered sometimes about Dru calling him the bravest knight in all the land. Maybe she'd jinxed him.
The dark-haired boy was escorting his mother about fifty yards ahead of them, and they – as he had known they would be – were strolling along with no particular haste. He and Dru nodded automatically at whomever Darla inclined her head toward, her magnificent hat bobbing. Spike didn't know why she would nod at one passing person and ignore the next, and he had no interest in knowing. There was no interest in this sort of hunt for him, either. They had done it this way so often that he was accomplished at it, but it was a dull way to earn one's daily bread.
Since he had been beaten several times in the past for saying this aloud, he learned to keep his opinions to himself, his thoughts hidden from his grandsire unless utterly bored. He was, in fact, punished severely for any lapse, from not using a technique that the older vampires had demonstrated to not keeping the fires lit. The thing he'd been sired for, caring for Dru, he did flawlessly. But, then, caring for people was the one thing that had come naturally to him as a human. As for the rest… It had been almost five months since Angelus had broken any of his bones or Darla had carved him so badly he couldn't appear in public. Spike couldn't bring himself to bother to misbehave. He was beginning to think that he had fallen into a melancholy.
The crowds were thinning out now, and the mother and son were only thirty feet away. Angelus bent his head to murmur something to Darla, and Spike saw the mother turn to look at the stylish couples behind her, a slight crease on her brow. He checked the surrounding buildings automatically, looking for shadows, for footholds or spars to cling to, for gatherings of people who might become angry mobs. Oh, for a good angry mob…!
He sighed, and when Drusilla looked up at him curiously, he gave her a small smile and patted her hand. Dru was a godsend – well, not that, but she was the brightest thing in this new life. Before he died, he had toed the line, been polite through gritted teeth, been good mostly because he was good and sometimes because he was expected to be. All of his boyhood dreams of travel and adventure were put away after his father died, making him the very young man of the house. He had been dull, because that's what men of his breeding were, and the only vibrant thing left in that life had been turning his overlarge vocabulary into verse. But at least then he knew he would be a proper English gentleman, die, and go to heaven. Now he would be good at being the youngest in his family, and things would just go on being dull forever, because he would never again sire anyone, so there would be no one new to take his place as the youngest.
He squeezed Dru's fingers, feeling guilty. She had rescued him from extreme monotony; he was ungrateful to think of this as tedium. The woman and boy were only fifteen feet ahead now, and whatever residual sense of imminent danger humans have had triggered. They were walking more purposefully, and their blood would be moving faster through their bodies, little hearts pumping, pumping. Spike thought of the hot taste sliding over his tongue, and a genuine smile lit his face. Beside him, Dru gave a small, puppyish growl. Their prey walked faster.
Not that he would get that warm, spicy tang when he fed tonight; the only time he tasted that flavor was when he hunted alone. No, by the time his fangs sank into the woman's neck (he was sure Darla would keep the veal for herself and Angelus), her blood would be cold with dread, acrid. It was, he supposed, like wines. People always said that there were some vintages that were acquired tastes, but he didn't know from experience. His human family had been teetotalers.
Angelus and Darla had acquired a taste for blood heavy and chilled with fear, with much of it spilled, poured on the bed or the floor like libation to some barbaric god. Spike would immobilize their victims, or the victim's loved ones as they were forced to be voyeurs in some dark tableau. He would slice off fingers or ears, or hold eyelids open, or whatever he was told, really. But he never watched with the rapt, ecstatic attention that Dru displayed. No doubt, she was Angelus' child.
Just over a year ago, in Copenhagen, he had seen a woman go mad before his eyes, watched her sanity fray like threads from a linen cloth, unable to choose which of her twin infants would get to live. Neither had, of course. Darla had indulgently called him over afterwards and let him feed briefly on the woman's wrist, her cool fingers in his hair. He had thanked her, smiled, and gotten away as quickly as possible. It hadn't occurred to him that vampires could vomit, but he had never, alive or dead, tasted anything as foul as that woman's blood.
Barely ten feet, and now their prey made the first evasive move. The mother turned her son abruptly down an alleyway that led toward the river, veering off like rabbits that hoped the shadow of the pursuing owl would glide straight past them. No such luck. Angelus turned his head slightly, and Spike took his cue, slipping away from Drusilla's side and taking to the rooftops. There he would observe, ready to perform a flanking movement if necessary. It wouldn't be, though. They would only need him if they misjudged and drained too much blood from one or both meals. Then he would carry the swooning human back to the lair for the supper show.
He watched from his vantage point as the three vampires closed the distance. The woman was out front now, towing her son by the arm, the rapid click of her high heels like the sound of a tightly wound watch. She darted out into the next street, and Spike saw a third human move from the shadows to take her by the arm. The three moved into the glow of a streetlamp, and Spike recognized the uniform of a policeman. After making sure the man's scent could reach his family, he studied the gendarme as the mother spoke in indistinct but rapid bursts, gesturing back down the alleyway. The man cocked his head to one side and walked into the darkness.
The mother and son backed away, moving from the alley and further up the street until they were at a bridge. No other humans were about. Spike loped across two more rooftops to stay close to them, but they stopped, turning to watch the mouth of the alley. They didn't have to wait long. The body of the policeman flew out of the darkness, across an impossibly far distance, and crashed into the brick pillar of the bridge to the left of the small family. Spike's mouth curved; looked like Darla's handiwork to him. The mother and son cried out in fear, and the woman went immediately to the fallen man, her skirts puddling on the street. Even from this height, Spike knew there was no help she could give the gendarme now.
His own family emerged from the shadows, their demon faces showing in the light of the streetlamps, in no hurry to finish the hunt. He heard the boy gasp, and Spike went down the side of the building, a squat warehouse, staying high enough to see, but close enough to the ground to cut off escape if the prey should run. He hoped they would. He could see them clearly in the light from the lamps on the bridge. The mother looked up from the body at her feet to her son's face, then she turned to see what had him staring.
"Ma…" the boy whispered. "What's wrong with their faces?" Not French then, but his English didn't place him as a countryman, either.
Spike her heard inhale sharply. "Ahsagayna," she breathed slowly. His brow furrowed at the syllables. It wasn't any language he knew. She turned to her son, taking his arms in her hands, and gave him an urgent shake. "Run back to the hotel and get help."
This made him tear his eyes away from the approaching demons. "No! I can't leave you," he protested.
"Robert Horace! Mind me!" She ran her hands down his arms, a caress at odds with her harsh words. "You're faster than me. Don't come back without help."
"Ma, they might hurt you, too." The boy's voice was miserable, and something inside Spike twisted, memories of another son who couldn't save his mother.
"As long as you're safe, nothing can hurt me," she reassured the boy, letting go of his arms. "Run as fast as your name," she added, pushing on his chest. Spike's brow furrowed again, trying to recall any Robert Horaces known for speed. When her son hesitated, her face contorted with fear and grief for a moment, then returned to a stern parental mask. "Gayhah!" she ordered sharply, and the boy turned and ran. He was fast, and he was over the bridge before Spike could flank him. Settling on his haunches by the warehouse, Spike waited for instructions. He wasn't worried about the boy; his scent trail was vivid with fear, and there was no doubt in Spike's mind that he would be back. You didn't just abandon your mum.
The mother was staring at the approaching trio, now halfway from the alley to where she knelt by the bridge, coming with no haste. She tugged at something on the policeman's body, and Spike saw her withdraw his sword from its scabbard. She stood, turning to face the predators, and he heard fabric rend as the weapon caught in her skirts. The woman took a couple of steps forward, facing the threat, holding the sword like a club in her right hand. A grim smile touched his face. Wonderful. There was no way Angelus would leave the sword when he took the mama bear. Looked like a lot of cleaning in his immediate future.
"Ye'll hurt yourself with that," Angelus told her, amusement in his voice. "Shall I show ye how to wield a sword?" He moved his hand slightly from his side, and Dru obediently stopped, letting the older vampires close on the woman. The human didn't reply, only lifted the sword a bit higher. Angelus smiled. "Ye're a feisty one, aren't ye?"
Darla laughed indulgently. She and her mate were less than six feet from the mother now. "Do you really think you can save your little boy?"
Spike rose to his feet, taking this as his signal to pursue the son, but he didn't turn away quickly enough. What he saw next paralyzed him.
The woman shifted suddenly, moving to her left, her sliced skirts allowing her freedom of movement. At the same time, she tossed the sword into her left hand. With the switch, she looked like a swordsman instead of a desperate mother. She's left-handed like me, Spike realized, full of admiration for her stealth.
Wasting no time now that she had revealed herself, she took a single step forward, the sword flashing in front of her, high and flat. The sharp tip took Angelus at the throat, slicing through perhaps a third of his neck, cutting tendons and ligaments and arteries. Their former prey went with her momentum, letting her body spin until she was facing the bridge. Spike heard a sharp slap as her right hand came down on her left forearm, bracing it as she shoved the sword backwards, right into Darla's gut. The dark-haired woman jerked sharply upwards, carving his great-grandsire from hip to ribcage. With a vicious twist, their erstwhile prey pulled the blade from Darla.
She turned again to face the injured predators, moving back toward the bridge, sword at the ready. The whole thing had taken a handful of seconds, and they stood frozen, Angelus holding both hands at his neck, Darla with her arms curved around her abdomen. Dru stood several yards behind them, oblivious, looking up at the night sky.
Then a delighted smile took Spike's mouth. Now this was great fun! Darla and Angelus looked so stunned, so ridiculous as they protected their injuries. A woman, a mere human, had just bettered his all-powerful sires. Couldn't be the Slayer; she was in Russia, Angelus had said, and this woman was too old, anyway, didn't know how to kill vampires. But… they weren't impervious. If this human could hurt them, they were vulnerable. Things weren't set in stone.
Things might change.
A rising sound, like a teakettle just coming to boil, hit his ears, shaking him from this pleasurable realization. Dru had noticed, it seemed. It hit him a second later, the unpleasant smell of vampire lifeblood, and he recoiled. Then he looked past the three closest figures to where Dru stood, screeching, beginning to wave her arms in short up-and-down bursts as she panicked. Overwhelmed, she flew to her sire's left side, fluttering around but afraid to touch him.
Her piteous moaning and hovering set Angelus on edge. He backhanded her, and Dru went flying, landing a good ten yards away in an ungainly heap, her dress smeared with his blood. He lifted a shaking finger and pointed it at the woman, drawing in air with a ghastly sucking noise, but his vocal cords were too damaged for speech. Spike grinned again. How many times had he wished he could make the great poof shut it?
Darla finally looked up from staring in disbelief at her stomach, the ruins of her gown. Her high brow ridges stood out starkly from beneath the ridiculous hat in the gaslight, and Spike saw her face twist with hatred. She took a step forward. "You bitch!" she cried, her voice gaining volume so that the last word was a howl of rage. She advanced one more step, then crumpled to her knees, her eyes going once again to her own body. Spike nearly laughed at the sheer poetic justice of Darla being gutted. She did love to use a blade, often enough on his own flesh. And was that a bit of intestine bulging out of her dress?
The human backed away again, on the bridge now, not taking her eyes off the three demons in front of her. She changed her stance, the sword now pointed low in a classic Fool's Guard, and continued to back away. At the highest point of the bridge, she began to turn, readying herself to run. That's when a pair of cool, strong hands fell on her shoulders.
"Hullo, love."
She squeaked, the first noise she'd made since ordering her son away. Spike gloried in it. He had wrung a cry of alarm from this warrior who had so calmly incapacitated the strongest members of his family. Imprisoned in the iron cage of his arms, she squirmed, trying to turn on him. Sliding his left hand down to her wrist, he took control of the sword. As she struggled, he realized the woman had no unusual strength to draw on, and his admiration for her went up another notch.
He hesitated no more than two seconds, considering his options, then lowered his face and sank his fangs into her neck. The blood was hot and vivid with her agitation. Spike wanted to drain her, to utterly defeat her, but he had already decided. Forcing his will on the demon, he drank slowly, something he had never before done on his own. It was wonderful, like sinking into a hot bath or nursing a steaming cup of cocoa on a cold day. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, he savored the rich taste. He pulled her back against him as she relaxed into the proper role of prey once more, docile and drugged by his feeding. He was performing for his watching family once again, but they hadn't called for this scene. He slid the pad of his thumb just past the hilt of the sword, slitting his skin.
Spike opened his eyes, mischief in their yellow depths, then lifted his hands to her neck. He carefully positioned them so it looked as if he were preparing to snap it, holding his cut against her parted lips. Swallow, he willed her silently, and gave himself over to the joy of her tangy blood on his tongue as he waited. Dru had moved close to Angelus where he had fallen onto the street, her shocked eyes locked on her sire.
He felt the woman's throat move, swallowing his blood in turn, and suddenly the bloodlink opened, just as he'd been told it would. He had acquired his first thrall. Throw me off you, he commanded her, and she did. Gathering himself, he sprang away from her, his fangs leaving her neck, and did a credible job of looking as if she had tossed him against the railing of the bridge. He launched himself into a flip as he hit, rolling over the side, and hung there above the water of the Seine, a wicked grin on his face.
Run, he ordered silently, and he was taken aback when he didn't hear her comply. Pulling himself up just enough to peer over the rail, he saw that the woman was staring at Dru, who stood a mere foot from her. Dru's eyes were wide and dark and focused on the young mother. As he watched, the sword fell from her hand and clattered on the bricks.
Fight it! He snarled the command into her mind. Run! The woman tried to obey, to escape the mesmer, but her jerky movements sent her stumbling awkwardly away from the approaching vampiress. She fell backwards, and Dru was on her in a flash.
Spike was enraged, almost roaring, wanting to go over the railing and tear Dru's throat out, to stand between his sire and the thrall he had just marked. Mine! How dare she! I'll kill her!
Shocked by the thought of hurting Dru, he felt himself go cold, battle-ready. Because it was a war. If he played this wrong now, they would unmake him, and not quickly.
Don't look at her eyes, he commanded his thrall, putting his will on her. The human moaned with effort, but Dru's hold was too strong, and she could not do as ordered. Instead, she raised her left hand to Dru's face, and for a moment it wanted to become a welcoming caress. But Spike was in her blood as well as her mind, and her fingers stiffened, slightly curved. The woman stabbed at Dru's face, her sharp-tipped fingers pushing against his sire's large eyes.
Dru shrieked in agony, flinging herself off the human's supine body, her hands over her face. Spike's heart lurched. Dru!
On your feet! Spike ordered, and the woman rose awkwardly, leaving her hat lying on the bricks. Her hair had tumbled loose from the pins, too, and she stood trembling as Spike came over the railing to land on the bridge. He hesitated a moment, turning away from his thrall even as he gave her a final command. She did as he bade, dark hair flapping like a bird's wings, running hard, the sound of her high heels fading as he knelt by Dru. All three, he thought, stunned. He tried to move aside Dru's slender hands, to see the damage. One human took down the strongest members of my family. My human, he thought, smirking, and then he saw the damage the woman had done to his black goddess.
He spun away from the sight, kicking the sword into the railings with savage fury. "Stay here, princess. I'll be right back," he told her. Spike ran with unnatural speed to the busier streets, absently adopting his human face, already angling toward oncoming hoof beats. His wounded family needed blood and transportation. He swarmed up the side of a hack, snapping the driver's neck with his left hand and taking up the reins with his right.
It took him less than three minutes to maneuver the horses to the bridge, coming up behind Darla and Angelus. He looked down at the tiny blond woman, then gave her a cheeky grin and lifted his hand, as if tugging a forelock. "Need a hire, mum?" The horses pranced nervously at the smell of her blood.
The matriarch gave him an exasperated look from where she slumped on the street. Spike leaped down and picked up her slight weight in his arms. He had almost reached the door of the taxi when it opened and a well-dressed man looked out at them. "Where have you taken us, driver? This isn't Rue…" His voice trailed away as he saw the blood-soaked woman, saw that she wasn't a woman, and he shrank away from them.
Spike tossed Darla into the carriage through the open door. It began to sway on its springs. The broken-spirited horses pawed nervously at the muffled screams and the fresh smell of blood, but they didn't bolt. Trusting that Darla would be able to handle herself in the confined quarters, Spike went around to help Angelus to his feet. Still unable to talk, the senior vampire met his eyes for a moment and tried to nod. Spike grinned at the grisly attempt, liking the old man very much just now, and propelled him by the elbow toward the taxi. Darla opened the nearest carriage door, blood coating her fangs, and Spike saw the remnants of another pair of fashionable couples who had been out for an evening's entertainment in Paris.
Good; plenty to feed his family. Leaving Angelus to climb into the hack on his own, he spun away to get Dru. She was wailing steadily, her hands over her eyes once again. Spike lifted her into his arms. "Shh, 's'alright, love," he reassured her. "Got tasty morsels for you to eat, heal you right up." He stood on the step of the carriage and hefted her into it, briefly meeting Darla's eyes. The blond woman nodded and took Dru's hand, guiding her toward the sounds of a dying man.
Spike chucked the driver inside, then went back to the bridge again, this time to retrieve the sword and the gendarme. The policeman hadn't been dead very long; his blood would still be potable. He sat the corpse on the edge of the carriage floor, and it quickly disappeared into the shadows within. The doors closed, and the curtains were pulled. Thankful that they were only a short distance from home, Spike drove over the bridge, then down another alley, taking them back to the house by the quickest route he knew.
Even carrying both females and some of the human bodies, he got them all through the front door in under a minute. He took the hack around to the stables, not bothering to unhitch. He'd need the carriage to haul away the remains of the other meals soon enough. Doffing the overcoat, he checked himself for bloodstains and decided he'd do. Spike sprinted down the streets toward the east, slowing a couple of blocks away when he heard the murmur of voices.
Three prostitutes stood just outside the pool of light from a streetlamp. Spike walked toward them, letting his eyes linger on lovely, warm human flesh. One of the three stepped toward him, and he turned on the charm, purchasing the services of all three and persuading them in broken French to come home with him. He flashed a large role of banknotes, slid his arm around the waist of one woman, and began asking them about their unusual French practices as they walked, laughing with them as he stumbled over unfamiliar words. He heard/felt the human male who followed them, no doubt their panderer watching out for his financial interests. Spike got the ladies through the back door into Angelus' waiting arms, then went into the shadows for the flesh peddler.
Delivery made, he set off again, heading west this time to find two more prostitutes. He didn't bother with an act this time, was business-like and explained exactly what he wanted in fluent French. The night was passing. No one followed this time, and after he delivered the two women to their fate, he gathered up the husks of humans left in the foyer. After depositing them in the hack, he took a moment to have a drink. He didn't bother with a glass, just poured whisky directly from the bottle down his throat. The cab driver, his four passengers, five prostitutes, and the pimp. Oh, and the policeman. That much blood should get his little family back to the point where they could hunt on their own again.
From the sounds coming from the bedroom, the feast had moved upstairs. Spike stopped to pick up something from the floor before going up. Darla and Angelus were sprawled on the bed atop their prey, with nothing but bandages on their bodies. Dru was sitting on the floor, wearing a white nightrail, her fangs milking the neck of one of the prostitutes. The woman's expression was glazed with lust as his sire's hand moved under her skirt. Darla had tied a silk scarf over Dru's ruined eyes, but nonetheless Spike saw her focus on him as he stood in the doorway watching. Three other prostitutes were still alive, bound and gagged in the corner, weakened already by blood loss. With food in the pantry, it was time to turn his attention to other matters.
He moved to the wardrobe and found a change of clothes. "I'll be back," he announced to the room in general, stuffing the garments into a small valise. Then he half-inched a mostly-dry bar of soap and slid it into the bag. Neither Dru nor Darla bothered to disengage from their feeding, but Angelus looked up. Spike raised the sword he'd taken from the foyer in salute, and the dark-haired man nodded.
"Ye've done well," Angelus told him in a horrible, wheezy voice. "Mind you keep it up." The man beneath him, the pimp, Spike thought, made a small noise of protest. It was hard to tell if it was because of the interruption or because of the pain. A cold smile touched Angelus' mouth, then he lowered his head to make a fresh incision.
Not sorry to leave, Spike locked all the doors and posted a note for the human servants, telling them they'd be paid for not showing up for work for the next week. He went back to the bridge and found the hat. Inhaling her scent, he began the task of tracking down his thrall. The vampire fed on the way, taking first a kitchen maid sent out early to get the best produce at the market, then a young man sobering up from a night's revelry. He didn't kill them; there would be enough people missing from Paris this week, but their combined blood was enough to slake his hunger.
The trail ended at a three-story building near the docks, a respectable but modest hotel. Come to the window, he ordered, sharp like an awl in case she was sleeping. When no one appeared in any of the windows on the front side, he went around back. The dark-haired woman was already waiting, leaning against the glass, a hand covering the mark he'd left on her neck. He felt as if he could climb the bloodlink, the connection almost a shining rope between them. He was glad he'd never linked to Drusilla, been this close to her insanity. Angelus had been bad enough.
Wait there, he sent. I'm coming up.
No, came into his mind, small and sharp as kitten claws.
Are you defying me? His mental image was a swath of silk sliding off the sword in his hand.
An image of her son, curled into a ball and asleep, came to him through the mental link, then a vision of her standing between him and the boy's bed. I'll kill you.
You can't kill me. This time his words were almost kind.
No. Then, weaker: I would try.
Yes, I believe you would, love. He smiled at the thought and met her gaze as she looked down on him.
The distance and the darkness were nothing to a demon's vision. There were tears on her face, and Spike closed his eyes. He thought again of the way mother and son had tried to protect each other. Bloody women, he thought to himself, trying to come up with a plan to assuage her. Send him away for the day, he commanded. Send him safely away from me. But… you stay.
Her mind worked more in images than in words, and he saw her match faces to his command, finding ways to obey. Yes, she acquiesced, and he understood even though she wasn't thinking in English or French or any of the other languages he knew.
I will send for you when I'm ready.
Yes. Eager this time, then shamed. A closed door in her mind, negation. He saw own his upturned face in the gaslight, as she was seeing him, the beautiful human face of her master. Bemused by this image, he lingered in her mind long enough to feel fear creep in. She thought it again, and this time he got the word itself and not just the syllables: asgina. As he turned away, he wondered what it meant.
"I need rooms," he stated, tossing his valise on the floor in front of the hotel registration desk with disgust. "Stupid wife has been harping at me for hours," he muttered in French.
The middle-aged man behind the counter considered him, taking in his rumpled but clearly expensive clothes. "What has happened?"
"She found out about her sister," he said ruefully, meeting the clerk's eyes.
"Oh-ho," the man chuckled. He turned the registration ledger to face Spike and slid it toward him across the counter. Spike signed in, flashed his money once more, and asked for a northern exposure so he could get some sleep. He ordered a bath with only hot water and breakfast to be delivered at ten in the morning. He followed the clerk upstairs, tipped him, and accepted the key. It wasn't large or fancy, but the suite was clean, warm, and dark. Closing and locking the door behind him, he drew the drapes, shed his coat and cravat, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself on the bed. Letting his awareness touch on his thrall just one floor above him, he sprawled out, taking up the entire mattress, luxuriating in being alone. Tired and well fed, he fell asleep in moments.
Just before ten, a knock at the door announced the arrival of the bathtub and the first buckets of hot water. His breakfast order came shortly before the last of the water was poured. Sending the maids off with instructions to leave the tub until night, he left the door unlocked and stood facing it. Ready?
Yes. His thrall's reply came back to him very small and uncertain. The bloodlink had been rushed; he might have to renew it. The thought of his fangs sliding into her flesh again took him halfway to hard. Mine.
Room 202. He pushed his will toward her. Come to me.
It took no time. She opened the door and came in, stopping just inside the threshold. She wore a prim white nightgown, and her dark hair was caught in a simple braid that trailed down her back. He could feel her embarrassment and her relief that no one had seen her so exposed. "Close and lock the door, love," he told her, not sorry to be using spoken words. She did so, turning back to stare at his bare feet. "Have a name, do you?"
Her lips moved soundlessly, and she cleared her throat before trying again. "Becca. Rebecca."
"Rebecca," he repeated, wrapping his deep voice around each syllable and smiling as he saw her arms break out in gooseflesh. "You can call me Spike. That knife you're holding won't kill me, you know. Can't hardly hurt me with it." She bit her lip and nodded, even as her fingers clenched around the haft. "Look at me, Becca." There was no will laid into his words, and he kept still, not wanting to frighten her more than necessary.
She took a breath and met his eyes. Not yet thirty, he judged, dark in all her aspect: hair, eyes, skin. Pretty, truly lovely when she smiled, he remembered. "Where are you from?"
"America." In her mind, he saw a ship, and it was sailing tomorrow. First to England, then back to America. Calmer, she studied him. "What are you?"
"Ah-sah-ghee-na," he replied, smiling as he carefully pronounced the word. Her face paled. "What's that mean, love?"
"Devil," she whispered.
"Me?" He waved a dismissive hand. "My family now… asgina. But you took care of them."
"Are they…?"
Spike shook his head. "No, love. We're very hard to kill. But you hurt them, no doubt."
Then, in his mind, the bold thing: How do I kill you? She didn't mean him, particularly. Just devils.
He answered in images, showing her a wooden stake, sunlight, beheading. He showed her an image of herself slicing through Angelus' neck, only this time doing it proper, how he would explode to dust. A happy smile settled on his face at the imagined event.
"So, you see, that knife won't do you any good. Just annoy me." He held his hand out to her, and she laid it in his palm, her fingers shaking. Without looking, he threw it over his shoulder with casual strength, hearing it embed up to the hilt in the plaster wall. "Now… what are you?"
Puzzled, she tried to answer. "A woman?" Mother, he heard in her mind. Ayvwi. Human.
Just a human, hmm? You're not thinking in English. A demon language?
Tsalagi.
Beautiful word. Means…?
Cherokee. Then, darker: Red man. Indian. Your words.
He smiled at her, delighted with every defiant thing about her, and left her mind. "Do you know why I brought you here?"
"…no." Her eyes dropped to the floor, and he smelled renewed fear.
"So I could do this," he answered, dropping onto his knees in front of her, his hands loose on his thighs. He looked up into her startled face with his eyes clear and blue. "So I could worship you."
"Worship?" She shook her head with mounting horror and took a step back. "Me? No."
"Stay where you are, girl." He snapped the command at her in a hard voice, at odds with his position at her feet.
She stopped so abruptly that she swayed and looked down at him in dismay. "Why are you doing this?"
He ignored her emotions, her panicky eyes. Can you command your goddess to be still? "Because you have delivered me."
"From what?"
"From them. Asgina. My family."
"I didn't… you said they weren't dead."
"No," he agreed, with a grin. "But if you could hurt them, well… that opens up whole new worlds, dunnit?"
Rebecca stared down at him with an unreadable expression, and he felt some unnamed but strong emotion roil through her. She looked confused for a moment, then licked her lips. "May I go, please?"
Mine, his demon insisted. "No," Spike said, his voice hard again. "Not just yet," he added, softer. He held out a hand. "Come to me." She did, putting her hand in his. He turned her palm up, examining the skin. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't soft, either. He took her other hand as well. "Where did you learn to use a sword?"
"My father." He slid back into her mind, fascinated by the images that flickered past: a tall, beardless old man in buckskins, then in a clean but tattered Confederate soldier's uniform, a curious little girl sneaking his sword from its scabbard. Her father's slow voice, rough with love and bitterness: Might as well learn to use it; never know when you'll need to fight the damn U.S. Army. Fighting left-handed is a strength, child, most won't expect that. More images now: a grave, the sword going into a small chest of treasured possessions, brought out again and placed in her son's small hands, teaching him his grandfather's moves.
"Your father was right about that; cack-handed fighter can always get an extra lick or two in. Did you split your skirts on purpose?" Spike asked, not surprised when she nodded her head. "You're a natural fighter, Becca."
"All that remain are," she agreed. He understood; the growing cowboys and Indians mythos had spread even to the unconcerned demon population.
"Have you ever heard of the Slayer?" he asked, and was oddly disappointed at her blank look. I thought you might be the Slayer.
What is the Slayer?
A girl, a human. She kills vampires, until we kill her. Then another Slayer is called.
Vampires?
I'm one. He stayed in her mind as he changed to demon, curious to see what he looked like. Rather intimidating, he thought with some satisfaction, even as he moved back to human and gripped her hands harder to keep her from pulling away. She was trembling again.
Vampire – images of big cats in her mind, faintly, tlvdatsi/cougar – shapeshifters, scary stories told when the bottle is passed around at night.
How to explain vampire… Spike looked into her dark eyes, then gave her his own images. William the human, beautiful Dru in the alley, his death. Tearing through a coffin, digging his way through the heavy earth, coming out of an anonymous pauper's grave to find his black goddess waiting for him. He showed her blood, the taste of it, the joy of it. The surety of purpose in his mind.
He felt her recoil. You like it.
I exult in it.
The trickle of fear in her mind was overlaid with confusion. His own upturned face in her mind, that odd emotion that even she didn't recognize. Worship… because I delivered you… from something you exult in?
His expression changed, became playful as he nodded. Rebecca swallowed. He knew suddenly what she was feeling, was unsettled that she didn't know, but it gave him the strength to show her the rest.
Darla, a cold little smirk always on her face. Angelus, outstripping even his inhuman sire. Spike gave her what they had done to Drusilla, the long planning and blasphemy and brutality, hearing the gasp this provoked with grim satisfaction. Her knees buckled with the shock, so he let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her hips, laying his head against her stomach.
He let her see their method of hunting, hesitated, then showed her a very small number of memories of how they punished him for any rebellion. Flayed flesh, broken bones, Angelus' more cunning torment. She was his thrall, but the rage and hatred that bloomed in her mind on his behalf was gratifying nonetheless. Spike smiled, and replayed his favorite hunts, quick and precise, showing her the difference that had caused him so much grief with his family. Bragging a bit, he relived the time he had fought five Fyarl demons. He shared the fierce joy that infused him: against all odds, he had victory. Then he opened up the numb acceptance that had claimed him for months, how isolated he was from even his sire, the center of his existence.
She was breathing hard, he realized, so he pulled away from her mind. He'd never considered a bloodlink with a human, hadn't realized how completely his thoughts could drown hers. He'd only chosen it so he could give her silent orders. She couldn't close him out the way he could keep Angelus at bay.
So… what do you think? Not that it really mattered, but he was curious.
The tawny back of a cougar in a tree, springing suddenly to land on the neck of a deer. Claws dug in, fangs ripped, and it was over. That was her image of him, he realized. Then a well-fed housecat, reaching out a paw to bat at a tiny, terrified mouse, beads of blood on its nose from wounds it had already sustained. A large human hand swooped down and grabbed up the cat, dumping it unceremoniously out into a rainy night. She was thinking of Darla, and he chuckled. He loved being in her mind.
You're different from them.
So I've been told. Not a proper vampire.
…good thing.
Quite improper, in fact. Spike sat back on his heels, releasing her from his embrace. He looked up into her face. It wasn't love, he knew, no matter what it looked like in her eyes. He was her master, and she was not freely his. But it would do. His hands went to her hips, and he used his thumbs to slowly ease up her nightgown.
No…! A door slamming, the closed room again.
What's behind the door, love? The locked door in her mind could have hidden anything, but he knew it was a bedroom door. She didn't even recognize her own desire, after all.
Helplessly, she swung it open so he could see. A tall, white man watching her, always watching. Years passing. The small chest with her father's sword inside loaded onto the back of a wagon, her village and everyone she knew receding. Looking backwards until there was nothing familiar to see. A grand church, a white minister, overwhelmed with the yards of her fancy white wedding dress, too many new things, new places. A dark bedroom with pain, the same dark bedroom again without the pain, just something that couldn't be avoided. But it was all right now, despite and because of horrible, massive pain fading, fading… her baby in her arms, and she stood at a window, leaning against the frame because she was so weak. A whitetail deer looking up at her, then turning, almost disappearing into the trees behind it, there/not there, running so fast. White faces, some familiar now, then the minister again, a coffin. No more husband, not resented, not anymore, because of her son. The bedroom door closed, locked, relief that she didn't have to go inside again.
No wonder, Spike thought grimly. How can a man mess up something so natural? Bloody hell, he had no doubt that if William had ever managed to get a wife, he would have kept her happily pregnant and happy between pregnancies, after a short, awkward time of figuring things out. He'd rucked the nightgown up to Rebecca's thighs now. Let me deliver you. She shook her head back and forth, soundlessly denying him.
Her body was ready for him, but she wasn't. So he cheated.
Rebecca's hands gripped his shoulders as he gave her the fine feeling of his own arousal. Her head fell back, and he had a brief moment of regret that he couldn't see her eyes any longer. Spike sent an image of what he was going to do and how he felt when Dru went down on him. The woman moaned, shifted restlessly under his hands. Grinning, he lifted the hem of her nightdress higher and moved his face to the juncture of her legs.
Oh…!
It made things a bit awkward, but Spike couldn't stop smiling.
Sin. She could breathe again.
Worship, he corrected her, and led her to his bed and lowered her onto it. Spike never wanted anything he didn't, by his reckoning, earn. He released her from his will and waited.
Don't make me decide this. He didn't like pleading from her, and Rebecca swallowed when she saw his frown, her breathe still ragged, then simply held out her hand to him.
My warrior, my brave girl. He took it, kissed her palm, and then knelt before her again.
He knew he was good at this because of Darla. It had taken him too long to figure it out, he supposed, but he finally realized that she wasn't teaching him anything when she kept him on his knees for an hour at a time before dismissing him. She would sigh as if in disappointment, then call Angelus to her. Darla never betrayed her preferences in even the smallest way – avarice was always in her eyes – but he wasn't blind. For all of Angelus' finesse and patience with torture, he preferred to rut in bed. By now, Spike knew perfectly well how good a lover he was. He was the only one in the family who could bring Dru to climax without inflicting pain. Not even Darla, the professional, could do that.
Curious to know what she was feeling, he touched Rebecca's mind again. Pleasure was running just before panic, because the unfamiliar feelings were so strong. He was touched to find that she trusted him, with the exception of a walled-off area where she placed her son. Squeezing her fingers where he still held her hand, he slid his other hand along her thigh so fingers could join mouth and tongue. She cried out in mingled surprise and delight.
He rubbed his face against the fabric of her nightgown and felt her tense. Shh, Becca,' s'alright, he reassured her. Just breathe for a minute. Spike stripped off his shirt, loosened his trousers, but left them on. Knowing better than to loom over her, he moved up on the bed beside her, pulling her close. Sit up, he urged, and she moved to prop up on an elbow, looking down at him. What was the deer?
True name. Mustn't tell. Magic. Power. Her face, open with wonder, shuttered suddenly.
Becca, I already have power, everything I need to hurt you, if I want.
She shook her head. Not mine to tell.
Is it your son's Cherokee name?
She bit her lip.
Then tell me yours. My name was William.
Vivid in his mind: a small hawk sitting on a stump on the edge of a foggy field in early morning. It stretched its wings, small, powerful muscles moving beneath the speckled breast, and took to the air. My name. Tlanuwa… the syllables came too fast for him to catch. Kestrel Taking Flight.
Your son… Robert's name is, what, Running Deer?
Rebecca went very still, then nodded slowly. Awi Adisi, then. Close enough.
So you told him to run fast as a deer. Another slow nod. She was uncomfortable, and Spike realized it had less to do with the magical power of names than it did with her son's safety. She had been a mother long before she became his thrall.
He lifted his head to trace her jaw with his cool lips. You're sailing tomorrow for home?
Yes. First London, then Charleston. We came here with Robert's grandparents and uncle. He saw their faces flit through her mind.
Good. Never, under any circumstances, leave America again. He let Rebecca see Angelus and Darla in both human and demon aspects. Spike pulled her atop him, and she moved to brace herself, straddling him, her hands on the bed by his shoulders. She flinched and tried to move away from his erection, but he grasped her hips firmly.
Settle down. An order, but no force of will behind it. Trust me.
A mind-picture of her stomach swollen with a bastard child. The sorrow in her heart for that child's lifetime of pain and shame nearly unmanned him. He'd never in life or death considered what it must be like for someone born out of wedlock.
No, love. I have no life to give.
…all right.
Not quite the level of enthusiasm for which I was hoping.
Shrug.
Let me see you with your hair down, Becca.
Her eyes never leaving his, as if she found strength there, she sat up, settling carefully against his unyielding hardness. Part of her nightgown and his trousers separated them, nothing more. She pulled her plait across her shoulder and undid it, then combed the long length with her fingers.
Beautiful.
Shrug. You're beautiful.
He smiled and slid his hands under the nightgown, moving them along her warm flesh from hip to breast. Rebecca's eyelids fluttered, then closed.
Feel good?
…yes… what next?
No hurry. But… I think you want to move against me.
His patience surprised him, but he let her set the pace, only taking the initiative enough to push his breeches down to his knees. Her unaccustomed heat enfolded him and brought him, quick and quivering, and also her, that endearing mix of surprise and pleasure. After that, Spike took control, and it was late afternoon before he left her body.
Their minds still touched, though. Rebecca kept sending him oddly erotic images, such as a stallion covering a mare, as he fed her bits of the cold breakfast. He wanted to make sure she built her strength back up, as he had fed from her twice during the day. She opened the locked door for him again, showing him that it had changed. The dark bedroom was now the hotel room and bright with filtered sunlight, he was the only one inside, and he was beautiful.
Can't make me blush.
Aquadanvdo. My heart.
Becca, no. That's the blood talking.
Unega tlvdatsi.
White cougar? Nice name for a pet cat.
Utani, then.
Utani?
Too large.
He tickled her until she squealed, laughing, and he grinned himself. You're lovely when you smile.
Asiule ehu. Lover. Wistful now.
Go on, then, give me a real name.
A long pause. Adahihi.
A-dah-hee-hee. What's it mean?
That which kills. The image of the cougar springing once more from the tree. Thing that kills.
I think I like Utani better. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." He pulled on his trousers and led her to the tub. The undiluted hot water poured that morning was tepid now. He helped her braid her hair, then held it out of the water as she sank into the bath. When she had finished, he held a towel open for her. Together they floated the nightgown over her head, and there was nothing else to do but regard each other in silence.
I need you to do something for me.
Of course. I owe you a life debt, doubly so.
He showed her what he required and watched the smile fade. Then she nodded. I shall do so.
Leave them under the bed. He imposed his will, then. Do not think of me in this room until your ship has docked in London.
…why?
Why let her live at all, he realized. After a moment, he replied, "A whim. You are mine, and this is how I can keep you. Never doubt for a moment that I would take the last drop of your blood if you stayed."
I do doubt.
Adahihi, he insisted, and flooded her mind with his victims, wanting her to fear him. Back to your room. Go! Rebecca looked away from this harshness, then picked up the sword he'd left by the door and was gone without a backward glance, silent on her bare feet. Spike closed the bloodlink, easy to do with the human. It had taken days, the longest of his existence, to reliably keep Angelus out of his mind. Even worse, his amused grandsire had left his own mind open. He had kept sliding back into those murky depths, like an unruly tongue prodding an aching tooth, Angelus slyly insisting that he liked it there.
He stayed in the suite another day, watching the strong-backed maids empty the tub, waiting as the sun set and rose and prepared to set again. Another hot bath was poured, and he scrubbed himself with the bar of soap he'd taken from the lair, so no trace of his thrall's scent remained. He put on his clean clothes. The dirty laundry went into the valise, which he intended to drop into the river. Then he went to the third floor to the rooms Rebecca and her son had vacated, took what she left for him under the bed, and went out into the night to return to his family.
Existence with the older vampires went on much the same after they healed, with one difference: he had confidence that things would change. Eventually, they did. Angelus was visited with a curse for killing yet another girl. A grieving Darla, after coasting too long on her lover's coattails, wavered in her cruelty. Through luck and innate skill, Spike had the blood of a Slayer on his hands, and in Daddy's absence, it was enough to lure Dru to his side. Just the two of them and decades of play. Few ripples in the smooth joy of their unlife, one coming in Alexandria, in early 1919, when he jerked awake one afternoon, coughing and gasping, as if he could have contracted the influenza. Adahihi. Then a slender, dusty thread in his mind snapped and the coughing stopped. An ocean away, his thrall had died. Shrugging, Spike rolled over to take Dru, still sleeping peacefully, in his arms.
And on the floor of the subbasement of the new Sunnydale High School, a much older Spike curled into a tighter ball as he drifted out of REM sleep. He almost woke, then shifted his shoulder and sighed. Beneath his pale lids, his eyes began a slow tracking as he sank back into blessed unconsciousness, oblivious to the Drusilla-shaped being that stood over him. It didn't turn, just held out a warding hand to the two blind servants who were dragging a barely-alive human across the floor toward the supine vampire. It stared down at Spike thoughtfully, waiting to learn what further memories might surface. The enduring quality of mercy did not discourage the being or intrigue it; the only implication was that it would take more time to possess the vampire.
They all yielded in the end.
⸹
"Xander!" Buffy pounded on the door of his on-site trailer, stopping herself when she realized she was leaving little indentations in the metal.
He opened the door, frowning. "Buffy?" The look on her face made him take her elbow and pull her inside. He moved his hardhat off a chair so she could sit down. "Oh, God, Buf, what happened now? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She looked up at him, hope flooding her eyes, then receding. "No, I couldn't be that lucky."
"What is it? More zombies?" He had pulled her and Dawn and a couple of other kids up through the hole in the girl's bathroom a few hours ago. Xander sat down opposite her, their knees almost touching in the small trailer.
"No. I-I don't think so."
"Here, let me get you some water."
She nodded numbly, and watched him go to the small refrigerator to his right. He was so kind now, as if he finally fit in his own skin. He'd been that way since the second time they'd slept together. The first time had been about too many beers and simple math: Xander has sex with Buffy equals Anya has sex with Spike. She hadn't minded, even though the get-evenness of it had been more Xander's need than hers. The second time had also been about too many beers, but also a lot about the love, friendship, and history they shared. Buffy shouldn't have been surprised at how good it had been, because Anya had given her plenty of information over the years about, in the vengeance demon's words, what a Viking he was in the sack, but they were gentle with each other to the point of careful. After that second night, they talked for a long time, actually talked, and agreed that there wouldn't be a third time.
When Xander put the bottle of water in her hand, she looked up at him. "My first instinct was to not tell anyone," Buffy said. "But I promised: no more secrets."
"Not tell about what?"
"I-I think I must have been in shock, a little," she paused to take a drink, because her mouth was so dry, "and I wasn't sure if you'd believe me. I don't even know if I believe it myself."
"I probably will believe you, Buffy," he said wryly, "if you ever tell me."
"I saw Spike. In the basement. Sub-basement, whatever."
"Spike?" Xander stared at her and went very still. "Zombie Spike?"
Buffy shook her head. "No. But… weird Spike. He acted like he didn't really know me. His hair was grown out, just bleached on the tips, and he… smelled. Bad."
Xander's brows went up. "Mr. Bay Rum smelled?"
"Bay Rum?" Buffy repeated blankly.
"Yeah, some time-honored manly scent that survived from the distant, misty past of the British Empire – remember, he crashed in my parents' basement for a while? The man can hog a bathroom."
She tilted her head. "Oh. I always wondered why he smelled so good. I never could place the scent."
Xander closed his eyes, reaching for patience. "Yes, he smells delightful, not eau de evil dead at all."
"Oh. Sorry." Buffy took another sip of water and a large breath. "He-he didn't help me fight, just told me to duck once."
"That is weird. Used to be all, let me get this door and this hulking vampire for you, madam."
She nodded. "He acted…" she shrugged, unable to find another word, "crazy."
"Well," Xander said, standing up and reaching for his hard hat, "sounds like he needs help. Let's go find him."
Buffy looked up at him, relief and gratitude showing openly on her face. "Thank you. I don't think I can face him again, not alone."
An hour and a half of fruitless searching later, Buffy hoisted Xander out of the hole in the floor of the girls' bathroom. "Thanks, anyway," she mumbled.
"I don't think you're crazy, Buf. I believe that you saw him." He smiled at her grateful look. "One of the things I've learned over the years is don't doubt the Slayer. It takes time, but I can be taught."
Buffy brushed at her slacks. "It's funny. I still can't sense him, but I didn't sense him at all when I was down there earlier, either."
"So, the big question," Xander said, holding the door for her, "do we tell Dawn and listen to her 'I told you so's,' or do we wait until we have the actual corpse so she doesn't get her hopes up." At the warning look she shot him, he shrugged. "What? Just because I've forgiven him doesn't mean I'm not going to give him grief for being an evil vampire."
She looked at him a moment longer, wondering when he had become so mature, then shook her head. "No, I don't think we should tell her just yet. I mean, he doesn't seem to be himself."
"Maybe that's why Anya's locator spell didn't work," he mused.
"Or maybe because he's on the Hellmouth," Buffy said grimly.
Xander met her gaze. "Why would he hide out here, of all places? I mean, they pay me to hang out here every day," he shrugged, "but you sure won't find me here after work. Unless it's double overtime. In which case, again, getting paid."
"I don't know," Buffy replied, a frown touching her face. She looked up at her friend. "Do you think we should call Giles?"
Xander bit his lip. "Not with Willow still with him. She doesn't know that Spike hasn't been around, remember. She said she figured he was just too angry with her to want to see her at Tara's funeral. So, no, I don't think it would make her feel any better to know that she was the last person to see him acting not-crazy."
"Is it okay if I poke around, try to find him?"
"It's okay by me. That part of the job is done, so for insurance purposes, it's not technically part of the site. Might not make the nighttime security guard happy."
Buffy almost smiled. "We've been avoiding Sunnydale High School security guards for years. I think I can manage. Oh!" she said, remembering, "I'm on staff here now. I don't have to be avoid-y Buffy." Then she looked rueful as she realized what she'd said.
They emerged from a side door into the sunlight. "I'll look for him, too, Buf, often as I can."
"Thanks." He was busy, she knew. He had taken three calls on his radio during their search in the basement. Buffy touched his arm and turned to leave. She had walked aimlessly after Xander helped her out of the basement that morning, only coming back because she couldn't bear the thought of telling Dawn that afternoon. She hadn't technically kept secrets, after all, not if Xander shared it. Now she didn't have to tell Dawn, and she was mostly relieved. Her feelings for Spike were… complicated, all of them tinged with guilt. Buffy walked with purpose, swinging her arms, feeling obscurely lighter. She had to get home so Dawn could tell her about the rest of her first day at school.
⸹
Spike glanced furtively around. He was out of his cell. It was wrong, wrong. He might hurt somebody. But….
She had touched him. Buffy had touched him. She'd said never never never, but then she had. It was more games, always games, asking him about Dawn, pretending to talk to Dawn.
But how had she made Dawn answer? Dawn was dead, in heaven, and cell phones didn't have that kind of range.
He snorted a little at the humor, then covered his mouth, crouching and looking around wildly. No one was there, so he walked down the passageway, keeping close to the walls. It was the wrong way to move, he knew, there should be swagger and sneering, but he didn't have that in him anymore.
But maybe he had his soul.
She might be wrong about him forfeiting it. He felt them both just that morning, soul radiant with happiness and demon leaping with joy to have her look right at him. The other part of him, not soul or demon, had been clinical, noting that she looked tired and her hair wasn't perfect and that she smelled a little like DoubleMeat.
She was off. Like Dru. But, somehow, she seemed more real this way than her usual, perfect self.
And she had touched him.
She hadn't touched him after, not when all the other people had crowded into his cell. And she had looked perfect again, keeping company with so many Big Bads.
Spike lifted his head toward a light. He frowned. How far had he walked? He'd never noticed a gaping hole in the roof before. Squinting a bit, he tried to remember the last time he'd seen such bright light. Taking another quick peek around, he leapt lightly to the floor above. He was strong, after all. Dru kept bringing him humans for dinner. Even Buffy encouraged him to feed off them, to get his strength up. His mind shied away from that.
He was in a bathroom. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed, a sound he hated. He looked around at the empty mirrors, the stalls. There were no urinals. His soul gave him a little twinge for being in a girls' restroom.
His soul.
He started breathing, the sound loud in the small room. Spike's eyes darted around, settling on the stalls, not sure anymore if it was his breathing he heard or someone else's. He bolted for the door and ran.
Night. Coulda been currant bun and a crisped vamp, for all he'd heeded. He was running with superhuman speed along the streets of Sunnydale. Spike came to an abrupt stop, not breathing, not moving, melting into the shadow of a building without thought. He was somewhere on Sixth Street, not too far from the butcher shop. He carefully drew in air, analyzing it. The smell of a city that had baked in the sun all day, rain a couple of days ago, leaves beginning to dry and wither, a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant, random humans, a dead pigeon somewhere to his left, himself. Real smells. Then he took a careful look at his surroundings, noting the empty box in the gutter that had once contained McNuggets, a wad of chewing gum petrified onto the brick next to him, the flicker of the streetlight to his right as bugs flew around it lazily. He considered his surroundings for a long time. Spike was pretty sure that he couldn't imagine these things, these little details.
He stood up straighter, a light in his blue eyes. Someone was playing him. Not everything he'd seen could be real. He wasn't crazy – he knew crazy, had lived with it for more than a century. That meant… he wasn't sure what it all meant. But he wasn't gonna figure it out standing here.
"Spike?"
He jumped, cringing away from the voice. How had he not known someone was approaching?
"Spike, buddy, is that you?" Clem stared at him, as unsure as the vampire was himself. "Where have you been? The Slayer and her people have been sick with worry. We've been looking for you."
"You found me." His voice was full of dread. He hadn't been away from the school an hour. He could feel time passing out here.
"I guess I did," Clem said, sounding happy. It faded as he looked critically at the vampire. "You don't look so good, if you don't mind me saying."
"Feel all right."
"I've never seen you…" Sensitive of other people's feelings as always, the demon tried again. "I mean, I didn't know you weren't a natural blond."
Spike's hand went to his hair. It was longer than it had been for years and felt greasy, clumped into curls. He stared at Clem wordlessly.
"Where have you been? I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but… well, we worried."
"A bad place."
"Uh-huh. I can see that."
"Clem…" Spike hesitated. He had no right to ask. "I need a favor. Would you let me use your place to get cleaned up?"
"Well, sure! I don't mind. I've got low water pressure, though," he apologized. "But since your crypt is pretty much a write-off, I can certainly understand why you need–"
"Maybe more than one favor," Spike said slowly. He put his hand into his jeans pocket. It felt strange, as though he had forgotten the purpose of pockets for a long time. His lighter was there, and he ran his thumb over it, eyelids falling shut in a sort of gratitude. He was fond of his lighter; like his leather coat, it had been his traveling companion for a long time. Then he pulled out a fold of cash and held it toward Clem. "I'll need a few things, clean clothes, shears, peroxide bleach. I'm wadded up," he added, "so no worries about me mooching off you."
"Okay," Clem agreed, and added amiably, "Target is still open."
"Then," he took a deep, steadying breath, "will you take me to her grave?"
The demon's honest face sagged a little, his eyes full of compassion. "Sure. I went to the funeral. It was a nice service."
"Thank you," Spike said. The words were stark, but sincere.
October 2002
Tara Maclay.
Spike stared at the headstone, tears blurring the name. Sweet, kind Tara. He thought of her body and her blood in the stillness of Joyce's house, and he leaned against the cold stone and wept for a long time.
When he stood up, he felt hollow, but somehow easier in his mind. He had slept for almost two days on Clem's couch, exhausted. The demon had been a little creeped out, he said, by how much Spike resembled a corpse. Spike refrained from pointing out that was, in fact, exactly the case. He felt stronger for getting the sleep, but Clem was wise to bring him here first, before going to Dawn. Wouldn't be right, not to give Tara her due. He turned back to his friend, who had waited patiently a few gravesites away, wiping his blue eyes without shame.
"Thanks," he managed. He cleared his throat.
"No problem," Clem said. "Feel better?"
He nodded and swiped a hand across his face one last time. "I'm ready now. Lead on."
"Where?"
"To her."
Clem looked puzzled but agreeable. "Okay. I haven't seen her for a while myself." As they walked through the cemetery, he became more anxious. "Look, Spike, she's a great girl, but she's still the Slayer, you know? Would you mind going to see her by yourself?"
"Buffy?" he asked, startled. "I thought we were…" Dawn would be next to Joyce, and he knew well enough where that was. He took a good look at Clem's unhappy face and decided he could go to her grave alone. "No,'s'okay. I can go by myself." He'd see Buffy first. In some ways, that would be harder. He'd never seen Dawn in the basement, never hallucinated that, but sometimes Buffy hadn't been Buffy. He just needed to figure out which times.
Clem all but sighed with relief. "You're a real pal."
"No," Spike corrected him, "you are. You've really been there for me, and I won't forget it. Thanks. I mean it."
He couldn't blush, but he certainly gave that impression. "Aw. What are friends for?"
"Listen, you gonna be all right, walking home by yourself?"
Clem gave the vampire a slightly patronizing look. "Spike, old buddy, I've been walking these mean streets since long before you ever came to town."
"Right. Well, guess I'll shove off, then."
"See you later, Spike. Say hi to the Slayer for me."
It was a long time before he started walking himself. The DeSoto and the bike were to the east, if no one had found them. He could just pick one and get the hell out of Sunnydale. Spike closed his eyes and turned toward Revello Drive instead. Might as well get it over with. She'd know he was out of the basement by now, anyway.
⸹
"I'll get it!" Buffy called up the stairs, heading to answer the sound of the doorbell. Her hands were busy at the nape of her neck, clipping a wide barrette into her hair. She opened the door, half-expecting Xander, who was getting more nervous the closer the time came for Willow's return. For several seconds, she just stared. "Spike." Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper.
He looked better than he had in the dim light of the basement. His hair was back to no-nonsense short and blond. His body was lean, too lean, like a jungle cat whose prey had grown scarce. He didn't smell like Bay Rum but he was clean, and the long-sleeved blue shirt he wore seemed wrong, too, somehow. Not in that it was too tight; all his clothes seemed to barely contain him. Sometimes whole rooms could barely contain him, she thought inanely. He'd once confessed to her that he was a lousy hand at laundry, and she'd tried to explain about hot water and clothes dryers until the ridiculousness of her 'homemaking for the undead' lecture struck her. The shirt he wore now wasn't cotton, she realized, and frowned a bit. Why was he wearing that shirt? He didn't like synthetic fibers.
Spike stood on the threshold, his fists clenched so he wouldn't touch her, feasting on her with his eyes. This was not-perfect Buffy, only she didn't seem as tired as she had the other time he'd seen her. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt so old that it was thin and worn in places, the kitten printed on the front faded. Her little feet were laced into trainers. She was on her way out to patrol, he decided.
When he continued to stand there, Buffy put her hand on his arm and pulled him inside. Then she closed the door, her hand resting against the wood a second too long, as if gathering strength. When she turned, she found he hadn't moved, and she had to look up at him, not unhappy to be this close. "You're always welcome here, Spike. Okay?"
"Uh," he said, still staring as though he hadn't seen anything so beautiful in an age, "thanks. Buffy."
Self-conscious, she touched her hand to her ponytail. "You look better than you did when I saw you a few days ago." At his blank look, she added, "Remember? There were zombies, and you told me to duck?"
"You found the talisman?" His voice was lucid, almost normal.
"Xander did. We couldn't have done it without you." She smiled a little, just to have him in her house. He didn't hate her. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Spike?"
Buffy watched his chest rise and fall as he turned from where they still stood in front of the door to stare up at Dawn, who was frozen halfway down the stairs. The look on his face was… she had seen something similar before, Buffy realized, that first awful night back, when he stared up at her, when he had held her ruined hands so gently.
"Ohmigod, Spike!" Dawn cried, launching herself down the last steps and into his arms.
He caught her, still looking thunderstruck, feeling the solid weight of her in his arms. She had grown more; how could she grow taller if she was dead? No, she was warm, alive, he could feel her heartbeat. "Dawn," he whispered, not Nibblet or Snacksize or Bit. "Dawn." He wrapped his arms around her, a helpless smile on his face. He didn't care if this was real or not.
"Air," Dawn managed. She looked over at Buffy, who was also smiling despite the tears standing in her eyes. "You two hug way too hard."
Spike pulled away a little, his eyes roaming over her face as if trying to memorize every expression, every line. "You're all right?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"I am now," she said. "Where have you been?"
He looked over at Buffy, as if surprised that Dawn didn't know. When she also looked at him expectantly, the happiness faded from his face. "'M not really sure, Bit." Of course Dawn didn't know, because she wasn't dead and his soul wasn't forfeit and Buffy had never been his jailer and… There was a lost look on his face for a moment, then he gave his head a small shake. "But you're okay?"
"I'm fine," Dawn said, sending her sister a worried look. Then she looked back at Spike, the weeks of absence coming back to her. "I missed you, you stupid vampire." She smacked his shoulder before hugging him again. When she pulled away, her eyes were wet. "I'm not going to stop needing you, Spike, no matter who you kill. It doesn't work that way. We're friends, and I was worried about you. I needed you, and you weren't there. You have to promise–"
He wrenched away from her, horrorstricken. "No, don't do this," he whispered, covering his ears with his hands. "You can't… No, I didn't – I can't bear it." Then he turned and was out the door.
The sisters stared out the open door, then Dawn gave Buffy a shove. "Go after him," she ordered, her brows drawn together.
Buffy ran. She tore after the vampire, trying to make sense of what happened, but there was no sense to it. Dawn had started to give him a little grief about disappearing, but Lord knew that was mild for a Dawn tantrum. She realized something then and came to an abrupt halt.
She could feel him. Buffy's mouth curved in a smile even as she fought for breath. She hadn't had him in view or earshot; she had been following her sense of him. Oh, Spike, she thought in relief. You're really back.
Walking now, she followed her inner awareness of him, so different from her "slaydar" identification of other vampires. She would find him and bring him back to Dawn, and they would take care of him, make him well because Dawn loved him and because she… owed him that much. Even crazy, he would never hurt her or Dawn. And if he was crazy, it wasn't her fault. She hadn't hurt him, not this time, and she wouldn't. This time there would be no sex, no pain. She would take care of him and be gentle, and then she would deserve that look of adoration in his eyes.
Buffy stopped, staring at the building. Spike was inside; she knew it. But why had he gone to a church? Oh, yeah, she reminded herself. Crazy. With a shrug, she followed him inside.
⸹
"Buffy?" Dawn said, unsure. Her sister turned her head a little, but otherwise didn't move from where she was hunkered on the back steps, staring into the darkness. Dawn had waited in the living room for almost three hours, until thirst had driven her to the kitchen for a glass of water. That's when she saw her sister sitting on the edge of the porch and gone out to her. Tentatively, Dawn sat down next to her and spread part of the blanket she had over Buffy's shoulders. "Did you find him?" she asked quietly.
Buffy nodded. "He was in a church."
"A church?" Dawn asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"He… hurt himself on a cross. I got him away from it, and he… ran from me, gone, like he just disappeared."
Dawn examined her sister's still face, as if there was too much going on behind her eyes for any of it to make its way to the surface. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know." She turned to look at his Nibblet. "He said… he said he got his soul back, somehow. I think… it's made him crazy."
"Finally!" Then Dawn frowned. "Well, a little off, maybe, but not crazy."
Buffy shook her head. "You didn't see him." She took a long breath. "He got his soul back for me. Why would he…" Her voice faded.
"Sorry to have to tell you, Miss Thang," Dawn said dryly, "but he didn't get it for you." Then she shook her head, just a little. "Well, not just for you."
Buffy turned to her, her mouth open. "I don't think I can deal with the cryptic tonight," she managed. "Spill."
Her sister shrugged. "When you were gone last summer, Spike got a vision from his guardian angel that his chip was going to fail, and he would end up biting Janice, or something. I mean, he would never hurt us, but strangers? A stranger to him might not be a stranger to us. Anyway, he went to Africa to face a series of trials from a really powerful demon and fought for, like, a solid week and won his soul. Then he came back to watch out for me and help patrol and keep down the monster population. When you came back, I nagged him and nagged him to tell you, but he always said you had too much on your mind already. So, anyway, he's got his soul, and it isn't a curse, either, like Angel's." The last word dripped with disdain.
Buffy blinked.
"He swore me to secrecy, Buffy, or I would have told you, really, but he said it was like him keeping the secret of me being the Key when Glory tortured him." Dawn grinned. "You know this means you don't have to feel bad about sleeping with the evil dead, because – not evil." Her smile faltered in the face of Buffy's blank expression. "I mean, that's good, right? No more secrets, because his soul is as good as anybody's – no, better, since he had to fight for it. And if you're not keeping secrets, no one can get hurt."
Buffy's face screwed up and she covered her mouth with both hands.
"Oh, hey," Dawn said, putting her arm around her sister. "What's wrong?" She held the Slayer as she wept, eventually giving up on asking why Buffy was crying. Instead, she simply patted her sister's back and waited for the tears to subside.
After a long time, Buffy sat up, sniffling, her eyes red. "How can he forgive me?" she rasped. "How can any of you forgive me?"
"For what?"
She stared at Dawn, taken aback by the simple, honest question. "For what I did to him."
"Buffy, from what you've told me, he was desperate to keep you from turning yourself in–"
"Not that. Not just that," she amended. "He would tell me he loved me, and I told him he couldn't, that he wasn't capable of love, that he was evil, just a thing…" An evil, soulless thing. She leaned over, her arms around her middle as if her stomach were aching. "I did all those things to someone with a soul."
"You did all those things to Spike," Dawn corrected, her voice cold now. "Did you ever notice his soul, Buffy, all those nights you were out patrolling together, or whatever? No. You know why? Because, soul or not, he's just Spike. He's. Not. Angel. He loves you with a soul; he loved you without his soul. I know that's how he loves me." Dawn stood up, leaving the blanket with her sister. "Did you ever once doubt that he loved me, Buffy? When Glory was around? All those times you left me in the care of an 'evil' vampire?
"What you did to Spike, whatever you did to each other… He's still a vampire, Buffy. If he ever thought there was any wrong in it, he's forgiven you. That means I forgive you, too, because I love you both. But I can't make you forgive yourself. You're going to have to do that on your own." Dawn turned away and went to the back door, where she paused. "Finding him and helping him get back to normal would be a good start. He's… not right, Buffy, and he's homeless, thanks to Willow, and I don't think he believes he can find help here." Dawn didn't look back, but she could feel Buffy's eyes on her. "Bring him home, Buffy. That would be a start."
⸹
Willow stared at Spike across the dining room table. She and Dawn were still a little shaky from the gnarl venom, but ambulatory. It was more than she could say about the vampire, who was nearly as catatonic as Buffy had been when Glory took the Key. She spared a glance at Dawn, who sat holding Spike's left hand on the other side of the table, and at Buffy and Xander, who sat to either side of her.
"I'm sorry to ask you to do this now, Wil. I know you're tired, but… if he goes back down into the school basement, I can't always find him." Buffy's voice was quiet.
"The halls down there," Xander said, making an unhappy face, "move."
"It's okay. I mean, I owe him, not just for finding me tonight, either." Willow looked at the blond man. "Spike? I'm going to talk to you like we did when we went on patrol last summer, okay?" No response. "Okay." She turned to Buffy. "Well, here goes nothing."
"Wil?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell him… tell him I'm not keeping secrets anymore. I-it might help, you know… maybe he can open up more if he knows he won't be…" She trailed off, unsure of how to say what she meant. She just wanted Spike to know he wasn't the only one helping her bear her burdens.
Willow gave her best friend an understanding look. "I will." Bracing herself, she touched Spike's mind.
[…]
"Huh. That's odd."
"What's odd?" Buffy was chewing on the corner of her thumbnail.
"He used to have these defenses. Like a mental image of a palace guard, sweeping down a long-handled axe. I mean, if he wanted to, he could keep me out."
"He could do that?" Dawn asked, impressed.
"Yeah. He learned that so he could keep," Willow glanced at Buffy, who was too overwrought already to have Angel dragged into the conversation, "uh, other vampires out. But the defenses… it's not that he isn't using them, they're just not there. Someone's been in his mind and just… stripped them away."
Xander frowned. "Is he alone in there now?"
Willow turned back to stare warily at the vampire. "Let's find out."
Spike.
No response.
Spike.
[red?]
There you are. Hey.
Did you get him?
A pained look crossed Willow's face, and Xander touched her arm.
"He wanted to know if I got Warren," she said sadly. "Not up on current events, we know that much."
Yeah, I got him.
I'm sorry about Tara.
Me, too. I miss her.
[miss]
Who do you miss, Spike?
My Bit.
[dawn]
She's right here, Spike. She's fine.
[dead]
"He thinks…" Willow's eyes went to Dawn, her fine brows drawn together. "Someone has him convinced that you're dead, that Doc killed you. That it was his fault."
"Oh. No, Spike, I'm right here." She squeezed his hand.
"That would be enough to drive him crazy," Xander said grimly. "You remember the way he was after Buffy died… Sorry, Buf."
"I-it's okay. You can say it."
"Spike, you…" Xander's voice trailed off. "Willow, tell him that he killed Doc, that there were witnesses and everything. Clem told us."
Willow took a breath and went back to the place in her mind that was touching his. She sent reassurance and truth, but met only resistance. Sighing, she tried another tack.
Who told you Dawn was dead?
[slayer]
Buffy? Buffy hasn't seen you all summer, Spike. You were gone, and she missed you. She told us, everybody, that you two had been, uh, involved. But she hasn't seen you for months. No one has, not even Dawn. And she's just fine. Why would Buffy tell you something like that?
[did]
And he let her see.
Willow went pale, and Xander put his arm around her. After a moment, she drew in a shaky breath. "I… he was burned, oh God, he hurt so bad from the burns, the sun was worse than the wounds where the tree…" She put her face in her hands, trying to get past the guilt, to make sense of what had just been dumped into her mind. She swallowed. "Okay, that was me. My fault. When Xander got through to me, the tree went back to its usual position, Spike was hurt, burned, but managed to get to the sewers." She drew another shaky breath. "He got in one tunnel that led directly to the Hellmouth, so he went into the basement of the school, somewhere he would be safe, away from the sun, long enough to heal." She turned to Buffy. "That's when you came to him."
"Me?"
"Something wearing your face. In his memories, it looks just like you, Buffy. You're the one who told him he had to stay there, that it was his punishment for letting Dawn die, that the pain chip didn't work anymore, that… his soul had been taken from him?" She looked around at the Scoobies. "Did we know that Spike had a soul?"
"He got it when he was gone that summer Buffy died," Xander said, a little impatiently.
"No one told me!"
"We just found out," Buffy said quickly, "except for Dawn. He told her months ago."
"I made him tell," Dawn said, shrugging.
"How…? I thought I was the only one…" Willow's eyes went back to the vampire for a few seconds, then widening. "It wasn't the curse… Oh my God. I can't believe he survived all that. Why would he go through…?"
"For us," Dawn said frankly. "He has a guardian angel or something that told him the chip was going to fail. That's why he needed his soul back. So he wouldn't hurt us."
Willow tilted her head and looked at Spike, then smiled. "Hey, his guardian angel is a redhead like me!" Then she crossed her arms over her chest. "Only with bigger boobs." Her eyes widened again. "You felt up your guardian angel?"
"Figures," Xander said sardonically.
"Can we get back to the part where someone who looked like me was lying to Spike and driving him crazy?" Buffy asked.
"Oh. Sorry." Willow thought a second, getting the narrative thread together. "Not just you, Buffy. Lots of people, talking at him night and day. Mayor Wilkins? I didn't know Spike even knew the mayor. Glory… Adam, Drusilla, Angel, the Master, his mother – aw, she's really sweet – his father," her face darkened, "Warren. Others that I don't recognize. A Chinese girl in this cute Mandarin outfit, a tall black girl rockin' a 'fro. His victims, maybe, because of the old-fashioned clothes they're wearing. But mostly you, Buffy. And Drusilla."
"What do all those people have in common?" Xander wondered aloud. "I mean, a lot of the ones we know are evil, but Buffy isn't."
"His parents, either, from what little he's told me about them," Dawn said.
"Oh," Willow said. "Why do these guys seem familiar? They're wearing burlap-y robes, X's over their eyes."
Buffy frowned. "I've fought them. It's been a long time, but I've had a couple of dreams recently about them chasing girls." She pressed her hands to her temples, thinking hard. "Oh! Oh, I know. They're Harbingers or, or Bringers, Bringers of the First Evil. They…" Her face went hard. "The Bringers conjured the First Evil, who got inside Angel's head and tried to drive him to commit suicide. It was that Christmas that we had snow."
"I remember that," Dawn said, a sudden smile on her face. "A white Christmas. That was really nice."
Buffy stood up, pacing a little. "It kept appearing to Angel as his victims, making him relive the things he'd done. Why would it appear to Spike as me, as people he loved?"
"Not as everyone he loves," Dawn protested. "I mean, if this First Evil wanted to make him crazy because I was dead, wouldn't it appear as me, all bloody and everything?"
"Or, hey, if anyone here really wants to torture Spike, it would be me," Xander added. Then the humor died from his face. "They're all dead."
"What?" Willow asked.
"Buffy died, but she came back. Every one of those other people you saw in his mind, Willow… they're all dead." He watched her count through them in her mind.
"You're right," she breathed. "It must have power over the dead. It didn't appear as anyone who hasn't died."
"It didn't appear to Angel as me, and I had died then, too," Buffy protested. Then she frowned. "I don't think I did. He-he never mentioned it."
"Yeah, but you were only dead for a minute or two, then." Xander shrugged. "Maybe that wasn't long enough to count."
Willow was frowning. "But why not Tara?"
Xander patted her hand. "Because, dead or alive, she wouldn't be mean to anyone, not even Spike." On Willow's other side, Buffy looked down at the floor.
"Okay, but why?" Dawn said. She was looking at Spike's immobile features, rubbing her thumb across his hand. "Why does the First Evil want to drive him crazy? Suicide, like Angel? I can help check the books." She glanced around at the Scoobies. "Do we have any books?"
Willow shrugged. "Whatever we have will be at the Magic Box."
"Anya's not there all the time," Xander said quietly. No one said aloud that she was away granting vengeance wishes.
"I'll call Giles, let him know what's going on. I haven't had a Slayer dream since I, you know, came back. I didn't recognize it. As to why they're after Spike… Maybe it's the same reason it tried to get Angel," Buffy said, shrugging. "A vampire with a soul who allies himself with the Slayer? I don't know. It claimed to have been the one who brought Angel back from hell, said it was going to kill him because he didn't kill me."
"Do you think it can only show dead people to dead people? Or are we all going to be Sixth Sensing?"
Buffy shrugged again. "I don't know. I saw it as sort of a ghosty thing in that cavern under the Christmas tree lot… which will be the first place I check tomorrow. I do know if I find the Bringers, I can put a stop to it."
"Oh!" Willow sat up a little straighter. "The Bringers! I almost forgot. They brought people into the basement, humans for Spike to feed from." There was a sudden silence.
"Did he?" Buffy asked in a dead voice.
"I never killed anyone," Spike said, making them all jump.
"Well, hi there." Willow smiled at him encouragingly.
"Did you feed, Spike?"
He turned his eyes to Buffy, shame open on his face. "I did."
"They kept him there for weeks before the Bringers brought the first one," Willow said, focused on the vampire, saying what he wouldn't. "He was starving."
"I didn't kill anyone." He looked down at the table. "Although I doubt those blokes left any of them alive… after."
"Drusilla… The First Evil put on Drusilla's face and tried to get him to turn them into vampires."
"Every time," he agreed.
"Did you?"
He looked up at her again, his eyes fierce. "I don't sire, Buffy. You know that."
"No, Spike," Willow corrected him gently. "She doesn't. She wasn't here when you told us that, remember?"
"Oh." He turned his eyes back to the table. His Slayer had been dead then, like Dawn. He closed his eyes, confused, then squeezed his Bit's hand.
"So…" Xander gestured across the table to Spike. "Here's Spike, with a lean and hungry look, pumped up on steroids for vampires, and crazy. Wonder what the First Evil might do with him."
"A weapon," Buffy said.
"I'm my own man," Spike said, his voice rough. He glanced sideways at Dawn. "'S'long as you two…" He stopped, took a breath, and looked up to include Willow and Xander. "As long as my humans are okay, no one can touch me."
"Your humans?" Xander asked, sounding like he was about to laugh.
Willow was studying the vampire. "He doesn't have a word for us, Xan. Friends? Family? Who here hasn't tried to kill him?" Dawn raised her hand, looking superior. "Yeah, just you, Miss Goody-two-shoes. But he still cares about us. Giles, too."
"I've tried to kill you all, too."
"Except me," Dawn said, smirking now.
"And Tara." Spike shot a look across the table. "I would have killed for her. But I knew that belonged to you."
Willow's breath suddenly came short and hard as Spike showed her a particularly gruesome tableau of Angelus' making. "Oh. I think you might have done a better job than I did."
"I had my own work." He blinked, and his eyes went to where his hand still rested in Dawn's. "You can get out of my mind now."
Can you make me leave?
[no]
He had tried, in fact, but his defenses were utterly gone. Willow nodded, caressed his tired mind with a last comforting thought, and pulled away. She swayed a little, and Buffy's arm went around her.
"Sorry," Willow said, giving her a reassuring smile. "It's just jet lag, fear of facing my friends, fear that I'd gone off the wagon, gnarl, and spending time in Spike's mind," she looked across the table at him, "no offense."
"None taken. Not too happy to be in here myself."
"It's just all taken a toll. I'd like to go to bed now."
"You sure you want to stay here? It won't be too hard on you?" Buffy asked, her eyes sympathetic. "I've got my old room ready for you." Dawn looked at her sister in surprise.
"I don't mind," Willow said, missing the Summers girls' silent exchange. "It's easier than being at my parents. They pry, but they only want the right answers, not the honest ones." She took a deep breath and stood up. "Spike? If you like, tomorrow we'll try a few exercises to help you build your mental defenses back up."
"Thanks. I'd like that." He watched Willow until she went up the stairs, then looked at Dawn. "I should go, too."
"Go where?" she asked, a challenge gleaming in her eye.
"Uh," he said, at a loss.
"Not back to the Hellmouth, soul man. You can stay here," she said, "in the basement, where there's no sun. The cot you sometimes used last summer is still there."
"Dawn," Buffy said warningly, "we haven't talked about this."
"We didn't talk about Willow staying here, either," Dawn shot back.
Spike, his jaw set, pulled his hand free of hers. "I'll find somewhere. I've dossed it before. 'M not a child, Bit. I can take care of myself." He stood to leave.
"Obviously, you can't," she said fiercely, getting to her feet, too.
"You can come back to my place," Xander said, also rising. "Just till you find a place and get less, you know, crazy."
Buffy closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see Dawn glaring at her. Why had she said that? Hadn't that been her own plan, to help Spike, at least before she found out about the soul?
Spike was staring at Xander, poleaxed. "Um, I can't. But thanks."
"Why not?" Xander shrugged. "It's better than Buffy's basement – or my parents' basement, for that matter. I've got an extra room. It's small, the realtor called it 'cozy,' there's no windows, so it's just right for the unexpected guest vampire. And I have a bathroom," he added pointedly, "which you should feel free to hog."
The other man looked down, biting his lip. "I can't. Haven't done right by you."
Xander looked down, too, his mind flashing for a moment on the surveillance feed. "No, you didn't. But it's mutual. Let it go." He shrugged. "Bygones, or something."
Spike glanced up at him, and their eyes met briefly. "Are you saying you want to bury the hatchet?"
Xander smiled a little at the line he'd been handed. "And not even in your skull. I love a good straight man." Then he closed his eyes and shook his head, pointing a finger at Spike. "Don't."
"I love a good straight man, too," the vampire said anyway, arching an eyebrow, although his voice alone made the mild reply sound dirty.
"Death, taxes, and your smart mouth," Xander said, "the great constants. Come on, Captain Peroxide. The working man's got to get some sleep." He looked at Buffy. "See you tomorrow, I guess."
"Good night." She glanced over at Spike, who nodded at her.
Dawn gave him and Xander a quick hug, spared a nasty look for Buffy, and flounced up the stairs as the two men left. Buffy stood where they left her by the dining room table, listening as Spike offered to help Xander with the rent. Whatever else he was, Spike was an ally. He was under attack, and her first reaction was to deny him safe haven. She thought of her mother, who would certainly have let Spike stay in her house, and sighed. What was wrong with her?
I'm afraid, she realized. Before he'd snapped back to awareness, when it seemed he would remain in her care, she'd thought of him sitting upstairs in the tub, quiet and pliant under her hands as she bathed him. Her fantasy started with her taking care of him, but it took a quick turn down other avenues. But she was never going to touch him that way again. It was the only way to be safe.
Outside, Xander was backing out of the driveway. He'd reminded Spike twice to buckle up, then let it go. Spike seemed to be struggling with something and finally managed to get it out three blocks from the apartment.
"You know, Xander, we could not, and say we did." He let out a lot of the air in his lungs. "'Preciate the invite, really, but–"
"It's okay, Spike, it really is," Xander said, cutting left. "I sort of owe you."
"For what?"
The dark-haired man paused for a moment. "For always assuming the worst about you."
"Playing the percentages."
"Maybe the game changed." He turned into the parking lot. "Lord knows I haven't always made the best decisions."
"You're twenty-one, right?"
"Twenty-two."
"If you're referring to the wedding, you're only mistake was the timing. Twenty-two's too young to get leg-shackled, my opinion."
"Tell Anya that was my only mistake."
"I've my own mistakes with Anya to worry about."
There wasn't any way to reply to that, so the two men walked in silence to the door of Xander's apartment, where he formally invited the vampire inside.
⸹
"He's gone," Xander said without preamble.
Buffy, her eyes half-shut, held the phone between her ear and shoulder and shook a box of cereal to see if there was enough left for Dawn's breakfast as she tried to process Xander's words. "Who?"
"Spike," Xander said, impatience lacing his tone. "He neatly made his bed, if he slept in it at all, and skedaddled. One guess as to where."
"You sure you didn't just dust him?" Buffy asked.
"Really not funny," Xander said reprovingly. "I'm trying here, Buf."
"I know," she said. "I'll look for him while I'm at work."
"I'd look myself, but I'm not on site today. Is Willow up yet?"
"No, she'll probably sleep for a while."
"Can't blame her. Call me if you need me."
"I will. Thanks, Xander."
They said their goodbyes and Buffy hung up the phone, frowning as she mentally calculated the time in London. Some counselor she was; she needed guidance so much herself. If she called right now, she'd have just enough time to talk to Giles before she absolutely had to get ready. He wasn't at his flat or available at the Council of Watchers number she had for him, so she left her work number with the receptionist and dashed up the stairs to get her shower.
⸹
Spike quietly closed the door to Dawn's bedroom. It felt odd to be leaving this way instead of exiting through the window. "How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice soft, as he turned to face Willow behind him.
"Hard to sneak up on a vampire, huh?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I feel… helpless, I guess."
He nodded. "Dawn really liked her. You'd taken a shine to Cassie, too, I could tell."
"How is Dawnie?"
He shrugged. "Unhappy, rightfully so." He cut his eyes towards Willow's room and raised his brows. She nodded, and they went inside, Willow closing the door behind them. "Well, it's all about her at this age, innit? Everyone around her dies, she says." He shrugged. "Can't say it isn't true."
Willow did the math, then sank down on the bed. "Wow. Those are some pretty high numbers, especially for someone whose true age is, like, two."
Spike shrugged again. "She used to say that everyone left."
"We come back, though," Willow said, a little defensively.
"Reckon that's why she changed her refrain," he said fondly.
"You want to work on those mental defenses, I suppose."
"If you're not too tired."
Willow gave him a puzzled look. "Here," she said, indicating the bed, "sit down." When he'd settled on the other end of the bed, she considered him. "Spike, why are you being so polite?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong with that?"
"No, but it's just… not you."
"Honestly, Red? I'm not sure who I am anymore."
"How long have you felt like that?"
He gave her a sharp look. "'S'true, I haven't exactly felt myself since I gave up on Buffy, but even then I knew who I was. I guess it's since I got off the Hellmouth. I can't keep from going back there, like some sort of soddin' homing pigeon." He gave her an apologetic look. "So much for politeness."
"No, that makes it feel more normal," Willow told him.
"So, yeah, I'm more'n ready to put up some mental fences."
"Okay, so let's do this." They looked at each other. "Try another image instead of the guard with the axe." Their gazes met for a long moment, then Willow pulled away. "Spike, you dropped your damned DeSoto on me. I hate that car!"
"Wasn't my car – which is a classic, for your information. Xander made me watch this Evil Dead movie the other night, Army of Darkness, and this car fell from the sky. I dropped that on you. Brilliant movie, by the way. Guy who played Ash looks like Xander's older brother or some such."
"Well, dropping a car didn't work," Willow said sulkily. "Start with something smaller, like a flyswatter."
He left fifteen minutes later, encouraged, though not exactly sure if he was getting stronger or if Willow had just gotten sleepy. Buffy was waiting for him downstairs on the couch. She waved him over, and he moved to sit stiffly on the opposite end.
"Good work tonight," Buffy said. She looked and sounded tired, and he ached to just hold her.
"For what it was worth," he replied.
A cynical smile touched her mouth, but it was too much effort to hold it. "I think it's always worth it. Trying, I mean." She took a breath and watched him brace for it. "It's nothing bad, Spike. I just wanted to ask you to try very hard not to go back to the school basement." Buffy looked at the floor. "Sometimes we can't find you. Xander says the passageways down there move, that they never match the blueprints. So, I might not be able to find you when I need you." He nodded, as if he had never heard this before. It was odd to have to repeat anything to Spike. Normally, he was so quick.
"I… It's not like I want to be there, Buffy," he said, desperation touching his tone. "It's like I wake up and find myself there. I…" He took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm not sure of myself, even, can't trust that what I see and hear is real."
"I'm real," she said, trying so hard. "You can always tell it's me, right? The not-so-pleasant Buffy."
"No," he said sadly, "you're the pleasant one." He put his hand toward her, palm up, and after a moment, she stretched out and took it. "I'm so afraid I'm going to fail you again."
"You've never–" She stopped abruptly and bit her lip. She could be honest with Spike. "I'm afraid of hurting you," she admitted. "I've done it too much." The Slayer looked away. "So, we're both afraid."
"I feared neither man nor beast for over a hundred years," he said, his voice so deep that she could swear she felt it vibrate in her chest, "and now, with you and Dawn, there's not a moment's passing that I don't fear." He took two shallow breaths. "Human life is short."
"Spike," Buffy managed with difficulty, "I'd like to cry now. For Cassie, I mean. If you just hold me, and I promise that I won't hurt you, would that be okay?"
He stared at her, his brows drawn together. He wanted to lie and tell her that she'd never hurt him; he wished she would lie and tell him the same. Instead, he held out his other hand. "It would be an honor, my lady."
⸹
She was being watched. It didn't take a Slayer to sense it. Buffy peered at a familiar-looking door in the basement of the school, a stake in her right hand and a plastic shopping bag in her left. The doors down here were almost as tricky as the halls, but maybe this was….
There he was, his hands pressed flat against the far wall, his forehead resting between them. He wasn't the one who had been watching her. Spike's head was tilted, as if he was listening to someone. Which, Buffy supposed, he was. She hadn't been able to find him yesterday or the day before, and the First Evil wasn't one to waste time.
"Spike?" Her voice sounded hard and impatient, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She hated seeing Spike – Spike! – unfocused and helpless like this.
He looked at thin air for a moment before turning to her. "Slayer?" he asked, uncertain.
"I've been looking for you." Fear flitted across his face, and the expression made her that much angrier.
"Why?"
"Because this place is going to kill you. You're living in an apartment with Xander, remember?"
"Xander?" His expression cleared a bit. "But not in his parents' basement?"
"Right," she agreed. Taking a breath, she tucked the stake into her back pocket and walked over to him. "Remember working with Willow to build your mental defenses?" Buffy had listened to them a couple of times, hearing enough to get an idea.
"Yeah," he said, caution in his voice.
He doesn't know I'm the real McCoy, she thought, more tired than sympathetic. "Well, I thought this might help." She opened the plastic bag and drew out his black leather coat.
He hissed and turned away from her, throwing another fearful look to his right. Buffy looked at the spot and deliberately moved into it. "Spike, look at me." He did after a moment, reluctance slowing his movement. "I thought you could use this as an image, too, as if it's armor. You can wear it like body armor." Buffy held it out. "It's just your coat, exactly the way it was when you left it at my house." She dropped her gaze. "I kept it all summer for when you came back. You're back now, so here." She took another step toward him, still holding it toward him.
His eyes never leaving her face, Spike stretched out. When his fingers touched solid leather, his eyes closed. "You're real."
"I'm real," she agreed. "Come away from here," she made herself say the words, "come home. Dawn misses you, and this place," she looked around, her Slayer senses tripping where her eyes touched shadows, "it's not good for you."
"No," he agreed, his own eyes searching the dark corners. They were yellow, she realized, though all his other features were human. "It isn't."
"It's dark outside. We can walk over to Xander's together." She took a few steps toward the door. "Are you coming?" He nodded and fell in step, the coat crumpled in his hands, letting her lead him out of the basement.
⸹
November 2002
Buffy swung her arms a little. So much had been going on lately, first with Anya (so that's a grimslaw demon; Spike was right, and that means Riley must have… not going to think about that just yet), then with that stupid letterman jacket at school, that it was a relief to be outside for a simple patrol. Spike and Xander both had offered to come with her, but she wanted to be alone. She smiled a little at the thought of the two of them, roommates again. Xander was happier than he had been in months. Part of it was knowing Anya was back to human, but part of it was having Willow back and even a dead person to come home to. He just wasn't meant to be solitary. And Spike….
Spike hadn't been back to the school basement for almost two weeks, and Willow said his mind was getting stronger. He still couldn't keep her out if she was determined, but she didn't think that anything could get inside his head without him knowing about it. And since he was doing better, that meant Dawn was happier – which meant everyone was happier.
The one fly in her ointment (what is ointment, exactly, and why do flies like it so much? she wondered. Stupid expression, anyway) was Giles, who had been distracted and unhelpful when he finally returned her call. The only time his voice had sharpened and she was sure she had his attention was when she mentioned First Evil and the Bringers. She snorted. They sounded like some lame sixties folk band.
Buffy turned into the newer section of the cemetery and began looking for a recent grave that had a likely candidate. He'd only been a year older than her when he died. Ah, there it was. Webster. She hunkered down to wait. Other than Giles-missage, things were going okay. She rapped her knuckles on the stake absently, knocking wood. The school counselor job was a godsend (do I have a guardian angel? If Spike does, I definitely should). Although she wasn't bringing in any more money, the hours and the work itself were so much better that most days she was almost her own self again (God, I almost had sex with a student! RJ and that damned letter jacket could have gotten me fired). She even had enough energy to be strong for Willow when the redhead had an especially rough day. It was nice to be there for someone, especially after spending so many months trying not to need the very same thing (thank God for the Zoloft).
Dawn was still exhausting but easier to live with. A lot of that was due to Spike, who was so good at taking the wind out of Dawn's teenaged sails, helping her be more patient. She insisted that they have family meals, now that Buffy had regular person hours, and she shanghaied her pet vampire into helping her really learn to cook. Buffy, Willow, and Xander had choked down a couple of meals through the sheer power of love (and fear of a Dawn tantrum), but most nights the two of them did a surprisingly good job – though Spike covered up the taste of everything with Tabasco, habanero peppers, and Burba weed. They were weaning him off his 'steroids for vampires' diet, mixing expired units of human blood from the hospital with pig's blood. And wasn't that yummy to watch?
Dawn had the right idea, though. Some things got shared at the dinner table that would have otherwise have escaped Buffy's notice, like Xander mentioning that the number of houses up for sale in town had skyrocketed. When she told her sister that, intending it as praise, Dawn said the important things shared at the dinner table weren't the important things. Remembering this, Buffy rolled her eyes.
"Come on," she muttered, staring down at the freshly turned earth impatiently. She was going to have arthritis by the time she was thirty from sitting on cold, damp graveyard dirt waiting for tardy vampires (if I'm lucky enough to live that long). For a moment, she regretted turning down Spike's offer to join her. Having him to talk to would certainly make the time pass more quickly.
Not that they talked much anymore. She had thought back, after Dawn pointed it out, to the way he was just before she died, before he got his soul, and the way he had been after she came back. There wasn't much difference. He remained irritating, independent, snarky, dirty-minded, and contrary… and noble and selfless and caring. But since his disappearance over the summer, he was very different. He wasn't exactly clingy, but he was always hovering nearby. He was too quiet, Buffy thought, where before you couldn't get him to shut up, not even when they were –
Don't go there, she warned herself sternly. But the remembered murmur of his voice coiled around her, whispering endearments in a dozen languages, keeping up a running commentary on how she made him feel and what his hands were going to do next. She had once asked him to talk dirty to her, and he only looked at her, puzzled, and said he wouldn't know how. His voice, she had decided, was the sexiest thing about him, at the top of a very long list. When they had been together, nothing he suggested to her in that low rumble had seemed wrong or bizarre, but once she was away from him and could think clearly… If Angel and Riley (not going to count Parker) had shone a flashlight into a room of erotic pleasure, Spike had flooded it with stadium lights, revealing everything. It was too much for her, and sometimes it had been easier to retreat to something familiar, something that was satisfying and gave her the power: the sounds of a vampire in pain.
Since she was never going to hurt him again, the sexual exploration that had gone hand-in-hand with it was over, too. When she left his crypt and could no longer see herself in his eyes, magnificent and fearless and beautiful, she had felt shamed and cheapened and dirty. Even now, she didn't like to think of some of the things he had done to her and most of the things she had done to him. Unfortunately, that meant it wasn't safe to think of the other times, when the things they did together were loving.
She could admit that, now, especially about their first night. Despite the violent beginning, they had made love for hours, neither of them willing to risk saying a word that might break the spell. Buffy could swear she had brought him as many times as he had brought her; they were both insatiable that night, exhaustion instead of repletion finally putting a halt to their lovemaking. If only they could have put the boundary there… but she didn't know, and it never occurred to Spike. He considered them equals in every way.
Buffy sighed and poked the grave with her stake. If she had a watch, she would have checked it. Maybe Willow was wrong about this one. The Sunnydale coroner's reports all tended to read pretty much the same. An animal attack could be a lot of other things besides vampires – fanged demons, various werecreatures, even, well, wild animals, though that was doubtful.
In a way, it would be easier if Spike was being timid just with her, but he was quiet and polite to everyone, even Dawn, which was a shame. The only thing he'd balked at where her sister was concerned was learning how to French-braid her hair, declaring that was one thing that could irreparably damage his masculinity. Apparently, even this helpful version of Spike had his limits. But it was worrisome. What had the First Evil done to him to cause more of a change than getting back his soul? Maybe that was it. Maybe because this was something that had been done to him, instead of something he'd –
Finally. Buffy stood up, brushing the seat of her slacks. The new vampire's hands broke the surface of the grave, and she stood back, waiting for him to pull himself out. She felt like having a workout tonight.
Twenty seconds later, she sighed. Not much workout. He'd thrown a couple of kicks at her, pretty but not effective. The vamp had looked a little familiar, but it was hard to tell through the fangs, ridges, and stupidly evil expression. He hadn't even said anything, just snarled.
Someone was applauding.
Buffy whirled around, her stake held at the ready, and watched as Angel walked out of the trees.
"Perfect. As always." He smiled at her, stopping several feet away.
"Skulky. As always," she replied, lowering her stake and giving him a brief smile. "So. What's up?"
"Does something have to be up?"
"If you're here, yes."
He made an apologetic face. "Actually, I did have a reason for coming here. Not apocalyptic, though. Personal. I've been hearing some rumors." He shrugged. "Thought I'd, you know, ask you directly."
Buffy's heart sank. "Rumors?"
Angel walked past her, past the headstone, then turned to stare down into the disturbed earth above the grave, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "I left so you could have a chance at a normal life. Not much chance, maybe, but a chance." He sighed. "So this worries me. I've been hearing disturbing things about you and…" he looked up at her, his brown eyes wary, "Spike."
⸹
Xander rubbed his eyes and then stretched his arms over his head. It was after nine, but he'd finally finished the schedule for the next two weeks. That covered the Thanksgiving holidays, and he'd managed to make the maximum number of construction workers happy. Fortunately, enough guys wanted holiday overtime to make up for the ones that wanted family time. The company was supposed to be finished with the high school by the end of the year, and he was pretty sure he could get them out before Christmas, something that made him feel proud and competent. Xander gathered up his hard hat and briefcase and, locking the trailer behind him, went to post the schedule.
He was pressing in the last thumbtack, the previous schedule held between his teeth, when he got a faint whiff of marijuana smoke. One eyebrow cocked, he looked around, taking the paper from his mouth and shoving it in his pocket. Must be school kids, he thought, wincing as he realized how old and stuffy he sounded in his own mind. Maybe he was getting old; he hadn't toked since he started hanging out with the Slayer, not since….
"Hey, man. Long time, no see."
Xander froze. He knew that voice.
"What, no hug for your old bud?"
"Jesse?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah. In the non-corporeal flesh."
He turned around. "Well, as I live and breathe… and you, not so much."
"Yeah." Jesse laughed a little. "Still can't believe you staked me, dude."
"Can't take credit for it," Xander said sincerely. He'd gone over that and over it again, alone in his boyhood bedroom. "I was just holding the stake; apparently going all fangy makes you lose your balance a lot easier."
"You saying you couldn't have done it?"
"No, man. I couldn't." Not then.
"Right," Jesse said, nodding. He ducked his head and took a couple of steps away before looking back up. "So, you're hanging with that Slayer chick and geeky little Willow nowadays. Gettin' any trim?"
Xander gave him a mirthless smile. "A gentleman never tells."
Jesse considered him for a few moments. "Heard you're rooming with William the Bloody."
"Can't deny it, much as I'd like to."
"Word on our side is that he's… really good."
"You know, while you were off being dead," Xander said, "I kinda worked through the whole 'gay guys freak me out' thing with Larry – remember him?" His face went hard. "Nice guy, underneath it all. He was gay, came out and stopped projecting, and he died fighting against your side. Yeah, your side. I know what this is." Xander shook his head. "What I don't understand is how you got to Spike – who is, I can admit without any fear that it'll make me queer, quite the handsome man. I mean, as psychological warfare goes, this stuff is, well, lame." He melodramatically looked around. "Not too worried, unless – got any of those Bringer guys around? No?" Xander scoffed. "Blow." He walked away, and Jesse kept pace, his eyes narrow.
"Dude, I haven't even started. Wanna talk about the life you've got – oh, sorry, that's the Slayer's life you've got."
"There's the windup, and the pitch!" Xander fished his keys from his pocket, letting a couple of the sharp ends poke through his fingers, just in case there were Bringers. Keys in a fist worked better than brass knuckles. "Aww, he misses, and it's strike two for the Big Bad." He shook his head. "I'm barely a legal adult, and all I have is a high school diploma. Yet here I am, supervising guys three times my age on a multi-million dollar project. That's my day job. In the evenings, me and my friends save the world. Seems pretty much like a life to me. And, oh, I actually have one of those, too. Jesse lasted, what, two days as a vampire? I've been fighting evil for… God, has it really been almost seven years?" Xander shook his head in bemusement.
Jesse smiled. "Better than I expected. But I gotta tell you, dude, you've got one great, big, gaping hole in your armor. It's sorta… Anya-shaped. Or should I say Anyanka? Not too many men have hurt a woman so much that she'd prefer to be a demon, but you… abandoning her in front of all the people she knew, human and non-human alike… That spells loser with a capital 'L.'"
Xander glanced over at the effigy of his dead friend. "All right, I'll give you that one. Base hit."
"Double, at least. Did you know she still cries about it at night?"
"Going for the steal," Xander said. He had reached his car by now. "Oh, too bad, game called on account of boredom." Opening the door, he tossed his briefcase and hardhat in the passenger seat and got in. Driving off, he could see Jesse smirking at him in the rear view mirror.
Five blocks later, the adrenalin drained away, and he pulled to the shoulder, shaking. That had been bad, really bad. Even a year ago, he couldn't have handled it. One thing was for sure: he didn't want to go back to his empty apartment. Spike was out for a poker night with Clem, who had nagged the vampire for almost two solid weeks to play. He'd go to Buffy's; she'd want to know about this, anyway.
⸹
"It's true," Buffy admitted in a small voice. Angel gave her a swift, hurt look before focusing on the grave again. "I'm not going to lie," she said, stronger.
"I almost wish you would."
"Not that it matters, but how'd you hear?"
"Cordy and Willow stay in touch."
Buffy nodded. "How is Cordelia?"
"She's… Cordy is… She's a different person than the one you knew in high school, Buffy. She's strong and compassionate, and I don't know how I could keep going with my own mission without her. She's… special."
The Slayer clenched her teeth against a sharp stab of jealousy. "It's kind of odd, actually. I could say the same thing about Spike. E-except the high school part."
"That's just it, Buffy. I've known Spike a lot longer than you have. I've known him since he was born into this life. I know him." Angel lifted one broad shoulder. "He revels in it."
"Like you did."
"Like I did. All vampires aren't the same. You know that."
"I do," she said quietly, "if anyone does. He has a soul." She took a defiant breath. "Spike went halfway around the world and fought to win his soul." She realized then that she was proud of him. "He earned it."
The dark-haired man looked up at her, surprise on his face, and her heart leapt a little at how handsome he was, even in this moment. "His soul… are you saying he has a soul?" At her nod, he pressed, "Are you sure?" He looked away, trying to take it in, then gave her a sharp look. "Spike could be lying, just to… you know, trick you into–"
"I slept with him without knowing he had a soul, Angel." Her voice was calm, but her cheeks went red.
"Oh," he said. Then he looked away. "Oh." Angel's mouth twisted with bitterness. "Well, that's Spike. What can I say? He is good in bed." He looked up at her still face, and whatever else he was going to say died away. "Why?" There was pain in his eyes.
She threw her hands up. "Oh, let's see. He was there with me every day fighting by my side, telling me he loved me, and he never left. He looked out for me, my sister, and even my friends – and he didn't even particularly like them. Little things like that."
Angel closed his eyes. "No curse with his soul, then? He doesn't have a Sword of Damocles hanging over his soul every time you–"
"No."
The vampire shook his head, upset, his eyes closed again. "I should have come back to Sunnydale after Willow brought you back. I knew when we met that you weren't yourself. If I'd been here to take care of you, this never would have–"
"I'm not yours to take care of. Not anymore."
"I'm your friend, Buffy." He looked up at her and paced away a couple of yards.
You'll never be friends. "And you want to save me? From what? A man who loves me whether or not he has a soul?" She put her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, but Angel had his back to her and didn't see. God, she hadn't meant to say that.
"Spike isn't a man." He turned back to her and continued, his voice hard. "Neither am I. That's why I left, so you could find–"
"I don't need a man," the Slayer snapped, not about to let it go. She'd never get the courage to bring it up again. "Tell me, Angel. Why can he love me without a soul when you can't?"
He waved a dismissive hand. "Spike's always been weird."
Hurt passed across Buffy's face, and then she went still. "Weird?" she echoed, her voice strangled.
"Ever since Drusilla dragged him home," he went on, still pacing. "I wish I'd staked him then." Angel turned back to her, a cold smile on his lips. "But Dru would have sulked if I took away her pretty new toy." Then he got a better look at her face. At the Slayer's face. He chuckled. "I thought I was doing a pretty good job. What gave it away?"
"You said Spike was weird. Angel always blames himself." She crossed her arms.
"I don't really mind you knowing. It'll be more fun playing Angelus," the First Evil said maliciously, "won't it, Buf?"
"Fun's a word. So is pathetic."
"Oh, I don't know. I had you going for a while, stammering around, trying not to hurt Angel's feelings by comparing your one night of true love," his laughing voice cut into her, "to all the fucking you did with Spike. 'Cause the fucking was better, wasn't it, Buf?"
"I have to say, you do Angelus much better," she said. It was eerily like Angelus, actually, the familiar pain of something wearing Angel's face while shredding her emotions. "Of course, I wouldn't expect you to be able to be good at imitating a loving, kind person. An asshole like Angelus is right about your level."
The First ignored her, Angelus' grin gleaming in the pale light. "He's so good at it. I remember. Where do you think Spike learned it all? On the street, from the kids at school?" He widened his eyes in mock consternation. "No, he learned it all from me, at my knee… or on his knees. And he wasn't a quick study, either. Had to learn his lessons repeatedly, from me, Darla, and Drusilla, from the edge of a knife, from the bite of a whip. By the end, though, he was sooo good at it. Real aptitude." He gave her a shark's grin. "Not like you."
"You think I'm going to banter with you? Tell you something like, it's obvious the student has surpassed the teacher?' Buffy shook her head. "Is there a purpose to this?" She gestured at the empty grave. "'Cause I've done what I came to do."
"No purpose. It's just fun to hurt you." Angel leaned over the broken ground. "You know, Buf, none of us – hell, all of us – never brought the pain to Spike the way you did."
"I'm leaving," and she turned away.
"But it's okay, because my boy likes the pain." His happy voice got louder. "Good thing, too, since I have so much more to give him."
She stopped and pivoted on her heel. "Stay away from him."
"Why should you care? You don't love him. No one treats someone they love the way you treat him."
"You know, I'm really going to enjoy sending you back to hell." The Slayer turned away again.
"Hell is a place I made for your kind, little girl," the First said. "I made fear, too, and I don't fear your useless threats."
"Uh-huh." She kept walking, didn't bother turning around. "If I'm no threat, why are you even bothering to… bother me?"
"Because it's just so much fun," Angel said, and then the voice changed, "pet."
Buffy closed her eyes. No.
"'M used to seeing you walk away from me, love. Never gets any easier, though," Spike said, resignation shading his words.
She stopped and turned around, hating herself for being weak, for opening herself up to more pain. "Don't," she whispered.
He was only ten yards away and naked, light from the moon and the streetlamps illuminating pale, perfect skin. Buffy let out a tiny breath at the forbidden sight. As she watched, a small, red, round bite mark appeared on his collarbone.
"Why can't you love me, Buffy?" Four lines of blood drawn by invisible fingernails striped his chest. "I've changed. 'M a good man." His love for her was open, filling his eyes, even as his head rocked back and a drop of blood welled on his swollen lower lip. She knew the texture and taste so well. "What else can I do for you, love? Set me a task; I will do it." Bruises blossomed on his torso. "Give me a quest; I will fulfill it." Tears spilled down his cheeks without shame. "Because I don't know what else to do. You've got to tell me," Spike pleaded, one eye blackened now and swelling shut. "I have nothing to give you. You've burned and crushed and taken everything I owned. You spurn my words. My deeds mean nothing. You won't have my soul." He doubled over, was driven to his knees by unseen blows. "I forgive you," he gasped as his hands were drawn above his head by invisible bonds, "because I love you, Buffy." His body rocked forward, away from a lash across his back. "Nothing will ever make me stop loving you," he managed, even as his head fell forward onto his bleeding chest.
Then Spike raised his head and looked into her wet, horrified eyes. He leaned away from her, so that light fell across his abused body and showcased his jutting erection. He grinned at her, tongue lolling over his teeth for a second. "Not even you."
"Bastard," she whispered.
"Ain't I a stinker?"
Buffy's lips parted in disbelief, the spell broken. "Bugs Bunny? You're referencing Bugs Bunny?" She shook her head, anger driving away all other emotions, and stalked off.
The First used Angelus' voice to call after her, "Be seeing you, lover." She had to walk a long distance before the sound of his laughter faded.
⸹
Not bothering with the door, Buffy leapt through the shattered window into her living room. "Dawn?" she yelled, her voice cracking.
"In here," Xander called from the kitchen.
The Slayer was there in no seconds flat, looking wildly around for her sister. Every light in the room was on. She pulled Dawn halfway off the stool she was sitting on and into a hug. "What happened here?"
"We see dead people," Xander said in a stage whisper.
"You, too?"
"I saw Mom," Dawn said in a real whisper, looking up at Buffy with a face swollen from crying.
"What happened to the house? Was it Bringers?"
"No," Dawn said, sniffling a little. "It was like a storm inside the house, or like those ghost movies. I think it was really Mom, Buffy, and the First Evil was trying to keep her from coming to me."
"What's the first thing she said to you, Dawn?"
"'Bad things are coming,' something like that," her sister replied in a miserable voice.
"Not 'oh, Dawnie, look at how big you are,' or 'I love you?'"
Fresh tears tracked down Dawn's cheeks. "I want it to have really been her," she said, her voice breaking, "so much."
"I know," Buffy said, her own eyes wet. It was a relief to cry. She hugged Dawn hard and rubbed her back. "I know."
"Who was it for you?" Xander asked, his brown eyes sympathetic, so unlike the other pair that had been on her this night.
"Angel," Buffy said, her mouth constricting for a moment, "and Angelus." She couldn't tell him about Spike.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
"Who was it for you?"
"Jesse."
Buffy put her hand out for his. She still felt guilt over that one, her first failure in Sunnydale. Xander didn't have many friends left. How often had she heard him wish for another guy to offset the estrogen factor in the Scooby gang? He had been missing Jesse for years.
Xander's cell phone rang, and he gave her fingers a squeeze before letting go to answer it. "Willow?" he asked, relief flooding his face. "Yeah, us, too… I've been calling your cell… No, everyone's okay. Buffy's house is wrecked, though… Just stay there, and I'll come get you." He folded the phone. "Wil's okay, but really upset. She was studying on campus and thought she fell asleep."
"Who was it for her?" Buffy dreaded the answer.
"Cassie."
Dawn's face crumpled again, and she hid her face against Buffy's shoulder. The Slayer closed her eyes in relief, though. "Not Tara."
"Why can it use Mom but not Tara to do these things?" Dawn asked in a muffled voice. "Mom was a good person, too. It isn't fair."
"Tara was a good person," Xander said, "but she was also a powerful white witch. That probably has something to do with it." He leaned down and kissed both girls on the cheek. "I'll be back as quick as I can. Phone's on if you need me." He met Buffy's gaze. "I've left a dozen messages at the apartment for Spike to call here."
Her eyes rounded. "Oh, no."
Xander's face was grim, but he forced reassurance into his voice. "He made it through months of this stuff. He's probably immune by now." He shrugged awkwardly. "I'd better get a move on."
"Be careful," Buffy said, watching him leave through the back door, already fishing in his pockets for car keys. She looked down at her sister's head. "Well, this is the point where I'm supposed to make us hot chocolate, isn't it?"
Dawn made a face. "That's only for Spike. I would like some tea, though."
"Boil water," Buffy said. "I can do that." She had just filled the teakettle when Dawn's cell phone rang.
"'Lo?" She looked up at her sister. "It's Spike." Dawn listened for no more than five seconds, said, "Okay," then took the phone from her ear. "He said he's fine, and he's on his way."
The kettle hadn't whistled when the back door opened and Spike came in. Buffy was closer, and there was no hesitation or awkwardness as he swept her into his arms on his way to similarly capture Dawn. His eyes were black with anger in a way that Buffy hadn't seen in almost a year.
"I should have been here," he said roughly. "'M sorry, Bit." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Buffy." He turned and touched his forehead reverently to hers, closing his eyes.
The three of them stood in silence for almost a minute, drawing comfort from each other, until the teakettle began to hiss. Spike plopped Dawn one-armed onto the counter, keeping his other arm around Buffy, took the kettle from the burner, turned off the stovetop, and completed his circling movement by coming back around to put his hand on his Nibblet's shoulder. Buffy raised her eyebrows at this innate ability to arrange women to his liking.
"Did you run all the way here?" Dawn asked, curious.
"I flew, pet. Vampire, yeah?" He didn't smile when he said this, looking up at her. Pointing toward the rest of the house with his chin, he asked, "What happened here? Bringers?"
"It got all Poltergeist-y for a while," Dawn said. Buffy almost smiled at how she was trying to be nonchalant about it in front of the vampire.
"Who'd it use to try to play you?" he asked, studying her.
Dawn gave him a wobbly smile, and the toughness vanished. "M-mom," she managed, and slumped forward into his embrace.
"Convincing, innit?" he said, stroking her hair. "But not a chance it was really your mum. She would have been right put out about the state of her house, wouldn't she?" Buffy did smile a little and turned away to pour the hot water over the herbal tea bags in cups she'd already set out. She listened to his voice as he soothed her sister, getting out a packet of instant cocoa mix and fixing it for him.
"Here we go," she said, and Dawn sat back up, wiping her face with her hand before accepting her cup of tea.
Spike's eyes went to the Slayer. "What about you?"
She avoided the question. "It specifically threatened you."
He made an impatient gesture. "Never saw anything. I was with three other demons," he said. "This thing doesn't like to work a room. It's strictly one-on-one."
Her eyes widened. "Is that why you…?"
"Why I've been underfoot so much? Yeah," he admitted. "Even when you know it isn't real, still isn't fun."
"No," she agreed. "It isn't."
"Why do all this?" Dawn asked, indicating the three of them. "I mean, the Big Bad is usually after something, right? Me, for instance," she made a face, "or – or world domination, or, like Willow, revenge. What does it want?"
"What worries me more is that it was powerful enough to appear to all of us at the same time, this far away from the Hellmouth," Buffy said, frowning.
"Does it feed off fear?" Dawn asked.
Her sister shook her head. "No, not that I ever heard. Okay, what do we know about it? It isn't a single entity, because it's like an emotion, or propensity, or something that is inside every sentient thing."
"But it's acting like a single entity," Spike said, a matching frown on his face. "It's no longer content to act through others. It wants… agency, is that the word?"
"It told me tonight that it was just having fun," Buffy said quietly.
"Evil," Dawn pointed out, gesturing with her mug.
The corners of Buffy's mouth lifted for a moment. "We know it can't possess people. We know it can't appear as living people, or at least only as people who have been dead," touching her own chest. "We know these apparitions aren't corporeal, because they can't touch us. It plays on our fears and weaknesses."
"It can possess people," Spike disagreed. "I think that's exactly what the Bringers are, hollowed-out vessels that it inhabits."
"So, where does it find people to possess?" Dawn wondered.
"Oh, there are always people willing to give up their souls to the right demon," Anya said, suddenly standing next to Buffy.
Dawn jerked, spilling her tea. "Jeez, Anya! Scare a person."
"Sorry," Anya said, smiling uncertainly. "The door was open – most of the front of the house was open."
"Did it come after you, pet?" Spike asked, noticing how shaky she was. When she nodded, he held open his arms. Buffy felt her second jealous pang of the evening.
Anya let Spike hug her for a few seconds, then pulled away. "I thought D'Hoffryn had sent him after me."
"Who?" Dawn asked.
"W.C. Fields."
"Who?" Dawn asked again, as Spike struggled to maintain a sympathetic expression.
"W.C. Fields," Anya repeated, "the famous vaudeville and early motion picture comedian. I called vengeance down on him on behalf of his wife."
"Let me guess," Spike said evenly. "The nose?"
"Oh, no, that was a combination of excessive alcohol consumption and advanced rosacea," Anya said. "I doomed him to work with animals, small children, and Mae West. He despised her."
Buffy gave her head a small shake, as if finally able to look away from a train wreck. "Well, I'm glad you're safe," she said, forcing a smile. "Would you like some tea?"
"Yes," Anya said, adding a belated, "Thank you."
"Let's go take a closer look at the damage," Spike suggested to the Slayer after Anya's tea had cooled. "Red and the whelp will be back soon; we might as well use what time we have." He waited for her to go first through the door, then moved up beside her in the wider dining room. They stopped at the French doors.
"I don't know how I'm going to afford to get this fixed," she said after a moment of stunned silence.
Spike took a breath and pursed his lips. He tried again. "Let me help, Buffy. I've got folding – uh, I mean, I have money."
"All right," she agreed, her voice small.
He looked over at her, surprised, and their eyes met for a long moment. Spike broke contact first, bending over to pick up a twisted piece of a curtain rod. "It was me, wasn't it?"
She nodded, turning her head. He always knew whatever it was she was trying to hide. "It began as Angel, but all it wanted to talk about was you. I guessed that it wasn't him, then it did a pretty good Angelus imitation. I started to walk away, and…" She shook her head, then let it fall back on her shoulders and stared at the ceiling.
"Was always the worst for me, when it played at being you," he said, a growl in his voice.
"You were my victim," Buffy said, her eyes closed, her head still back.
"Not much good at being a victim," he mused.
"No," she agreed, taking in a deep breath before looking at him, "you aren't." The things that 'Angelus' said had preyed on her thoughts on the way home from the cemetery and had only been driven away when she saw the damage to her home. "What did Angel – Angelus, I mean – what did he do to you?"
He looked at her, shrugging. "Nothing. The First wore his face a couple of times on the Hellmouth, but gave that up when it didn't faze me." Seeing that she was dissatisfied, he shook his head. "I don't understand."
Buffy looked away. "When Drusilla first turned you, I mean."
Spike shrugged. "He came on as real friendly at first. Owe him a lot, 's'matter of fact. Took me under his wing the way Dru couldn't, taught me how to do more than just survive. Tried to give me a taste for his brand of mayhem. Then he got in my head and figured out how to yank my chain. After that, he knew all he ever had to know about me to keep me in line." He shrugged again.
"Drusilla?" she asked.
His face was serious as he studied her. "Still love Dru. 'Spect I always will, like you'll always love Angel." To his credit, he said this without much bitterness. "But not like I did then. M'Victorian, yeah? Wanted to protect her, make a home for the little woman, shower her with presents. Dru was always happy to play house with me, but 'Daddy' was first in her heart. So I wanted what she wanted, and she wanted what he wanted, with the end result being that I did what he wanted." A grim smile touched his lips. "Then the wanker got cursed with a soul, and life got a lot better." He made a self-depreciating face. "Hundred years, me and Dru, and – well, you know exactly what happened when Angelus blew back into town." Spike touched her elbow. "That answer your question, love?"
Buffy turned back to him and opened her mouth, but the low beams of Xander's car flashed across the living room. Looking relieved, she said, "They're back." She rolled her eyes. "Obvious girl, that's me."
Spike's brows were drawn together. Tonight's encounter had upset her, plainly. "We can talk later, if you like."
"All right." He watched her walk away, going to the porch to greet Willow. The Slayer's arms, so deceptively slender, went around the young red-haired woman with the tearstained face. Looking at Willow, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the most powerful off-the-cuff magic that he'd seen in his long life. Behind them, the somber look on his young face making him look older, was a human who was in no way extraordinary… except in the fact that he had fought vampires and worse for years and was still alive.
Dawn came up beside Spike and tucked herself under his arm, just a lovely teenaged girl who happened to contain energy that could reshape and destroy worlds. Anya followed, stopping close to him without touching him, seeking comfort, a human who had voluntarily given up being a demon and was under a death sentence for it.
I work with heroes, Spike thought, hugging Dawn closer. No, I am part of a family of heroes. The black sheep, maybe, but part of the family now.
They all stayed at the Summers house that night, Willow and Buffy in the Slayer's old room so Willow didn't have to sleep where Tara died, Xander and Anya in the master bedroom, and Spike on the floor at the foot of Dawn's bed like a guard dog. The next day, it became clear from the number of moving vans and loaded U-Hauls that they weren't the only ones who had received a visit from the First Evil. Sunnydale, always haunted, was in the process of becoming a ghost town.
⸹
[Author's Note: This section is close to sexually explicit (YMMV), as Buffy and Spike get to do things in bed that aren't harmful.]
Despite the fact that enrollment at Sunnydale High School was down, Buffy's job became more demanding. More students were anxious or getting in fights or exhibiting odd behaviors than ever. She came home to the smell of sawdust and paint as Xander and Spike made the front of the house secure again, feeling exposed and stressed through the whole process. If patrols hadn't become easier, she would have been completely exhausted, but the vampires and other creatures that preyed on humans were also moving on, following the herd.
Nevertheless, it was over a week later before she had a chance to talk alone with Spike. She hadn't sought it, but Dawn was spending the night at Janice's. As much as she disapproved of her sister's friend, Janice's family was moving away from Sunnydale, and she couldn't deny them one last sleepover. Buffy got home two hours after school let out and went directly to change out of her responsible clothes into comfy sweats and a t-shirt.
"It's me," she called, sensing Spike at the foot of the stairs. "Just got in. I told Dawn she could sleep over at Janice's one last time."
Before he could respond, the phone rang, and he answered it as a matter of course. Buffy, hesitating long enough to make sure it wasn't an emergency or otherwise for her, went to the bathroom to wash her face. The low rumble of his voice died away, and she felt him come up the stairs and wait for her to finish, standing at the bathroom door.
"Red," he said, gesturing down toward the phone. "She's at her parents' for dinner tonight. Got Xander roped into going along for moral support."
"So, so glad it's not me," she said, grimacing. Sheila Rosenberg had never been her favorite person, even before the whole MOO thing.
"Tired, love?" he asked, concern touching his eyes.
She crushed the towel between her hands and nodded. "Got stuck late doing paperwork. Lots of fights at school, a couple of kids who have lost family members recently – under mysterious Sunnydale circumstances – a lot of other students upset that their friends are leaving, and Principal Wood… he's always watching me."
"Watching you? As in Council of?"
"I don't know." She grimaced. "He doesn't zing the old Slayer senses, but it unnerves me."
"You're right totty, gorgeous, I mean," he said, a small smile of apology on his face. "Maybe that's why he looks."
She rolled her eyes, looking in the mirror at her tired face. "Not that kind of watching, either," she said. "I don't know; maybe it's some authority thing he does."
"Authority sucks," he said, sounding as though he was quoting some song lyric.
Buffy hung the towel over the bar and moved past him. "So, what do you want to do for dinner tonight?"
"Fridge raid?" Spike suggested.
"Not hungry, either?" she asked, giving him a wan smile.
"Come here," he said, matter-of-fact, holding out his hand. She put her palm against his, and he led her into her room. Mom's room, she thought, feeling a moment of bad-daughter guilt for having a boy in her mother's bedroom. "Have a seat," he directed, and Buffy sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. He scooted behind her, up on his knees, and put his strong fingers into the tense muscles on either side of her neck.
"Oooh," she moaned, then hissed in pain. The massaging fingers eased up, started again. "Ohhh," Buffy moaned again, no pain this time.
He chuckled, low and warm. "Not sure I've gotten that particular sound out of you before," he teased.
"Shut up and just keep doing… oooooh."
"Now, that I've heard."
She didn't have to answer, though, because she could still hear the humor and warmth in his voice. "No, don't shut up," she said abruptly. "Talk to me. I want to hear your voice."
"Dunno what to talk about," he said, fingers moving to her shoulders now. Then, of course, he found things to say: how the key to giving a good massage was having strong fingers; that the best massage he'd ever had was in Thailand and the woman never touched anything above his ankles; a restaurant in New York where eating Thai food was a pissing contest between regulars who competed to see who could eat the hottest, spiciest dish without drinking; a competition held every ten years between vampires in Mexico City as to who could rack up the most kills in a single hour; the Slayer from Norway who had stopped the competition, partly by virtue of being almost as pale as the undead in comparison to their prey; how Buffy had looked golden to him the first time he'd ever seen her, the prototypical California girl. He smiled a little at how it always circled back around to her. His hands were kneading along her lower spine now.
"Don't stop," she protested.
"Can't go any farther," he said wryly.
"What if I lay down?"
"Then you'll fall asleep."
She twisted her head to look at him. "What if I lay down and you keep talking? Then I won't fall asleep. And keep massaging," she added quickly.
"Greedy poppet," he said fondly. She lay on her stomach and closed her eyes, focusing more on the sound of his voice than the actual content and the insistent prodding of his fingers on her stiff body. Oddly, the more relaxed her muscles got, the sharper her mind became. After another ten minutes, she asked him to stop. Spike carefully lay down next to her, their eyes on the same level, a respectful foot or so of air between them. His eyes were full of contentment, as if giving to her filled him. "Buffy?" He hesitated. "About the house repairs… Why is it that you'll take money from me now, when you wouldn't before?"
"You're part of the family now," she replied, and watched him consider this. He looked older, she realized, so glad that he had looked the same before Willow went on her rampage. She would hate to think that knowing her had aged him, an unchanging vampire, but it appeared to be the months he'd spent on the Hellmouth, vulnerable before the First Evil. "Are you sorry you met me?" The question was out before she could reconsider.
He stared at her for a long time, thinking it over. "No," he said eventually, giving her an honest answer. "Wouldn't be where I am now, would I? Make no mistake, Buffy, lying here like this is more than I ever dared hope. Just to be your support, your… friend. No, I'm never sorry I met you." He began to breathe, and Buffy tensed again, despite the lingering effects of the massage. "Are you sorry you met me?"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "You don't make things easy, you know? Nothing black-and-white. But it isn't so much you as it is you being all tied in with growing up and finding out the world isn't a simple place."
"How can I make things easier?"
She smiled. He would do anything for her, wouldn't he? "Be evil, all evil. Then I wouldn't have to face the fact that I'm not all good."
"You are." His eyes caressed her because he wouldn't let his hands move across the small space.
She shook her head. "You, of all people, know I'm not."
"Yeah, you are. I can sense the good in you, strong and… You're my muse, Buffy. Not inspiring poetry or some such, but inspiring me to be good, be like you."
"I don't know how you can say that, after what I've done to you." When his gaze dropped from hers, she asked in a small voice, "What is it you're thinking of?"
He sighed. "You didn't come back for me. The alley, I mean."
Buffy closed her eyes. "I couldn't face what I'd done. I-I just blocked it out for a while."
"What do you think of? When you don't meet my eyes."
"Pick a night," she said, sighing and opening her eyes again.
"Buffy? Would it be all right if I held your hand? Just to be sure?" She understood; he didn't want to go through this discussion only to find that that it wasn't even her. Their fingers touched, then twined together in the space between their bodies. "What we did… there's nothing that's wrong between two people who love each other," he began, but instead closed his own eyes. "S'pose I should say between two consenting adults."
"When I was with you, i-it was okay," she blurted, needing to get it out while her courage lasted. "It was later, when I was alone, that it wasn't… okay. It was just too much for me, Spike, but I couldn't back down, not in front of you."
His eyes stayed shut, and his brows drew together over them. "I didn't realize. How could I not know?" His voice rose a little on the question, and his eyes opened, examining her face.
"You may have been a little distracted," she admitted, a smile curving one corner of her mouth.
"Yeah, a bit," he agreed, rich laughter in his voice. "You're beautiful when you smile, you know that?"
She ignored the compliment. "You know the worst thing you ever said to me?"
"God, the possibilities…"
"The first night, when we wrecked that building, you said… it was better than killing a Slayer."
He let his head fall onto the pillow. "Bloke comes his brains out all night, Buffy, he doesn't have many left to put together a coherent sentence." Spike pulled a rueful face. "Long time ago I told you the best night of my life was the fight with my first Slayer in China. I was trying to tell you that I had a new best night."
She nodded, absorbing this, feeling something raw inside her heal, and shifted from her stomach to her side, facing him. "What's the worst thing I ever said to you?"
His open face grew wary. "Let's not–"
She squeezed his fingers. "Let's. Tell me."
"Down the hall, in the bathroom. Told me you wouldn't love me even if I had a soul."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know you had one, Spike."
He lifted the shoulder that wasn't against the bed. "Had to face the truth sometime." He gave her a small smile. "But it felt like you did, once or twice."
Buffy's wide eyes were serious. "I still don't feel things like I should, Spike. Emotions, I mean. I… don't get that 'in love' feeling anymore. I… I don't know what that says about me." She bit her lip. "I can't put into words how I feel about you. Sometimes… I think I did, but it's like… trying to grab a sunbeam. If I could love, I think… I would love you." Unshed tears filled her eyes. "You deserve better than that."
He shook his head. "No, love. Don't apologize. You deserve better. Can't help what you feel, or what you don't. One thing I've never done is apologize for loving you. I just do, is all. Plenty of demons think that's wrong." He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. "Someday you'll feel all the emotions again, then… Who knows? We've both seen stranger things, yeah? And I got time."
She laughed a little. "How is it that you have so much faith in me?"
Everything was in his eyes, on his face. "I can't not believe in you." He closed his mouth against whatever else he'd been about to say, and lowered his lashes. When he looked back up at her, the level of emotion was manageable.
"Spike?" Buffy shifted her head on the pillow. They hadn't turned on the lights, and the sun was gone from this side of the house. She could still see him, but it was dark enough to say the difficult things. "That night the First Evil visited everyone, it told me that I'd hurt you more than Dru and Angel – Angelus and Darla ever had."
He did another of the one-shouldered shrugs. "True, for what that's worth."
"Angel implied…" She sighed and just blurted it out. "Do you like the pain, Spike?"
He considered her for a long moment before dropping his eyes. "You don't make it easy for me, either, askin' the hard questions. Don't like to think of myself like that, but," he gave her a bleak smile, "never really had a choice in the matter. Probably always be a bit bent, yeah?
"Don't need it," he added hastily, "the pain, I mean. But, honestly, I never thought about it much. Physical pain has been part of my existence all along, and I have a high threshold for it. Wouldn't have made it this far, otherwise. Don't have a problem inflictin' pain in a fight, but I'd mostly rather take it than deal it in bed. Always proud I didn't have to hurt Dru to bring her off. Contrary bugger, me." Spike's face was suddenly serious. "Did you really have to ask?"
Buffy looked away. "No. I know you prefer… no pain." There had been at least one moment, hadn't there, in every night they spent together?
"Did you know, you weren't the only one experiencing something different?" His gaze was earnest, tender. "Some of the time, especially that first night… Hundred and twenty years, and I didn't know it could be like that. Sweet. Gentle. Equal."
"Gentle?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Latter part of the night. Lovemaking," he clarified, his eyes dark. "Only with you, Buffy."
Her gaze sharpened. "Never…?"
He sighed. "There's no one else I ever felt that close to. Just you. It was so close, I could almost touch it… like you, maybe." He shrugged. "I loved Dru, and Dru loved me, but Angelus broke her practically before I was born. She doesn't have that in her." His jaw tensed for a moment. "She likes the pain."
"What's it like for vampires?"
"Don't have a frame of reference, love. I was sort of straitlaced before Dru found me, religious family, temperance, all that. Not a lot of outlets in the Victorian era for sex. Didn't keep a mistress. Was just getting around to looking for a missus."
His velvety voice was a little slurred, she realized, the way it only got when he was tired. "Then Dru got you," she prompted.
His gaze narrowed, seeing something in his memories. "Then it was like going from a drought to trying to drink from a fire hose. No complaints, me. Dru kept me to herself for 'most three weeks before she introduced me to the family. Angelus was my best friend for a while, and those are some hunting stories I'll never tell you. Even Darla eventually took an interest in me. There've been other vampires, demons over the years, a human once or twice. Most all of it meaningless." He shrugged. "What's all this about?"
"What Angel – the First said."
He rolled over onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, but he never let go of her hand. "If you want to know if Angelus and I ever had sex, Buffy, the answer is yes. 'Course we have. Vampires, yeah? Pretty straightforward, love, no undue torture involved. And it was never a big part of our… relationship. Neither of us is particularly turned that way. Not a great example, but sort of like straight guys in prison, a situational thing. Not like Angelus would have been taken with me the way Dru was, turned me because he had to have me.
"Won't lie to you; it felt good. We're always ready to go, and it was something to pass the time until our ladies got back. If Angelus wanted to… make a point, he had better ways to hurt me." No need to burden her with tales from the early years. He wanted to keep this conversation short. He didn't mention Angelus' long relationship with James and Elizabeth, and he knew intuitively that he should not tell her that souled Angel had stayed with them on and off for two years before Darla drove him away for good. "Only man I've ever shared a bed with, and not a lot there to recommend others."
"Oh." She stared at his profile, finally deciding that she was going to believe he was telling the truth about the lack of torture. "I guess I knew that you had. It seems odd to me. You're both so…." She had been about to say 'masculine,' then realized how stereotyped her thinking was.
"After Dru took me back to the family, the four of us shared a bed. I was hers, and Angelus belonged to Darla, and that's primarily how it was, thank God. Darla," he said, giving an exaggerated shudder, "was one cold bitch. I'd rather sleep with Angelus than her."
She laughed at this, because he meant for her to laugh. "Not me," she said emphatically.
He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "Should I be keeping an eye out for you and Red, then?"
"What? Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "I just meant… not Angel."
"'M good with that." He sighed. "So the First told you that you hurt me more than they had, and you've been worried they tied me down and tortured me?" When Buffy dropped her eyes, he let go of her hand and touched her cheek, rolling over to face her. He had absolutely been tied down and tortured, but since that part was just physical and he was never going to share that with her anyway, it was easy to lie about. "If what it meant was that I love you like I've never loved anyone, Buffy, it's true. That gives you more power to hurt me, right?"
She took a breath. "But what it said was more about… physical rather than emotional."
"Buffy," he asked, his voice suddenly urgent as something occurred to him, "has anyone ever hurt you sexually?"
Startled, she met his eyes and felt his hand relax against her cheek as her response answered his question. If she'd said yes, it would have been the same as signing a death warrant for someone, she realized, chip or no chip. She didn't want to know to what lengths he would go in order to avenge a sexual assault. "No. My first Watcher, the one in Los Angeles, creeped me out a little, but nothing happened or anything. It's just, I… I don't have the world's best track record," she confessed. "The first two guys I chose turned out to be one-night stands, for very different reasons. My one long-term relationship was…"
"Vanilla," he supplied.
"I was going to say routine." She shot him a warning look. "And my fourth…."
"Too much," he finished, sorrow in his voice. His hand was stroking her hair now. "No one's ever really hurt me that way, either, pet. Wouldn't be so open to sex, otherwise." He quirked a smile. "Vampire, of course. Very open."
"You always think of us as equals," she said, "but we're not. I don't have a lot of confidence. Not that way."
"Equals? Is that what you…? I was desperate to keep you coming back, love. I had an idea of what Soldier Boy hadn't given you. Wanted to give you… what you weren't missing, I guess. Variety."
"No, there was something missing with Riley. The variety thing, too, but… Sometimes, with you, I found what was missing."
That something flared to life between them, that connection, electricity coiling around nerve endings. Buffy was suddenly aware of her own body, the vulnerability of her stomach, the press of her breasts against the cotton of her t-shirt. As she stared into his eyes, her peripheral vision caught the flare of his nostrils, which meant he would know the desire she was feeling, even if they had no bond vibrating between them.
The moment stretched out but did not change. Neither of them smiled or tried to lighten the mood, just maintained eye contact, Spike's hand a light touch on her hair. The blue of his eyes darkened, and Buffy wondered if her own eyes changed color that way. She could ask him, because he would have noticed, only not just now, because now she had to….
His mouth was heaven, and she would know, Buffy thought as their lips met. Not soft, not hot, not wet, but… velvety and drugging and sweet. Spike's eyes were still open, looking into hers with a serious expression, searching for an answer to a question she could never understand. So she touched her tongue to his, closing those eyes. He made a small sound of desire.
I did this, she thought, covering his hand with hers, so that blond tendrils of her hair were caught between them. I made this man, this warrior moan with need. That had always meant so much to her, because no one else had ever made her feel so desirable, so desired. For the first time, she understood it as not just power, but responsibility.
Buffy pulled away, enough to say his name. He looked at her, lips slightly parted, eyes dark, and she felt her own need ratchet up a notch. "I've missed you."
"'M here now." She felt his breath, neither warm nor cool, touch her face. "Prob'ly shouldn't be."
"We… care about each other. Is that enough?"
"'M not strong, Buffy. Whatever my lady wants."
"Willow won't be home for hours. We can… it can be good, I promise. No… hurting."
Spike's eyelids drifted shut. "Hours," he agreed, his mouth seeking hers again, drawing the tip of her tongue against his, then slowly and thoroughly reacquainting himself with her lower lip. It was her turn to moan, and she moved her hand from his and placed it on his waist, partly to brace herself, partly just to be touching him. He tensed and pulled reluctantly away from her. There was something in his eyes that she hadn't seen before. "Lovemaking."
She considered his word, both statement and challenge. Did he think she didn't want that, too? Then Buffy realized what it was in his eyes, a sternness. "Yes," she breathed, in relief and anticipation. He wouldn't hurt her, and he wasn't going to let her hurt him again. She knew it was something that he would adhere to, not because he wanted to deny her but because she needed him to set boundaries. Before, he'd never said no, and she would never back down. But she hadn't hurt him since, so surely it would be okay….
Buffy moved into the kiss with renewed ardor, the hand on his waist tugging at his t-shirt until the hem pulled free and she could wiggle her fingers beneath. She inadvertently hit a ticklish spot, and he jerked toward her. Their knees touched, and Buffy slid her thigh over his, then down, caressing his leg with hers.
Spike's hand moved from her hair and down her back, his fingers coaxing an opposite reaction to the earlier relaxation during the massage. She pressed her body against his, settling her leg around his waist. "Hours," he reminded her, pulling away from her mouth just long enough to say the word.
"Now," she said, moving her lips along his jaw, pressing kisses against the slight scratchiness, "and again, for hours."
A chuckle escaped him, low and arrogant and pleased. "As my lady wishes." He rolled onto his back, and she came with him, straddling him. Buffy froze, her eyes closed, and swallowed hard as her heat pressed against the steel of a truly impressive erection, even for him. The layers of clothes between them were nothing, and she moved against him, grinding her pelvis into his until she cried out.
Spike held her as she collapsed onto him, breathing hard. "Love to watch you," he murmured, raising one knee so that his thigh pressed between her legs. His hands went to her hips, encouraging her to move against him again. "You ride so well, the way you move. Put your fanny there, love, right up against me. You're a natural horsewoman, Buffy, born to mount up, the long muscles in your thighs, your sweet bum made for my English saddle." She wasn't sure whether she understood less of the equestrian lingo or the British slang, but as long as it was his voice saying the words, she didn't care.
"Does that make you my stallion?" she asked, trying for a purring tone, and immediately felt silly. He was so much better at this than she was. Buffy felt his body respond to her words, though, so maybe it hadn't been too lame.
"Play the stallion for you as long as you want, love," Spike replied, pressing her hips down onto himself. He was moving his leg, rocking her against his thigh. "Can go for days, weeks, because it's you." Buffy braced herself against his forearms and sat up, moving against him deliberately. His eyelids drifted closed. "My cavalier can soldier on for months with nothing else for sustenance, love… or at least," he paused and took a hitching breath as she used her knees to lift up, then writhe against him, "I'd like to try."
"I'm going to burn this belt someday," she complained, giving up on it for the time being and pressing her palms against his – she tried the word cautiously in her own mind – cock. Buffy scratched her fingernails lightly against the denim.
"More," Spike gasped.
She grasped him as best she could through the jeans, fitting her hands around the shape of him, rubbing until she brought him to swift climax. Only then did he stop moving his thigh against her, and only for a few seconds. Spike skimmed his left hand from her hip across her leg, following the seam of her sweatpants. Buffy cried out as his fingers slid along the fabric.
She swallowed, breathing hard. "The two of us," she managed, "are pathetic."
"Everyone should be lucky enough to be this pathetic," he replied, his eyes open again and full of adoration.
"Would you take off my shirt and kiss me and give me five or six more orgasms," Buffy asked, "please?"
He grinned, touching the tip of his tongue to his teeth. "And how many do you want once I take off your trousers?"
"Six more," she replied pertly.
"And how many once I take off my trousers?"
"Too complicated," she complained, squeezing the hard length of him. "Lots. How's that?"
"Good," he grunted, closing his eyes again. "You're a dab hand at this, love. Bring me off again, Buffy," he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Like that…" His chest rose and fell with unnecessary urgency.
Buffy watched his face, her own breath coming hard again as he groaned and bucked beneath her hands. He was beautiful, she decided, and it wasn't a silly way to describe a man. Not this man.
He pulled himself up and threaded his fingers into her hair, drawing her down to him in a soft kiss. He held there, as if halfway through a sit-up, trapping one of her hands between them. His hand slid around her neck and down her body, underneath her shirt. She gasped at the feel of his hard fingers skimming her navel, and he hesitated, pulling his hand back against the fabric, so that his fingers hovered over her breast but didn't touch it.
Spike's lips were soft on hers, his body hard everywhere else, and she brought her free hand up to press his palm against her breast, her nipple against his cool skin. Buffy rubbed her hand against her shirt, feeling the outline of his fingers beneath, caressing him as he caressed her. She pulled away from their kiss to gasp for breath and remembered that she had two hands.
He watched as she fumbled with the zipper of his jeans, managing to get it down enough to wiggle her fingers inside. There he was, heavy, hard, and still surging against her touch. "God, Buffy, what you do to me," he growled, eyelids half-closed. Both of his hands were under her shirt now, and he lightly circled his palms over her nipples even as he lay back to give her freer access. "Everything you do pleases me. That," his voice was little more than a moan for a second, "gives me pleasure; this gives me pleasure." He cupped her breasts, brushing his thumbs across the peaks, and she moaned, too. "That sound you make, almost like a purr. Makes me wish we were lions. I'd take you at night on the savannah under a sky ablaze with stars, and the sound of our roaring would send our prey to ground for miles around. Then I'd lick you, groom you with my tongue, and you'd purr for me."
"Better not be any other lionesses in our pride," she said, her fingertips slowly circling along the length of him.
"Mated pair," he replied. "Jus' you an' me. Oh, love, yeah, there… You're amazing, how you always know just where –" He came again, his groan actually sounding like a low roar, and Buffy smiled at the memory of more full-throated roars. He was exactly like a big cat, a lion, a white tiger. She felt him jerk against her fingertips, the way he couldn't quite keep his hands from clenching her flesh. She came herself, just from watching him.
"Look at you," he murmured, squeezing her nipples just to feel her shudder again, "how beautiful."
"I was just thinking," she breathed, "the same thing about you."
He gave her a dubious look. "You're off your nut."
"Just what you like in women," Buffy replied smartly.
He grinned. "And I thought I was the one gettin' too big for my britches." In one swift, efficient motion, he had pulled her shirt over her head, and now the fabric was puddled around her wrists, trapping her. "I may just have to chastise you for it," he warned, "long and hard."
Buffy laughed at the mock-threat, and he rolled them over. She giggled as they bounced a little on the bed, and it turned into a moan as he lifted her arms above her head and fastened his mouth to her right breast. Impatiently, she finished doffing her shirt and brought her arms down around him, running her fingers through his hair. He glanced up, and she caught a flash of wicked blue eyes before he focused his attention on the feast before him.
Spike drew one knee up and planted it right between her thighs, his mouth busy attending to her nipple. In just a few seconds, she was writhing against his leg, coming and crying out his name. He looked up at her, all arrogant male, a smile of satisfaction on his lips, then glanced at her left breast and gave a melodramatic gasp. "Oh, look, another one!" She rolled her eyes, but he just gave her a sly look. "Think it feels left out? Neglected? Aw, poor kitten."
"It needs to be chastised, too," she agreed, and let her arms fall to her sides, surrendering to the inevitable. This is what it should have been like all along, she thought. Who knew sex could be this much fun?
It was okay to just let him pleasure her, because she'd already pleasured him. He was the only lover she'd ever had who made her feel competent, which was ironic, considering that he had taken the lead in almost everything. She couldn't tell Spike, but she thought of something she had learned from Riley. He had known more about guns than anyone else she'd ever met, and he told her that when gun collectors bought a rifle or pistol, they never fired it. Like driving a new car off the dealer's lot, actually shooting the gun would make it lose value.
Angel had treated her like that, put her in a glass case. She was precious to him, valuable, and up on a high pedestal. Of course, the one time he did take her down… best not to take the analogy too far. Riley was not a gun collector, and didn't keep her in a glass case at all. She had been a utility weapon, fieldstripped, reassembled, and maintained according to the manual every time. (Not going to count Parker; it's a wonder he didn't manage to shoot himself.)
Spike, though, would have no more use for a gun he couldn't shoot than for a sword with a dull edge. He did have her up on a pedestal, she knew that, he collected Slayers, after all, but he didn't want her to stay frozen there, never once denied her the ability to be, to do. He loved to see her work, watch her in action. Though they worked side-by-side every day, he still saw her special. Spike reveled in her strength, her sexuality, and wasn't scared by her passion, didn't think it unladylike. They were equals, after all.
She had never thought of it that way before. Oh, she knew he thought of himself as a predator, and she automatically rejected the thought of being one, too. It would have been arrogance for any other vampire to think himself her equal, but he was the Slayer of Slayers. Maybe what equals meant was that he recognized her as another – better – warrior at the peak of her game, and that he didn't want any restrictions placed on her ability. She was exceptional, even for a Slayer, and it didn't intimidate him at all. Because he was….
He was….
He was doing that thing with his tongue, his cheeks hollowed as he suckled her breast, his hands were at her hips, lifting her against him, and then Buffy couldn't think anymore.
"Is it," he asked fifteen minutes later, "time to lose the pants?"
"What?" she asked, dazed, then remembered that she had teased him that she wanted a lot of orgasms before she got her britches off, then a lot more afterwards. "No. I mean, yes, but yours have to go, too."
He raised one eyebrow coolly, the effect spoiled by his rumbled hair and the rise and fall of his chest, half-bared where she'd pushed his shirt up. "You quite sure? Because I think I could find another five or six hiding right about… here."
"Oooh," Buffy groaned, pressing herself against his fingers. "Yes, I'm sure. If I have to wait another minute to feel you inside me, I'm gonna explode, and not in–"
"Buffy!" Willow's voice came from the living room.
"The good way," Buffy finished, letting her head fall back on the pillow.
"Buf?" Xander, too.
She heard the slight click of Spike's teeth coming together. "I'll go," he growled, then called loudly "Just a mo!" He grimaced and leaned in for one last kiss, full of promise. "Tell me again why I haven't killed your friends already?"
"Don't ask me," she grumbled.
"You've been having a kip," he told her, which confused her for a moment, long enough for him to smooth his hair and start to walk away. No, Buffy thought in protest, not napping. I've been having incredible sex, well, foreplay with you. No more secrets.
Spike stopped at the door to scoop up her shirt from the floor and toss it to her. "Shame," he said, tucking in his own shirt with a wince. "Pity to waste such a stonker." He gave her a quick grin, raising his eyebrows. "Shoulda gone straight to the shaggin' huh? Never assume you have hours in Sunnydale."
"Spike?" She just stared at him, not sure what to say.
He looked back at her, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her breasts bare, and the smile on his face gentled. "Later, yeah?" The expression on her face and their past two hours together gave him courage. "I love you, Buffy."
Spike left before she would have to say anything. He stopped at the top of the stairs, holding his temples. His head was fair to splitting, as if the chip had gone off. But it couldn't be that; he hadn't done anything to trigger it. So between the pain and the interrupted lovemaking (that's the word, too, we really were making love; never thought we would ever have that again), he arrived in the living room with less than a good mood.
He watched Willow come back from the kitchen, then his gaze went to the fireplace, where Xander was holding a lad he recognized. It was one of the three humans who had given Buffy such a hard time last year, who had….
"Friend of Warren?" he asked in a silky voice. Spike turned back to Willow. "For me? Generous of you, Red." Then his eyes roamed over the getup the boy was wearing. Flummoxed for a moment, he sneered. "Spend a wad for the coat?" he asked dismissively. "I took mine off the dead body of someone brave enough to fight me."
"Y-you don't–" the boy began.
"Shut your gob," he ordered, then lifted his eyes to Xander. "What's the story with the spod?"
"We stopped to pick up lamb chops for Wil's parents, and this," Xander shook the shorter man, "was at the butcher's buying ten pints of pig's blood."
Spike raised his eyebrows, his focus going back onto the lad's scared face. "Ten pints?" He lifted his upper lip. "Interesting amount, innit, Red?" he asked, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her into a loose embrace, his head close to hers in conspiracy. "Slayer's upstairs napping. She was knackered after school today. Dawn's spending one last night with Janice," he whispered. Spike cast a look at the boy and gave him an evil grin, saying loudly, "Yeah, I like that." He turned back to Willow. "How you holdin' up?"
"I don't want to kill him," she said firmly, "if I don't think about it too hard."
He searched her eyes, then nodded. "Where's the other one?" He glanced over at where Xander was giving the boy a little shake.
"Haven't been able to get it out of him."
"Hey, guys," Buffy said from the landing, "what's up?"
"We have company," Spike answered loudly, pulling Willow closer and giving Buffy a broad wink.
"I wouldn't exactly call him a guest," Xander drawled, hauling his captive to stand at the bottom of the stairs.
"Andrew." Buffy smiled a little as she shouldered this new burden. "Back in Sunnydale." She came down a couple more steps. "Aren't you even competent enough to not come back to the scene of your crimes?"
Spike gave Willow a last squeeze in support, dropping a kiss on her head. He drew a hissing breath as another lance of pain gouged into his head. He let go of her, swaying slightly, and looked away from her concerned face to the prisoner.
What he saw gave him a nasty shock. Behind Xander and Andrew stood… himself. The apparition wore the long black coat, and he lifted the lapels away from his body, then let go to wave a dismissive gesture at the boy who was dressed so similarly. Then it looked directly at Spike. "How you feelin,' mate?"
His gaze flat, Spike turned his focus to Andrew. "You've brought death into this house, boy. You reek of the Hellmouth, of spilled blood." His voice was deep and cold, and Spike got so close to him that their noses were practically touching. "If you think you can come to this town like you own it, done up like a dog's dinner," his eyes flicked contemptuously down at Andrew's outfit, "you've dropped a bollock." He could see his own self moving around to his right, see Xander to his left, and feel Willow and Buffy, strongest of all, behind him. "Now, tell us what you're doing here, save us the trouble of sorting you out, and I won't kill you."
Andrew's chin firmed as he looked up at the vampire. "You can't hurt me," he said. "That chip in your head won't let you. So… booger off." He pushed at Spike's chest with his free hands.
Spike swayed a little, then grinned, catching his tongue between his teeth. "It's bugger off, you knob." He shook his head before the amusement on his face simply vanished. "Can't fool me into thinking you grew a set, jessie boy." He turned and stared directly at where his doppelganger stood, looking entertained, its arms folded. "I know where your courage is coming from." Andrew swallowed, his chin suddenly weak again.
"How'd you know what Spike's chip does?" Buffy asked in a hard voice. Spike took a step back from the boy and let her have at, not taking his eyes from the First Evil.
"Warren figured it out."
"No, the great Warren did not figure it out," Willow said contemptuously. "If he had, he would have modified the signal so he could control Spike."
They all turned to stare at her, and she shrugged self-consciously. "It's what I would have done."
By the time Spike looked back, the First Evil had disappeared. He watched Andrew closely, instead. The young man started to say something to Willow, his eyes darting around, then he closed his mouth.
"Where's Jonathan?" Buffy descended the final step. "Did he come back with you?" When Andrew remained silent, she walked around to his right, opposite of where Xander held his arm and neck. "Why do you need eight quarts of pig's blood?"
Andrew swallowed, but there was a mutinous gleam in his eye. "I don't have to tell you nothing."
"Backup's gone, huh, boy?" Spike said, moving to stand behind Buffy. He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Who'd it come to you lookin' like?" He leaned over the Slayer's shoulder. "Me, was it?"
Andrew's gaze flickered to him, then away, telling Spike all he needed to know. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Buffy turned her head and looked up at him. "You saw…?" He met her eyes and nodded. She turned back to Andrew, and Spike could sense her amusement. "All right. So, you've summoned some demons in your day." She walked around him, past Xander, and came back to stand between Andrew and Willow. "But you have no idea what you're dealing with now."
"Neither do you," her prisoner shot back. "You're just a little girl."
Buffy gave him a gentle smile. "I do know. It's called the First Evil, and it called me that once already. About four years ago. I'm still here. I'm the Slayer, though, a chosen warrior with supernatural abilities. You, on the other hand…" she began the slow circling again, "I don't think you'll last too long."
"So, what do you want to do with him, Buf?" Xander asked. "We should probably keep him in protective custody, huh? For his own safety?"
She nodded. "It's for his own good, after all."
Andrew panicked. "You can't hold me against my will. I know my rights."
"You're a bad guy, Andrew. You don't have any rights," Willow said, sounding bored. "Remember when you were in the police station? That didn't protect you from me. You want to stay alive a few days longer, you're better off here."
"I think he wants to go back to the Hellmouth," Xander said, giving the shorter man a sharp look. "He'd scamper right to it, if I let him go."
"Well," Buffy said, "since you can't hold onto his collar all night…" She turned to Spike. "Would you go down to the basement for me? There's some rope down there. Oh, and Spike? Since Andrew thinks you can't hurt humans–" She timed it perfectly, throwing a punch at his jaw before he knew what she was about, leaving just enough time for him to block and return an automatic jab at her stomach. She stepped into it, just a little.
"Oh, bloody hell! Buffy!" He had his hand placed over hers, helping her clutch her solar plexus, his brows drawn together in concern. "Don't have to demonstrate a damned thing for this spackhead."
Xander and Willow, after their initial shock over the violence, looked at their newly scared prisoner before exchanging satisfied glances. "Yeah, Buffy," Xander drawled. "Think how funny the look on his face would be if our friendly neighborhood vampire just unexpectedly tore into him."
Spike wasn't the only one who heard the boy swallow. Still angry, he led Buffy into the kitchen, turning away from her to grip the edge of the kitchen sink. "Don't like to hurt you, Slayer."
Her eyes widened. He hadn't called her that in a long time. "I'm sorry. I didn't want him to think he had anything over you."
"Big girl's blouse like that? Please. Even with the chip, he doesn't."
She sighed and purposely changed the topic. "Ten pints of blood."
"More than enough to equal drainin' a human."
She nodded. He would know. "Sacrifice, then?"
"Seems a reasonable conclusion."
"The First appeared to him as you."
"Think so. That's what I saw, leastways. Not a clue as to why."
"Spike, I said I was sorry."
He sighed, looking down at the edge of the sink. He'd left fingermarks dimpled into the stainless steel, and he forced himself to let go. Turning to face Buffy, he closed his eyes. "Not how I pictured this afternoon turning out. Sometimes I wonder if everything I do has to end in violence, in pain, blood. Sometimes, I can't tell if I've changed even a little bit."
"I can."
Spike opened his eyes. She looked as serene and sure as any Renaissance painting of the Madonna. He cleared his throat. "Ta," he managed.
Buffy gave him a smile that was only slightly forced. "Go get the rope." He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she rolled her eyes and went back to the living room, hearing his chuckle diminish as he went down the basement stairs.
He's back, she thought, and although she didn't smile, her heart was lighter. Teasing me, being sexy, and always looking for the fun in things… he's back. Buffy knew that she wouldn't be able to see that so clearly if she was whole herself, but it was still nice to recognize in someone she cared about.
⸹
By the next evening, Spike knew something was seriously wrong with his chip. It wasn't just the chip; there was something else involved, but the ache inside his skull was overwhelming, and he couldn't think, couldn't figure it out. Bit had come back from Janice's early the next morning, down at the mouth over her friend leaving. He got her to sit with him on the couch to watch cartoons, but had to leave her after just a few minutes because of the pain in his head. He took a handful of Percocets from a forgotten bottle with Joyce's name on it, not really expecting much relief. There were precious few substances he hadn't tried in the pre-soul days in order to curb the chip's effect.
Anya came by a couple of hours later, having received Xander's message. The two of them were going to play good cop/bad cop with their captive, and the ex-demon seemed almost too happy at the prospect. Spike gave her a quick hug after he opened the door, because no one else would and he knew what it was like to be on the outside. The raging headache came back, stronger than it had been.
He was sitting quietly at the counter in the kitchen now, nursing a mugful of tepid blood. Xander came in and gave him a curious look on his way to the refrigerator. "You look like something the cat threw up, grandpa."
"Keep that up, and I won't leave you anything in my will, sonny."
"You feeling okay?" Xander asked, drinking some orange juice directly from the carton.
"Headache," Spike replied shortly.
The dark-haired man frowned at him. "Must be bad."
"How'd you figure?"
Xander shrugged. "That stuff about your will? Lame comeback."
"Yeah, not my best."
"So, the headache?"
"Yeah. Bad."
"Is it the chip?"
Spike looked up. "Yeah, it is," he answered slowly.
Xander shrugged again. "Giles said you figured it was gonna stop working someday." He took another swig from the carton and put it back in the fridge. A frown settled on his face, and he took a couple of steps closer. Spike was surprised when he put an awkward hand on his shoulder. "Go downstairs and get a nap or something. You look beat."
"Feel it." He managed a smile and covered Xander's warm hand briefly with his own. "Don't go a bundle on being up in the daytime, anyway." He stood, swaying a little. It was as good a time as any, since they weren't sniping at each other. "'S'been nice the last coupla weeks, Harris, bein' mates." Spike started to say something else, then his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin rill of blood trickled from one nostril. He would have fallen from the stool and collapsed onto the floor if Xander hadn't been there to catch him.
"Buffy!" Xander's voice was faint with surprise. He knelt down a bit further and got Spike into a fireman's hold, grunting as he stood back up. The vampire was, no pun intended, dead weight, fifty or sixty pounds heavier than any of the Scooby girls Xander was wont to pick up in a hug. He headed for the upstairs, where the Slayer was, panicking a little. "Buffy!" His voice was stronger this time.
"What?" the Slayer answered, sounding annoyed.
"It's Spike. He passed out or something." They met on the landing, Buffy's eyes focused on the unconscious man. "It's the chip."
"Get him to my room," she said, dashing back upstairs.
Dawn and Willow crowded around the bed, and the four of them took turns placing damp washcloths on his forehead and waving smelling salts, Vaporub, and the vampire's unfinished cup of blood beneath his nose. Twenty minutes passed before they were able to rouse the blond man. He stared up at their faces, blinking owlishly. Willow bit her lip as he looked at her. There was a red blossom of blood on the white of his right eye.
"Oh, Auntie Em, I had the strangest dream," Spike mumbled. "You were there, and you…" He tried to sit up.
Buffy pushed him back. "Xander said the chip…?"
Spike nodded. "Yeah. Just since this morning. No, yesterday." His eyes widened suddenly. "Since–" His mouth snapped shut, and it was obvious that he was going over the chain of events that led to him being here, harmless, in Buffy's bed. "'S'not just violence anymore," he said, his voice hoarse.
"Something other than violence is triggering your chip?" Willow asked.
He nodded slowly. "Cuddled on the couch with Nibblet this morning, gave Anya a hug, called Xander my mate," he winced a bit, as if even naming it hurt, "yesterday when I kissed your hair, Red."
"Your chip is firing when you're affectionate?" Dawn asked. "That's crazy."
"I wouldn't say affectionate," Xander explained to no one in particular, "friendly, maybe."
Buffy was watching Spike closely. "When did it start?"
"When Andrew came into the house," he said, pinpointing it. "Before that, I was fine." He gave her a rueful, private look.
"And you saw the First Evil with him." She held his gaze, and he nodded.
"Reckon it–" Spike stilled. "Someone's in the house," he said in a low, deliberate voice, and then they all heard a crash and Anya screaming.
"Anya!" Xander was already barreling toward the hallway.
Buffy's hand was still on Spike's chest, and she pressed down lightly. "Stay here." She turned to her sister. "Dawn, in the closet. No arguments." Then she was out the door, following Xander and Willow. Buffy slew her first Bringer in the hallway, a more difficult battle than it should have been, but the vessels were full of the First's will. There seemed to be dozens of them, and she struck out at one, then another, replacements always ready to wade in behind. She took a knife from one as he toppled to the floor, taking a microsecond to wonder how they could fight so well without eyes.
Then, shockingly, it was over. The Bringers were just… gone, no longer there, not even the bodies. "Xander! Wil! Anya!" Buffy called, heading toward Willow's bedroom, her old room.
"In here," Xander replied, his tone reassuring her. "Retrieval op," he said in a quieter tone as she came into the room. His arms were around Anya, and Andrew was clinging to his shoulder. "They were after Andrew."
"They just gave up," Willow said with satisfaction, putting down a baseball bat, "and ran like bunnies."
"They're creepy, but I don't know if they're as bad as bunnies," Anya said.
"Buffy!" Dawn's voice was full of panic, rising on the second syllable.
She was beside her sister as fast as Slayer speed could get her there, reaching for Dawn's shaking hands as she stood at the door to Buffy's room. "They hit him over the head. I tried to get to him, but those guys in the burlap bags kept the closet door closed. They took him," she said, crying now. "They took Spike."
She looked into her room, at the covers pulled nearly off the bed, at the splash of blood on the wall from the overturned cup. Then she briefly touched Dawn's face, trying to comfort her, but her own eyes were empty. "Xander, Anya," she said, leading her sister into the hallway, "I don't care what you have to do to him, get him to talk." It was the voice of the Slayer, and it carried. They could hear Andrew's strangled whimper. "Willow, protect Dawn. I don't care what magicks you need to do it." She turned and went down the stairs, the Scoobies trailing behind, already getting over the shock and ready to do whatever was necessary.
Buffy went to the weapons chest Xander had made for her, quickly and efficiently moving aside most pieces until she found one at the bottom. She wasn't sure how it had remained in her possession; she supposed that Giles had taken care of it. She would look at it, a thing of cold beauty, every so often and feel the pain all over again. Now she withdrew the finest weapon in her arsenal, a sword as slender and strong as she was herself. It came to her through Kendra, who still showed up in her dreams. She had used it to send one souled vampire to hell. Now she hoped that it would be enough to rescue another one.
She took a breath and stood up gracefully. Her friends and her sister, the people who loved her, that she knew she loved, regarded her in silence. Buffy reached deep and gave them a smile meant to be reassuring. "See you in a little while." The Slayer walked out into the twilight.
⸹
Headlights splashed across her, across the bench, but Buffy couldn't bring herself to look up. A few minutes later, she realized that Xander was holding her as she sobbed.
"What happened?" he asked quietly. He had volunteered to come out to find her after the third slow hour had passed. He had been ready to march into the school alone, axe in hand. Xander hadn't expected to find the Slayer sitting outside the school on a bench, weeping.
"Nothing," she managed, her voice full of anguish. "I kept coming back to the same stupid r-room! I walked through miles of halls in the school basement, and it n-never let me get any closer." She clutched the sleeves of his jacket. "I can f-feel him, Xander! He's there, but I can't get to him."
"Shh, Buf," Xander said, patting her back awkwardly, at a loss for what else to do. "I know you love him. We'll get him back. We always do. Remember when Giles–"
But she had focused on only one thing. "That's just it, Xander. I don't love him. I should. I want to. But I just… don't feel it." She drew a shaky breath. "If I loved him, maybe then I could break through, get to him."
He patted her again. "Buffy, you certainly… act like you love him."
"No," she said miserably. "It's only, I'm frustrated, Xander." Buffy wiped at her eyes. "It's like I had some window of opportunity that's closed. Everyone I love has already come in, and I closed the window, and now I can see Spike on the outside, but the window is… is never…"
"Oh, hey," he said, soothing her with his concern. "It doesn't work like that, Buffy. You've been through a lot, is all. It'll be okay, I promise." He thought of all the times she would grip his arm, or Willow's, or her sister's, the desperation in her tone as she said she loved them. Xander shied away from anything that pointed out a weakness in Buffy; it was just wrong. He changed the topic. "Spike's strong. Maybe he'll escape, and if he doesn't, he'll survive until you can rescue his undead ass. You will, you know. You're the Slayer."
"He'll… he'll be okay? You promise?" Buffy said, sniffling. She knew Xander's logic was rickety, but she had to have something to stand on right now.
"Sure, Buf. He survived Glory, right, a hellgod? And he managed to escape her on his own." She nodded, taking a breath and wiping her face. Encouraged, Xander went on. "And, from what I've heard of the trials he faced to get his soul, fighting for a whole week or something… he's pretty tough."
"He survived me."
Xander stiffened and let out a breath. "Yeah. He did."
"Okay. I-I'm ready. To go home and face the wrath of Dawn, I mean."
"Yeah, the Slayer ain't scared of nothing."
"Nothing except my freakishly tall baby sister." She stood up, still holding his hand. "They were probably expecting me, right? The Bringers or the First, whoever is keeping the basement a maze, they'll relax their guard tomorrow. I can rescue him then. The daylight will help."
"Sure, Buf. And I'll remind Dawn of all the worse scrapes he's been in, too."
She turned and hugged him, surprising the dark-haired man. "I love you, Xander," she said fiercely.
He curled an arm around her, loving her, hating that she wasn't invincible. "I love you, too, Buffy. It's going to be all right. You'll see."
⸹
January 2003
Spike hung against the chains, taking his rest where he could get it. It was easier to be a captive on the Hellmouth when the bonds were on your body instead of in your mind. The First Evil still came to him in guises – he assumed because it didn't have a face of its own – but most of the time it didn't bother to pretend that it was the person whose face it wore.
In a way he would never be able to explain adequately, he felt better when the First Evil and its beast, the Turok-Han, were with him, despite the pain. At least when they were tormenting him, he knew that the people he cared about were marginally safer. It made him braver, made the helplessness easier to bear. He had no idea of the passage of time, of how long it had been since they ritually spilled his blood; on the Hellmouth; even his most basic ability to sense the coming morning was stripped away.
As was, he admitted, most everything else. His pride and dignity were gone, along with a good chunk of his sanity. The torture that involved dunking him came to mind – the First had planted in his brain that it was holy water, and it never occurred to him how unlikely that was.
His courage and bravado were gone as well. Twice the First Evil had swarmed him, tried to… not possess him, but… merge with him, was the only term that came to mind. He couldn't imagine a worse fate, and the thought that it might try again was unmanning. He'd always been himself, whether he was a bad poet dithering around London or the Big Bad draining human blood across the globe. The near-loss of his sense of self… he would rather really be dunked in holy water, while a dragon breathed fire on any parts that didn't stay submerged, while watching Buffy demean herself before what's-his-face, the smug bastard who'd treated her like a one-night-stand her first month at university. Well, no, didn't want Buffy involved. Just the holy water and the dragon.
Both times, the First Evil had pulled away, surprised that it hadn't worked and disappointed that it hadn't at least reduced him to a pile of ash. He wasn't strong enough, but there was another. He remembered it had gone on about that after the second attempt. Alarmed, he'd thought of Angel, but the First, still in his mind, had laughed. The prophecies about souled vampires weren't to be trusted, it had said, and then it had taken one more thing from him.
The government chip in his head now belonged to the First Evil. It still fired off, but not when he had the impulse to violence. The First had chosen something much more sinister. "You've done everything for this transient human emotion called love," it said, wearing his father's face. It went on as Dru. "You fled into my arms to escape thwarted love." Buffy walked around him. Oddly, it seemed most at home in her image. "You allied with your enemy for love, regained your soul for love." She shook back her hair. "Nothing can kill your love. I think it's only right that love will be what kills you."
"You told me again, William, even though I'd warned you not to. You said, 'I love you, Buffy.' You never learn. That was the trigger. From now on, every loving impulse you have will fire the chip. And since you can't stop loving…" It stood from his side and became himself. "Poetic, innit?" Then it laughed at its humor and went away, black coat fluttering into the darkness.
The First was right. It was the only thing he'd never managed to give up. He could exist without a heartbeat, without a family, without violence, without hope. He had never, ever managed to not love, plunging in completely, floundering in waters too deep for any creature, giving his heart even when he knew the feeling would not be returned. The chip would fire, and fire again, and he would keep on loving his humans until something critical failed.
One August night, when Buffy was gone, he and Dawn had been walking back from a visit to Joyce's grave, going slowly and looking up at the stars. She had wondered aloud what it would have been like if her mother had survived the aneurysm, if Joyce's body had lived and her mind hadn't. The thought had haunted Spike, because even then the chip worried him. He made Dawn promise to see that he was staked if he ever went into a coma. So, now, one way or another, the chip would be the death of him.
Everything had been taken from him, really, except for two certainties. Spike held fast to them, the only things that kept his mind even remotely anchored during the endless hours of pain. The important one was that Buffy was alive, and she would come for him. No matter what the First took from him, he would know if she died, the connection born of their passion stronger than any bloodlink. The other was that First Evil couldn't consume him, not the way it wanted. That meant when Slayer came for him, there would still be something of him left for her to rescue.
⸹
[Author's Note: No Eve, no Chloe, because once you're at the Summers' residence, you're onto the First Evil's tricks.]
"Giles, you're sure you can't stay just a little longer?"
"No, Buffy," he said impatiently. "It really is a matter of life and death. Spike is a warrior, after all, and these potential slayers who are being hunted… they're just girls."
"I know, Giles." She hesitated, biting her lip. They were alone in her bedroom, which she was sharing with Dawn now that Giles had brought three of the girls for her to protect. "But I need you to be right here with me for just a couple of minutes, not in St. Petersburg or China."
He took a breath and forced a smile. "Right, then. You have my full attention."
"This doesn't have to do with Spike, Giles. Or, or the threat to the potential slayers, either. It's about me."
"I can't deny that it's a relief to focus on something other than these unceasing attacks." He sat down gingerly on the edge of her mattress and waited.
"There are some things I've been wondering about. You remember you told Dawn that you checked to see if she had a soul?" Buffy looked down. "Giles, where did the monks get her soul from?"
"If you're wondering whether she has part of yours," he said, his voice quiet, "I must admit that the thought has crossed my mind, too. I-I could gather some supplies, check to see… ask Willow if she would help."
"I-if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble, really."
"Would Dawn have to know?"
"No. No, she wouldn't." He studied her. "Are you sure you want to know?"
His Slayer didn't look at him, but she nodded. "I'm sure. Even before I died, I was worried that I couldn't feel things the same way I once had. If it's because Dawn needed a part of me… I could live with that."
"You do realize that you were very much the same until Joyce died?"
She shook her head. "No. No, I never loved Riley, not the way–"
"He wasn't all that loveable, to be frank," Giles interrupted. "It's possible that Dawn has part of your soul and had part of Joyce's, and when she died… Or, or perhaps you couldn't recover from grief and, well, death without an entire soul." He saw her face and backtracked. "Of course, all of this is supposition."
"Right."
"How are you with your new houseguests?" He rubbed his brow, changing the subject. "I hate to bring them here, but, honestly, you're the only one who has a chance of keeping them safe, despite being near the Hellmouth." Rupert sighed. "The Council usually would never let a Slayer meet the young women who might replace her. It's… cruel, and I'm sorry, Buffy."
To his surprise, Buffy gave him a genuine, if subdued smile. "I'm not worried about being replaced. Didn't happen with two Slayers. I sort of figure I'm Slayer-for-life, now." It was badly put, but she knew he would know what she meant.
She watched him have some inner debate, then he looked up. "I'm of the same mind. You're the most effective Slayer that ever has been, and you'll soon break the record for living the longest past your calling. I… I don't think you were meant to survive the Master, Buffy. There should be any number of prophecies about a Slayer of your caliber, but there hasn't been any that I could turn up, not since the one about him," a pained look crossed his face, "killing you. The prophecy came true, yet you survived."
"What does that mean?"
He sighed and deflected her. "It's the same with Spike. Every interpretation of prophecy dealing with a vampire with a soul leans toward Angel, not Spike. There are two vampires with souls, but only one has attracted the attention, the weight of destiny." He grimaced, unhappy with himself. "There are two Slayers, but no prophecies about the one who can best fight the forces of darkness. What I think that means…" he hesitated, then gave her an unexpected grin. "I think that means that you can do whatever you damned well please."
"You trust me to do that?"
"I do."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Buffy half-smiled. "I guess my couple of minutes is up."
"It's amazing how much you can say of importance in such a short time." He reached out and took her hands. "Let me add one more: I love you, Buffy."
She squeezed his fingers. "I love you, too, Giles. I really do." She sighed and stood up. "So, what do you need to do the soul-check thing? Will you be able to do it before you leave?"
"It's very simple, barely more than an aural reading. I'll go find Willow, see if she has the materials I need and if she's willing to help. Then I just need you to talk quietly to Dawn for a few minutes. You'll know before I leave tonight."
Only a couple of hours, really, full of trying to awkwardly get to know some girls she would never have spoken to if someone wasn't trying to kill them, full of ignoring the whines of Andrew, her other 'guest,' full of staring into the refrigerator and willing more food to magically appear. Then she caught Giles' eye and went to her sister, pulling her into the dining room. She asked how Dawn was holding up, and the transparent gratitude on the teen's face cut into her like a knife. Buffy pulled her sister close, and they talked quietly about Giles, Spike, the new girls, and some more about Spike. Giles finally interrupted them to say goodbye, Xander standing behind him, waiting to take him to the airport. I talked to my sister longer than I had to, Buffy thought, pleased with herself.
Very quiet, almost in her ear, Giles murmured. "Each of you has the same, Buffy." Then, louder, "Please, take good care of yourself and your charges."
Her eyes were bright. "I will," she promised, but her mind was on Dawn, her blood and her soul. Buffy smiled, blinking back the tears. If Dawn shared her soul, that was okay. For someone created by monks two years ago, she was remarkably normal, if a little lonely. It occurred to Buffy that Dawn loved Spike. Therefore, she did, too. It was a comfort to know that.
⸹
The house was quiet, only an occasional sniffle from Andrew breaking the suburban silence. Xander and Anya were gone back to their respective apartments, and the young girls were too uneasy to chatter very much the first night in their new surroundings. In Buffy's room, Dawn looked over at her sister, her pale hair the only thing she could really see in the gloom.
"Buffy?"
"Yes?" She didn't sound impatient, for a change.
Dawn rolled over and propped her head on her hand. "I talked to Giles before he left. He gave me an envelope with a check in it. It's from the funds he could access from the Council accounts, to help pay for the potential slayers' upkeep. I put it on top of the refrigerator." She paused a moment, staring at her sister's profile. "He told me something that I'm supposed to tell you and Willow, Xander, Anya, and Spike, too, when we get him back. Everyone who knows about me being the Key."
That got Buffy's attention. "What is it?" She rolled onto her side, too.
"Giles got some friends of his from the Coven, the one that helped Willow, to do a spell on all of us – him, too. He said it was a variation on the forgetting spell Willow kept casting last year. I-it won't make us forget things, but we literally can't tell anyone else about me being the Key. Like if I tried to tell Janice – if she was still here – I'd get distracted and lose my train of thought and never get around to telling her."
"When?"
"After he went back to England, after you came back."
"Oh." Buffy frowned a little. "I guess that's pretty neat."
Dawn raised an eyebrow. "Imagine if he had been able to cast that spell when Glory had Spike."
"Oh," Buffy said again, her voice full of understanding now. "That means you're safe. No one else knows, and we can't tell anyone else, period. No accidents."
"And no torture." Dawn smiled sadly. "Though he didn't need the spell."
Buffy reached for her sister and took her in a hug. It was getting easier to offer comfort to other people. She held her sister for a few minutes, easing them both back onto the pillows. She was surprised when Dawn pulled away from her with a dry face.
"I'm really worried about him, Buffy."
"I know." The Slayer's voice was quiet. "He's on my mind all the time. I look every night, during every break, every spare moment."
"I know you do." Dawn closed her eyes. "I'm so afraid of what they're doing to him. Is it wrong to wish he would just die? So he could be at peace?"
"No." She stroked her sister's shiny hair. "It's not wrong to wish that he was at peace. But listen, Dawnie. Spike doesn't give up, ever. You know that. Don't you give up on him."
"I won't if you won't."
She heard the underlying meaning and sighed. "I wish I could be the right woman for him, I really do, Dawn. But I can't. It's not in me anymore." She hesitated. "The Slayer in me has become too strong, I guess. I… I don't think I'm ever going to fall in love again."
"Do you think you'll stop loving people altogether?" Dawn's voice was small.
"No. Oh, no, Dawnie. I still love you and my friends and Mom and Tara, even though they're gone. It's just… I never loved Riley, either, not the way I loved Angel."
"Spike said that Angel didn't fill up your heart," her sister said slowly, "that he folded it down small around the memory of the time you had together."
The Slayer considered this, then gave a soft snort of laughter. "Spike always gets right to the most painful point, doesn't he?"
"Goes for the jugular," Dawn quipped.
"That's fair, I guess, about Angel. But this… this emptiness, it's something different, okay? I'd like to just leave it at that, because… it isn't an easy thing to admit." There was no way she would tell Dawn about her soul.
"All right," she agreed quietly. "I love you, too, though, even if you are a big poophead."
"And I love you, even if you're a big pain in the butt."
"Night, Buffy."
"Goodnight, pain in the b – ow!"
⸹
"Buffy?"
The Slayer put down the canvas tote that served as her briefcase and looked up at Willow. "Yeah?"
"Would you go with me to Tara's grave?"
Buffy frowned, wondering what brought this on. She'd just gotten in from work, hadn't started doing anything about dinner. It was a good time. "Sure, Wil. Let me grab a jacket. It'll be dark before we get back." She popped her head into the living room, where Dawn had already sat down to talk with the bored potential slayers, showing them her homework. "Dawnie, Wil and I are going to visit Tara. We'll be back in about an hour, okay?"
As they turned the corner of her block, Buffy felt a tiny resistance in the air. Raising an eyebrow, she looked at Willow. "Did you feel that?"
Her friend nodded, looking a little scared. "Uh, Anya and I put up wards to keep aggressors out of your neighborhood."
"That's good, Willow," Buffy said encouragingly.
The witch gave her a nervous little smile. "You said to do whatever I had to do to keep Dawn safe."
"I'm glad you did. I'll be sure to thank Anya, too."
They walked in silence, except for a noting a couple more businesses had closed. By unspoken agreement, they went by Joyce's grave first, and Buffy put a couple of the stones she had helped Willow collect on her mother's headstone, as she had no flowers. It was only a short walk to Tara's resting place from there. The Slayer stepped forward and arranged her remaining rocks on one corner of the marker, then walked away a few yards, giving Willow her privacy.
The redhead joined her a few minutes later, her lashes wet and clumped from unshed tears. She slipped her cold hand into Buffy's, and they began to walk back to Revello. "My parents are leaving Sunnydale," Willow said, with no buildup.
Buffy turned to examine her friend's face. "It's probably not a bad thing," she said slowly.
Willow nodded. "I know. It's hard, though." The wind caught her hair, and she lifted her free hand to tuck the wayward strands behind her ear.
"Where are they going?"
"Mom got a faculty position in Arizona. Dad's going to take a year off to do a major revision for the next edition of his book."
"Sounds like a good move for them."
"I didn't even know she was looking for another job. They've always been distant, but not – It's like I don't matter to them anymore, since I'm not at Harvard or Oxford, having the academic career so they can brag to their colleagues. 'Oh, yes, our daughter is on the Dean's List at Berkeley.' 'Oh, our daughter got that fellowship.' Sometimes I help save the world, and they don't want to know it. I almost ended the world, and they're never going to acknowledge that, either. They don't believe it, don't believe me, and it's never going to matter to them."
Buffy knew all of this, she'd always known, but Willow had never said it aloud. She guessed Tara had heard this, though, and she squeezed her friend's hand.
"I feel bad, complaining about my parents, when Xander's are so much worse, but it's my pain." She studied her feet as they moved out of the cemetery and onto the sidewalk. "I don't think I'll ever forgive them for not coming to Tara's funeral, but I still love them. It's hard for me to imagine them not being there. They're leaving Sunnydale, but it feels like they're leaving me."
"I still miss my house in L.A.," Buffy said, not knowing if it would help. "A lot of my dreams – just regular dreams, not Slayer dreams – are set there. One of the hardest things when my parents divorced was leaving that house. It was like being… rootless."
Willow gave her a grateful look. "Yes, that's exactly it. Where do I fit anymore? If Tara was still here, I wouldn't feel lost. I'd know where I fit."
Buffy squeezed her hand again. "I think I've felt that way since my Mom died." She frowned a little. "Everything's seemed off kilter since last summer, too. You came back, but Spike… he wasn't himself until just before…" The Slayer trailed off.
This time Willow squeezed her hand. "I don't know what I would do without you and Xander and Dawnie."
Buffy gave her a smile. "Same here."
"This is the end, isn't it?" Willow lifted a hand to tame her hair again. "Even after we beat the First Evil, things aren't going to be the same again. Sunnydale won't be the same."
"No. I don't know." Buffy lifted a helpless hand. "It's the same in so many ways – we know who and what the bad guy is; we just don't know where they are, so we can't attack. At least we're not on the run this time, not like we were with Glory."
Willow nodded. "Yeah, if we could just find those Bringers, break their chant, we could end this." She looked at an empty storefront across the street. "The only thing is, this time we're not the only ones who've noticed that something bad is happening. It feels weird. I'd kind of gotten used to fighting evil at night and just going to the mall or to get a latte during the day, enjoying the way the world we save just goes on."
"This time we're not saving it," Buffy said sadly.
"We will. We'll save it," Willow reassured her.
"But they know there's something in the shadows now, something they can't deny or explain away. The town's… lost its innocence."
"I guess we all do."
⸹
Buffy grabbed her jacket and climbed out the window. Instead of going down to the yard, she shimmied her way up the shingles onto the roof, going slowly because of her aching body. She stopped short of the top, having learned from Spike as he sat vigil in the same place not to make a silhouette. The only way she had been able to spot him, either in his stalker or guardian roles, was by the white splotch of his hair.
It had seemed so easy before. Yes, there were Bringers, and they weren't just fueling the manifestation of First Evil, they were killing young girls. But now… this new creature. It was a vampire, her senses screamed this to her, and she was the vampire Slayer, but….
She couldn't defeat it. It was too strong; it was too fast. Even when she had just been called, she hadn't had this much trouble fighting any creature. The best vampire she'd ever fought (Spike, her mind supplied, because hadn't she killed every other vampire, even Angel?) hadn't been that strong or fast or invulnerable. Her thoughts flashed again on Spike when he had the Gem of Amara. She had felt a tremendous thrill of fear, realizing that she wasn't safe from him in the daylight hours, that staking him didn't work, but nothing like what she felt in the face of this new vampire. Spike had always been human, understandable. This thing was inhuman.
Buffy put her head in her hands and wept. She couldn't do this in the house, not where all those girls could hear, much less her friends. They shouldn't have to bear the burden of her despair. They were downstairs, talking in low voices, trying to keep the fear at bay. All of them were relying on her to keep them safe, and she couldn't. She was out, tapped.
In the past, when things got impossible, she had someone to turn to. She replayed the confrontation with the super-vampire again, only now there was another blond in the battle, reading her movements, complementing her strategy. And they beat it. In her imagination, she even let Spike kill it, ripping its foul head from its neck with his bare hands. Then he looked at her with absolute faith and trust, vampire dust settling around them.
No wonder the Bringers had stolen him from her.
I need a weapon, an ally, she thought desperately. I can't do this alone.
The Slayer sat on her roof, looking out into the darkness until the night air dried her wet cheeks. She was alone; it was the nature of being the Chosen One. Then she frowned. That wasn't necessarily true – there were two Slayers, after all. Of course, she might as well be alone, for all that the existence of another Slayer mattered. She was still the one who had to face that creature.
So you're just, what? Gonna let this 'whoever' play you till it figures out what kills you?
Buffy firmed her chin and took a breath. She wiped her eyes. No, she wasn't going to let anyone play her. She'd learned that lesson last year, to her sorrow. Buffy Summers was the Slayer who made them throw away the manual, who had family and friends, who made her own choices. She inched her way down the shingles, feeling the rough surface snag at the fabric of her slacks. It was time for a rematch, but on her own terms.
⸹
February 2003
Spike opened his eyes and saw Xander sleeping in a chair next to him. He was in the basement of Joyce's house. He must have made some noise, because Xander stirred. When he saw Spike looking at him, he called loudly up the stairs. "Buffy! He's awake!" The dark-haired man disappeared from view for a moment and came back with a pint of human blood.
"The good stuff, huh?" Spike was surprised at how raspy his voice was. Buffy had come for him; it hadn't been a dream. He knew this, because Xander had never been dead.
"A vintage year, 2003," Xander said, cutting the bag and pressing a drinking straw into it so the blond man wouldn't have to go to game face to drink.
"Thanks, whelp," he said, then winced. "Oh, bloody hell. I forgot."
"'Whelp' is a term of affection?" At Spike's narrowed regard, he grinned. "Does this mean I'm, like, your favorite? 'Cause you're always calling me names – whelp, boy…"
"Harris," Spike said carefully, "'boy' is what Angelus always called me."
"Not affection, then. Right." But Xander was still grinning.
Buffy bounded down the stairs, but slowed as she came near the cot where he lay. She crossed her arms, and they regarded each other in silence. "You look awful," she said finally.
He gave a rusty laugh. "Yeah, what's new there?" Then he met her eyes. "Thank you, lo – Slay – Buffy," he finished, his jaw clenched. "'S'not the gratitude causing it. Believe me, I'm feeling plenty of gratitude."
"You're welcome," she said, frowning.
"His pet names for us trigger it," Xander explained.
"The First did this?" Buffy's voice was cold, and Spike got the impression that her folded arms were no longer held that way to keep an embrace at bay.
He nodded, taking a sip from the unit of blood to buy time. Then he sighed, owning up. "It reset the chip to fire, not when I hurt humans, but when…" he tried for a smirk, "I get the warm fuzzies. Since I can't stop – Love's bitch, yeah? Told me that love would be the death of me."
"No," Buffy declared, her voice still cold, "it won't. I won't let it." Then she sighed, too, letting her arms fall to her sides. "Dawn really wants to come down to see you."
Spike bit his lip and looked away. When he looked back, angry tears stood in his eyes. "Tell her to come down while I'm asleep." He struggled to sit up, and when he'd managed it, he drank down half the pint. "Won't be long, I guess. I need sleep. Gotta heal."
Buffy nodded, her eyes flickering over his visible injuries, his too-thin frame, and tightly re-crossed her arms. "What can you tell me?"
Spike braced himself with one arm and studied the floor by Xander's feet. "Right. The Bringers took me to the Hellmouth and carved sigils, symbols of some sort into my chest. The blood fell on this round thing set in the floor–"
"Seal of Danthalzar," Xander supplied. At Spike's surprise, he shrugged. "Andrew finally talked."
An extremely pleased predator looked up at him. "Way to go, Anya."
Xander gave him a proud smile. "That's my girl. She scared him worse than Willow ever did."
"Could we get back to the part where they bled you?" Buffy asked impatiently.
"Uh, right. My blood spilled, the melodramatically named Seal of Danthalzar opened, and this slimy git crawled out. I take it you've met?"
"Buffy slayed it."
"It took me a while," she said, her gaze moving away from the blond man.
"You slew it, love?" Spike's eyes were warm for a moment before he closed them. He took a steadying breath. "Good. It was a true demon, a true vamp, not like us half-human hybrids."
"Turok-Han," Xander said.
"You're a regular font, Harris."
"You've called me worse. Whelp, for example. Oh, man, I'm sorry. Basil Exposition, dialing it down."
Spike took his hand away from his head and waved it dismissively. "No matter.
"Was it the only one that came out?" Buffy asked. When Spike nodded, she visibly relaxed.
"We had to make quite a production of it before we could get the damn thing to die," Xander explained, unable to relinquish his role.
Spike hesitated. "Dunno if I'm right, lo – Buffy, but it came in response to a blood sacrifice, yeah? Blood of an old vampire like me is unusually powerful; the demon it summoned should be unusually powerful." He shrugged. "If the First calls any using human blood, they shouldn't be as strong."
Xander pointed a finger at him. "That means you don't get to get captured any more."
"Deal." Spike looked up at Buffy. "Didn't want to die?"
She shook her head. "It sort of laughed at my usual methods."
The blond man was frowning. "Dru – the First as Dru, I mean, was going on about my mars bar," he touched his scarred eyebrow, "wanting to redecorate my face in a permanent manner, wounds that wouldn't heal. Never occurred to me before, but didn't the sword the Chinese bird used come to you? That was a powerful weapon, might be useful."
Buffy was startled by the idea. "I've never seen it," she said slowly. "Maybe the enchantment was only good the one time."
"Oh. Didn't think of that." He looked up at Xander, who had never heard the story and was at a loss. "Oh, sorry, mate. Bugger!" He sighed, forced his eyes open, and started again. "First Slayer I fought got me above the eye with the tip of her sword. Never healed up, not in the proper vampire way. Reckoned it might be some enchanted legacy weapon passed from Slayer to Slayer." His eyes went back to Buffy. "Just a thought."
"I'll ask Giles, though. Anything else?"
Spike dropped his eyes to Xander's boots and took a breath, but he didn't say anything. Buffy watched him begin to breathe and braced herself. "Yeah, one thing. We were right; the First wants to be on the physical plane. It tried to… infiltrate… merge with me. Didn't make dust of me, so it tried again. That was bad," he said softly. "Said I wasn't strong enough, but that there was another. Not Angel," he added quickly. "Figure if it ever does find its one true love, that merger will tie it to the corporeal world. Might be able to kill it, kind of like Ben and Glory." He lifted his eyes to Buffy's expressionless face. "Also figure that it's going to be very, very strong."
She nodded. "Of course."
Spike raised his eyes to the ceiling. "What's the gen? The boy's still up there, plus you've got a houseful of females. Nib – your sister having a slumber party?"
Together, Xander and Buffy brought the blond man up to speed on what had been happening with the potential slayers and the Council of Watchers. He pondered the news as the three of them listened to a herd of teenaged girls tromp from the kitchen to the living room.
"So," Spike said at length. "The First wants to put an end to the line of vampire slayers, and it's brought at least one full-on vampire into this world. That's easy enough to suss out, but what does it have to do with it wanting to be corporeal?"
"I don't know," Buffy said with a sigh. "Maybe it would feel safer coming into a world without Slayers." She looked tired, and the two men exchanged glances.
"Go upstairs and get some rest, Buf," Xander said. "You've got your quota of rescues in for the evening."
She looked up at the ceiling above their heads and gave a wry smile. "No rest up there. The slayers-in-training are never gonna get to sleep tonight. They're too awed that there's an actual vampire in the basement."
"Really?" Spike sounded pleased, the arrogant ghost of the Big Bad settling around him.
"Yeah. One of them forced me to try to call Giles at some ungodly hour to make sure it was okay with him, but I never could get him. So I lied and told her he said welcome back."
"Grrr, I say," he said, his accent very precise and British.
Xander snorted. "We should let him meet the flock. No worries about his chip going off around them."
Buffy headed toward the stairs. "There are twelve units of blood in that ice chest, Spike. I want half of them to be inside you by tomorrow." She didn't look back at him, simply started up the steps. He was grateful for that.
"Buffy?" She hesitated, but didn't turn around. "Send Dawn down."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. It'll hurt like hell, but it'll be worth it."
She smiled a little at the echo from a previous conversation. "All right." The Slayer left.
Xander clapped Spike awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'll head on over to my place. See you tomorrow."
The blond man nodded, distracted as he tried to brace himself for the Bit's visit. Buffy and Xander had done a good job of keeping emotional things at bay, but neither he nor Dawn would be able to do it. Let the chip fire off a few times, he'd be that much more ready for a kip.
⸹
"Hey, it's the Dawnster," Xander said, coming out onto the front porch, his car keys in his hand. He was surprised that the teen's visit to the basement was already over. "You sure you should be out here?"
Dawn wiped her face with the heel of her hand. "Hi, Xan."
He hesitated, then hunkered down next to her on the steps. "Spike?" When she nodded, he said, "Couldn't visit for long, huh? Don't worry. He'll be better tomorrow."
"No, he won't." The teenager stared into the darkness. "Maybe the wounds and bruises will be better tomorrow–"
"Sure they will," Xander broke in, his voice hearty. "This is nothing compared to how he looked after Glory got through with him." That was a lie, but Dawn didn't have to know. Glory had only had him for a few hours; Spike had been a prisoner-of-war for weeks, and he looked it.
"It won't matter," Dawn said, still shaking her head. "He could barely look at me, Xander, and I couldn't hug him or just hold his hand. I won't say that pain is nothing to Spike, but nothing could be worse for him than this. He can't stop caring about people; even dying and becoming a vampire couldn't do that. How could anything be this cruel?"
"Evil."
"First Evil," she agreed sadly, wiping her fingers across her cheek again. "Xander, we've got to get that chip out of him."
"Never thought I'd say it, but I agree. Unfortunately, neurosurgeons who can remove it are sort of scarce."
"Can we ask Willow? Can she magic it out?"
Xander shook his head. "I don't want to ask her–"
"I can't." Willow stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I saw Dawn go outside and… I don't think any of us should be alone outside at night. Not now." The redhead settled herself on Dawn's other side. "If I had Tara with me to ground me, I would try, but it's such delicate work. Alone I'd be trampling around his brain like the proverbial bull in the china shop." She rubbed Dawn's back. "I'm sorry."
Dawn tried to smile, but the result was so miserable, she settled for nodding. "Too bad the Initiative isn't still around. We could kidnap a doctor."
Willow did smile, remembering. "Spike actually did do that."
"Before he had a soul," Xander pointed out.
"He took care of me before he had a soul."
Willow looked at Dawn, at the stubborn angle of her jaw. "I know, sweetie."
"When he stayed with me right after he got chipped, he ragged on me about my clothes, my jobs, my girlfriend being a demon," Xander said, his voice slow with discovery, "but he never said a thing about my parents, the fights, the…" His words trailed off. The other two knew well enough what his home life had been like.
"You guys couldn't even tell a difference," Dawn said. "Soul or not. We can't lose him, not this way."
"When Giles gets back, we'll get him to ask the coven," Willow said, but her tone was unhappy. She didn't have faith that the circle of white witches would use their power to help a vampire. Spike was too hard to explain.
He won't last that long.
Buffy closed her eyes from her perch atop the house, murmurs of goodbyes floating up to her as her sister and friends said their farewells for the night. How could you stop Spike from loving? She hadn't been able to beat it out of him; the First Evil hadn't been able to brainwash it out of him. He would love, and he would hurt, and he would die.
There was only one option.
⸹
"Dunno, lo – Buffy. The pain pills left from when your mum was ill didn't even touch it. I've tried everything from heroin to tequila to willow bark tea – bitter stuff, that – when I first got the chip and was self-medicating. I don't know that the Initiative would have anything in their infirmary. Not intended to keep a demon's pain at bay, anyway."
"Can we just go look?" she asked, not trying to hide the impatience in her voice. "Even if you have to spend the next couple of days in a stupor, it might be enough to hold you until Giles gets back." Willow had done nothing more that morning than tell him breakfast was ready, a mug of warm blood in her hand as she waited for him at the basement door. He smiled up at her and promptly collapsed halfway along the stairs, remaining unconscious for three hours. Buffy was truly scared.
"Why not?" He rose from the cot with a slight wince. His pale skin was almost healed, but bones always took longer. He wasn't in good shape, wasn't up for a trip to the caves or anything else. "Not like I'm of any use around here."
She nodded, her arms crossed firmly. Under no circumstance was she going to touch him. The message from the Initiative had been short and precise. She had to have him there by nineteen hundred hours, or the team of doctors wouldn't have enough time to do the surgery before the helicopters left. They couldn't start the journey until darkness fell, and he couldn't move fast. Buffy hated to lie to him, but she knew he would never knowingly allow himself to be at the mercy of the Initiative.
As they moved through the darkness like two shadows themselves, not talking and making no noise, she went over again her own precise words given over the phone. This is Buffy Summers, the Slayer, with a message for Riley Finn. The man you call Hostile Seventeen is having trouble with the behavior modification chip. I want a medical team at the old Initiative headquarters in Sunnydale by tomorrow night. The doctors will extract the chip, and I expect Hostile Seventeen to recover. I trust that I don't need to explain what will happen if I'm unhappy in any way with the results of this message.
They were no more than ten feet into the caves when Spike turned to her, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched. "Buffy, what have you done?"
She didn't try to deny the soldiers were there. "They put it in; they're going to take it out."
He shook his head. "No. No, Slayer. I can't – Ever been a lab rat, Summers?" Agitated, he turned away from her. "'Been captured too damn many times since I met you. You think I'm going to just turn myself over to them, put myself in their power? Turned out so well the last time! No, not even–"
"Spike." Her voice rang with power in the confines of the cave. She continued in a calmer tone. "You aren't going to be alone. I'll be with you the whole time. The Initiative doesn't get to have you." She looked away from his tense back, not knowing how much she could say without triggering his chip. "You call me your Slayer. Well, you're my vampire. Mine." Her hazel eyes widened at the vehemence in her own voice. "If the doctors so much as look at you cross-eyed… well, let's just say they are aware that there could be seriously public consequences if I'm not happy."
"Just what's gonna make you happy?"
She stared at him, taking in the tenseness of his neck, hurt that he had to ask. "The chip comes out, and you are your own man again. I want you to be free."
His chest rose and fell, and he turned to her before he quite finished mastering his fear. "All right, then, Slayer." This time, she noticed, the name wasn't triggering the chip. "Lead on."
It was a nightmarish journey through a battlefield that had never been cleaned up, and they didn't come through without having to fight for the same ground yet again. When it was over, and Buffy stood beneath a glare of military lights and laser sights, she was almost ready to cry. She didn't, though. She bore the final insult Riley sent at Spike and bent to help the vampire to his feet.
"Same docs as before," he murmured, "the ones who put it in. Didn't even know I remembered their scents, till just now."
Her eyes marked them, a short, thin man and a taller woman already wearing surgical masks. None of the soldiers or members of the medical team moved to assist them, so Buffy supported Spike and helped him to the metal operating table. The Slayer looked around, then hooked a stool with her foot, pulled it toward her, and perched at his side. She took the patient's hand in hers and glared defiantly at the two surgeons.
"Let's get started, then," the female doctor said, turning to a tray of surgical instruments.
"No anesthetic?" Buffy asked.
The woman met her cold gaze. "No. We'll strap the subject to the table." Something in the Slayer's eyes made her look away. "Even humans aren't put to sleep for many neural procedures."
"No worries, love," Spike said, squeezing her hand. "Pain can't be worse, can it?"
Buffy's flat gaze raked the two doctors, then she leaned forward, meeting Spike's blue eyes instead. "My vampire," she said, smiling at him.
"My Slay–" he began to reply, then his chest lifted from the table and his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. The answering smile faded from his lips as he slumped back onto the metal surface, unconscious.
Buffy swallowed once and refused to blink as she stared at the stark planes of his face, bleached even further of color beneath the harsh overhead lights. She cleaned the trickle of blood that slid from his ear with the edge of her sleeve. Then she sat back on the stool and regarded the surgeons. "You may proceed."
The operation didn't take as long as she thought it would, and the chip didn't look the way she had imagined, either. Buffy had expected a green microchip like the ones inside a computer; the device removed from Spike's brain was a small, cream-colored oval of porcelain with tiny wires crisscrossing the surface. As the woman surgeon dropped it from her tweezers into a small steel pan, the male doctor looked at the Slayer.
"We did bring another one." It was the only time he spoke to her.
"No." Buffy's tone was implacable.
He nodded and picked up a square of gauze, and the surgeons began backing out of the vampire's head. By the time they were stitching the small flap of scalp into place, Buffy felt almost calm again. It was over.
"Is there, uh, anything I should do? While he recuperates, I mean?"
The female surgeon stepped away from the table and took off her gloves. She let out a breath, then turned to the young woman and shrugged. "I only came in to do the surgery last time. As I understand, it took thirteen days before he regained consciousness when the chip was implanted. I don't believe it will take that long in this case."
"Two weeks?" Buffy managed numbly.
The woman nodded. "They would have terminated the subject if he hadn't resumed normal activity after fourteen days."
Another brush with death, Buffy thought. The male doctor was stripping off his gloves now, and the support personnel were rolling away the carts of bloody instruments and turning off the bright lights. Fed up, Buffy let go of Spike's hand and snatched the remaining tray from between the two doctors. She saw there were two chips swimming in identical metal pans of some antiseptic solution. One was a perfect cream color; the other had small, scorched-looking brown areas around the wires. The Slayer looked up at the doctors, her lips lifted in an unconscious snarl.
"Those are government property," the female doctor warned.
"Anything in Sunnydale is mine," Buffy corrected her. She tilted her head, picked up the steel pan with the unused chip, and crushed it in her small hand. "Thank you for your time. I believe you have a helicopter to catch."
The doctor didn't flinch, and the cool eyes became clinical, assessing. "What are you?"
"I'm the Slayer," Buffy said. "I fight against the forces of darkness. In the future, make sure you aren't among them."
She'd touched a nerve, it seemed, and the doctor removed her mask, revealing handsome, forty-something features. "That," she said, her eyes flicking to Spike's still form, "is a dark thing."
Buffy's eyes blazed. "That is a man. He likes blooming onions and my Mom's hot cocoa with little marshmallows in it. He sings punk rock music badly even though he has a good voice, and he quotes Shakespeare and loves my baby sister like she was his own. He is the kind of fighter I've never seen outside of another Slayer, and he always has my back, and he never gives up. His name is William, and he is not a thing." She took a step forward, and the doctor backed up, her hip bumping against a cart, sending a few surgical tools scattering across the floor. "I suggest you consider that humanity comes in all sorts of packages before you decide to play god next time." The Slayer took one more step forward, her head lowering slightly, her weight centered. "Killing hellgods is also in my job description."
The other surgeon placed a hand on the woman's arm, pulling her away from Buffy. When the general moved into her view, and she regarded him coolly. "Tell Riley this is a start," she said, "and to stay out of Sunnydale." Then she was alone with Spike's still body in the dim light, the sounds of the Initiative response team fading in the distance.
Two weeks. She looked down at his unmoving form. They didn't have two weeks. Buffy didn't even know how she was going to get him back to her house. She couldn't leave him here, not unprotected with demons still lurking in the caves. She could carry him, but that would seriously hamper her ability to fight. Bending from the waist, she snatched a scalpel from the floor where it had fallen. Only one thing to do, really.
She angled Spike's head back and stood close to the table. Buffy nicked her wrist with the sharp blade, wincing, pulling it up about an inch toward her elbow, making a clean slice. She slid the fingers of her other hand between his lips, his teeth, prying his jaw open, then placed the bleeding wound against his mouth. Not knowing whether it would help, she massaged alongside his Adam's apple, hoping to trigger his swallow reflex.
After almost a full minute, she felt movement beneath her fingers, felt his throat move. Then his brows drew together and his tongue slid along her wrist. Buffy grabbed the edge of the table to support herself, surprised at how much she wanted this, waiting for his face to change. Instead, he lifted a hand blindly toward her, finding her shoulder, and pulled her face down to his.
Swallowing a final time, he murmured, "Buffy, love," and moved her wrist aside to find her mouth. Both hands were in her hair now, moving restlessly as he kissed her. She tasted her own blood, sharp and metallic, before losing herself for a moment in the movement of his lips against hers.
"Mm – no," she managed, pulling away. "You need this, Spike. Take more." She brought her wrist to his mouth again, only to find the cut had closed, a thin scab already formed over it.
"The chip?" he asked, lucid now. His eyes were still closed.
"Here." She pushed the tiny bundle of porcelain and wire into his left hand.
"It's really out?"
"It's really out."
"You stayed with me."
"Right here, the whole time, holding your hand."
He nodded and opened his eyes. It was a moment before he was able to focus on her face, then he smiled. "Thank you, love." He let out a sigh; the word had been a test.
She blinked away tears. "I don't know how to go on without you."
"You don't have to." His fingers rubbed soothingly at the nape of her neck.
"So," she said, desperate to change the topic, "what are you going to do with the chip?"
He held it up in the dim light and regarded it. "'S'too ugly for jewelry."
"I don't know. I've seen you wear some pretty ugly jewelry."
Spike smiled, his fingers tightening on the back of her neck in an odd little hug, but his eyes never left the chip. He held it between his thumb and index finger, considering it with an unreadable expression. Then he squeezed, grinding the ceramic into powder, tangling the delicate wires. There was a tiny electronic pop! that even their enhanced hearing could barely detect, then a whiff of ozone only the vampire caught.
Buffy looked down at him. He looked too thin and worn, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there since before she broke it off with him. She wanted to kiss him, but wasn't sure she had the right. Instead, she slid her arm around him for support as they both stood up. "Come on," she said, "let's go home."
⸹
Buffy paused halfway down the basement stairs. For the past two days, Spike had slept, waking only to drink and to hold her or Dawn. She didn't know which was more therapeutic for him. Even Xander and Willow had been there for him, Xander's hand on his shoulder as he covered it with his own, Willow's hands in his as they spoke silently inside each other's minds. The witch had assured her that he was alone in there, fragile but recovering.
Now he was sprawled on the cot, taking up more than his fair share of space, filling the room even in his sleep. She had offered to open her veins for him again, and he had adamantly refused, telling her she wasn't food. It still shook her that his demon hadn't emerged to bite into her wrist as he lay on the operating table. Somehow, it made him seem more distant to her, that she couldn't even rely on his demon to behave in a typical fashion. But, then, it never had.
"Hullo, love."
She smiled. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Felt you come down the stairs, but you stopped. That's what woke me." He gripped the edge of the cot and pulled himself into a sitting position. She could tell by the ease in his movements that he was doing better.
"Dawn will be home from school in about an hour."
"How come you aren't at work?" he asked, frowning.
"Took a mental health day," she said, a faint smile touching her face as she made her way into the basement to sit down beside him.
"Don't mean to add to your burdens," he said, looking away.
"You haven't," she assured him. "There are lots of other things. New potential slayers coming in, Bringers popping up all over town, et cetera, et cetera."
He nodded and covered her hand with his. "Reckon I have time to shower before the Bit gets in? Feelin' a bit grotty."
"Yeah. This time of day, there might actually be some hot water." At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated. "Many females, one hot water heater."
"Ah."
"I, uh, got you some soap and stuff, so you don't have to smell like vanilla or something feminine."
"Well, since you went to all the trouble, least I can do is use it. Would you…?" He held out a hand and waited until she stood up and gripped his arm before getting to his feet. "Thanks."
"How close are you to being well?" she asked as they walked to the stairs, her arm around his waist. He didn't bother pretending he could do it alone, trusting her with his weight. It surprised her for a moment, then made her feel warm, knowing that he accepted everything about her, her strength included. Riley never liked her to help.
"Vertigo is gone. Skin's all healed up, but my bones are still iffy, 'specially the ribs. Still too weak to wrestle a kitten." He shrugged. "Few more days and lots of blood, I'll be of some use to you."
She shot him an irritated look over that, but let it go. "Hospital and butcher's blood?"
"Yeah," he agreed heavily, waiting while she opened the door into the kitchen for him. "And, no, before you ask."
"Why not?"
"Don't want to take from you, love. If I can, I'd like to give."
"You've given me everything I've ever asked for."
He stared into her eyes, feeling déjà vu in the moment, unable to place the echo. "You've given me things I never thought to ask for."
Buffy bit her lip. "If you're the answer, I don't know what the question is anymore. I did at one time, or thought I did."
He forced a smile and placed a kiss on her hair. "No hurry. 'M not going anywhere." They left the kitchen for the dining room.
"I'm not, either," Buffy said. "So, we'll just figure things out as we go."
"That usually works out well," Spike replied, amusement in his voice.
"The blond leading the blond," she said wryly, moving closer to his side as he raised his foot for the first step on the staircase. Then he paused, and she followed his gaze to the small crowd of girls draped across the sofa and on the floor of the living room.
"Guys, this is Spike," Buffy said.
After a moment, there was a chorus of subdued greetings from the girls. He suppressed a smirk and let his gaze drift to the television. "Watching Passions?" At the tentative nods, he went on. "Haven't watched for a while. You'll have to catch me up on what's been going on."
"I'm going to help Spike upstairs to shower," Buffy said. "He's been through an ordeal and still isn't feeling a hundred percent." She started moving, feeling their wide eyes following them. Once they reached the landing and were out of view, the girls broke into excited, worried whispers.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "I was never that green," she stated flatly.
"Not that I recall," Spike agreed, distracted by the low voices debating whether Buffy should stake him already or not.
"Can you manage?" she asked matter-of-factly as they stood by the tub. At his nod, she went to the sink and brought out soap and shampoo scented with Bay Rum. Spike looked at them in wonder when she placed them in his hand. When his eyes met hers, they were bright with tears.
Buffy shrugged, uncomfortable. "I-I never knew what your scent was, just that I liked it. Xander knew, from the time you stayed in his parents' basement."
"Thanks to both of you, then," he said simply. "Very thoughtful, and much appreciated."
"Um, I left a razor on the sink," she said, feeling awkward, "and I'll leave some clean clothes for you by the door. Towels are over there." Buffy turned to leave, then paused, not looking at him. "You sure you don't need me to stay?"
"I'm pretty sure I'd like you to stay," Spike said, "but I think I can manage without you." She could hear the humor in his voice. "Pity. It'd scandalize the little birds downstairs."
"We've never showered together," Buffy said wistfully.
"'Bout the only thing we haven't tried," he agreed. Then he sighed. "There'll be time, love." He watched her nod and bite her lip as she left, and he lowered himself to the edge of the tub, letting the air out of his lungs in a hiss of pain. This was all so strange, to be living openly in her house, a welcome guest. A smile touched the corners of his mouth as he sensed the boy tied up in Willow's bedroom. He was probably the only truly welcome guest here.
Cleaning up took longer than usual, but he felt better than he had in ages. Spike put on the clean jeans and t-shirt Buffy had left for him, then did up his boots and drew his belt on. He had to notch it tighter than usual, and he grimaced, resolving to choke down whatever blood there was in the house. He had shaved in the shower, so he returned the razor to the sink and hung up his towel to dry. Smiling a little, he left his Bay Rum soap and shampoo where they were on the edge of the tub. It was a small way of marking territory.
He managed the stairs without too much trouble, nodding to the girls in the living room politely, and headed to the kitchen. He microwaved two quarts of blood and began methodically pouring mug after mug down his throat, grimaced at the viscous liquid. It was human, but it was old and full of anticoagulants and preservatives. Still, he could feel the warmth inside his chest, feel it change from food to life and spread throughout his body, moving magically from his digestive tract into his arteries and veins. He grimaced again and loosened his belt to its usual notch. Sighing, he rinsed the mug and disposed of the empty plastic bags. Then he tilted his head, listening. Buffy was still upstairs. The potential slayers were huddled together in the living room. He could feel fear seeping from them, beckoning his demon.
Spike considered the circumstances for a moment before coming to a decision. He rummaged in the cabinets for a packet of hot chocolate mix, as always feeling a pang that Joyce wasn't there to share a cuppa, and used the same mug that held the blood to heat up some water. When the microwave beeped, he mixed in the powder and strolled into the living room, stuffing every remnant of the Big Bad out of sight.
"Mind if I join you?"
One of the girls, a redhead, shook her head wordlessly and slid off the couch, making room for him. He sat down in his usual manner, knees a mile apart, cradling the mug against his chest. Two of them, the redhead and a dark-haired girl whose sour look marred her polished beauty, stared at him. The other two looked anywhere but at him.
"'Call me Spike," he said, the oldest part of himself appalled at their lack of manners.
"Um," the redhead said, "I'm Vi."
He smiled at her, laying on the charm. "Nice to meet you, Vi, even under these circumstances."
"Rona," the girl on the other end of the couch said, not smiling. He nodded gravely at her.
"M-Molly," the youngest-looking girl said.
"You're a Brit, yeah?" he asked. She nodded, overwhelmed. Spike turned expectantly to the sour-faced girl.
"Kennedy." It was practically a challenge. She sneered a little. "Nice cup of blood?" The other three girls froze, staring at him.
He'd anticipated her fear, but not the hatred beneath it. "No," he replied mildly, "hot chocolate. From a mix, though. Not as good as what the Slayer's Mum used to make for me. Joyce was a fine lady. Would have welcomed you into her house, too, just as she did me." That shut the bint's gob.
"You're really a vampire?" Rona asked from her corner of the couch.
"Yeah." He took a sip of hot chocolate, letting them deal with that. "And you lot are potential slayers?"
"Man," Rona said in disgust, shaking her head while the others just nodded. "I never asked for this."
"I never asked to be turned, either." Spike flashed her a grin. "Life sucks, dunnit?"
"H-how long have you been…?" Vi's voice trailed away.
"Hundred and twenty-three years," he said, after a moment's thought. He'd lost a lot of time over the past months.
"Wow," Molly said.
"What kind of vampire turns into a pet?" Kennedy asked. "For that matter, what kind of Slayer lets a vampire live?"
"Kennedy," Vi said reprovingly, her manners finally kicking in.
"Never," Spike said levelly, "let me hear you say a word against the Slayer, the one who's keeping you safe by letting you stay in her house." He stared her down. "The Slayer an' me… we have a lot of history. You can be rude to me if you can take as good as you give, if you want to risk the consequences of me bein' rude back, but never," his voice was like a whip, "say anything against her."
"How many people have you killed?" Kennedy asked harshly, not backing down.
He raised an eyebrow. "A lot," he admitted, "so I know a lot about people, how best to hunt them, how to read them. You, I judge," he stared at her over the edge of the mug, "were brought up with too much money and too little thought. Mummy and Dad too busy to pay attention to you, yeah? So all you have is a thick layer of attitude to cover up all that empty nothingness underneath." The girl flushed and didn't reply. Spike put his cup down on the floor. "Excuse me," he said, forcing his tone to be mild, polite. "Bit's home." He was waiting by the door for her, his heart full of anticipation, wanting to put the ugliness in the living room behind him. She didn't let him down.
"Spike!" Dawn squealed, delighted, and threw herself into his arms. "Oh! Sorry!" she added when he grunted softly. "But you're on your feet, out of the basement." She hugged him more carefully, and he couldn't have kept a smile off his face if the world depended on it. Laughing, he let out weeks of pent-up affection, scooping her up in his arms and whirling her in an impromptu waltz around the foyer and dining room.
"Let me down," Dawn laughed, even as she put her arms tightly around his neck. "You'll hurt yourself."
They came to a stop at the foot of the stairs, both of them looking up to find Buffy regarding them from the landing with folded arms, struggling to keep a straight face.
"Nibblet's home," Spike announced.
"I see that," she agreed.
"Say it again," Dawn urged.
He danced around with her again. "Nibblet, Sweet Bit, Platelet, Snackpack," he sang, then put her back on the floor, "light of my unlife."
"Oh, Spike," she said, flinging her arms around him again, laughing. "I love you." Dawn gave him another squeeze. "Missed you."
"Missed you, too," he murmured against her hair. "Can't do without you, Bit."
She pulled away from him and looked at him critically. "You look better."
"I scrub up well."
"Can you hit humans now?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.
"Just waiting till Harris comes by," he replied, giving her a wicked grin.
Buffy sent them a disapproving look. "What kind of homework do you have, Dawn?" She came down the steps to stand beside Spike.
"There's the Nazi-mom," her sister grumbled. She turned back to the doorway where she'd left her bookbag and belatedly acknowledged the potential slayers with a wave. "Just history." Dawn's face was serious when she turned back to face them. "Mr. Holloway didn't turn up at school today and didn't call in."
"I'll check his address and go by there, see if he's left town or if something else happened," Buffy said, sounding weary. The social sciences teacher had taught at Sunnydale when she was there, too, but neither of the sisters had him for a class. Still, she knew his face.
Spike stroked her back. "Want me to go with?"
She leaned into his hand automatically, letting her head fall back, her warm hair falling over his fingers in a caress. "Wouldn't say no to some company." Then she caught Dawn grinning slyly at her. "Go ahead, Miss Smartypants. Get your history done."
"What era is it?" Spike asked.
"World War I," Dawn replied, a hopeful look on her face.
"Dimly recall it, yeah," he said. "C'mon, Bit. Won't take long, I'd wager."
Buffy watched the pair of them go into the dining room, letting herself smile. It faded when she turned to face the four girls in the living room. They had been watching avidly; she'd felt their eyes.
"So," she said, strolling in to sit where Spike had been. She absently picked up his cup. "I guess you have questions, huh?"
"Is he really a hundred and twenty-three?" Molly asked.
"If that's what he says."
"He doesn't look… I mean…"
"No," Buffy agreed wryly, "he doesn't look it. Vampires stay pretty much the same as they are when they're turned. It wasn't long after his twenty-eighth birthday. After several centuries, though, they begin to lose their human face."
"What's his deal?" Rona asked. "I mean, being here with your family?"
"Yeah," Molly piped up, "I wondered 'bout that, too. M' Watcher never said there was good vampires."
The Slayer's voice was like ice. "There are no good vampires. Anytime you sense or see a vampire, assume it will try to kill you. Let me say it again, so you know I mean it: all vampires are evil."
"Now, having said that," she went on, her voice softer, "there is no other vampire like Spike. He's… singular. There are two vampires in the world with souls. One was cursed by gypsies because he killed a girl from their tribe. His name is Angel, and he feels so guilty for what he did as a soulless vampire that he's trying to atone. He lives in L.A., and I don't see him very often. The other is Spike, who faced trials, mortal combat, for an entire week to win his soul."
Buffy looked down at the lukewarm cocoa. "A demon who wanted his soul back," she said for emphasis, her voice soft. "He could have asked for anything when he won, to walk in daylight, to be invincible," she decided to leave off any mention of the chip, as it wasn't a factor any longer, "but he wanted his soul back." She looked at the four faces in turn, but stared hard into Kennedy's eyes when she went on. "Spike has always had honor. He fought alongside me a couple of years ago against a hellgod, and he was the only one strong enough to protect my Mom and my sister when I couldn't be with them. Three times he helped me save the world as nothing more than a vampire, and helped other times, besides. Even so, there were a lot of… trust issues. Getting his soul was his way of showing we could trust him, of saying he really was part of my family, that he wasn't going anywhere."
"So, he's, like, Dawn's bodyguard?" Rona asked.
Buffy smiled and shook her head. "I think it's more like they're best friends," she said. Then her face grew serious. "There is no one more loyal than Spike. When he counts you as one of his humans, it pretty much guarantees he'll give his life to keep you safe. No one," she said, her voice catching a little, "loves the way he does. But don't let that fool you." She looked at each one of the potential slayers again. "He isn't harmless. He's a better warrior than any one of you will ever be. I'm not saying that to challenge you or make you feel inferior; it's just a fact. He's had a long time to get this good, and none of us are going to live to be a hundred and twenty." She hesitated for a moment, then went on, wanting them to hear it from her instead of the First Evil. "Before he got his soul, he killed two Slayers. The first was when he was just twenty; the second was one of the best-trained Slayers this century, and he waited years until he felt she was up to his standard. Two Slayers before he was a hundred, in one-on-one combat. Even without a soul, he had honor. Just as contrast, the last two Slayers killed by vampires were either under mesmer or thrall." Buffy firmed her lips, thinking of Kendra and of her own drowning. "Spike doesn't use either."
"Are you saying he's better than you?" Kennedy said coolly.
When Buffy hesitated, an equally cool voice from behind her answered. "No. The Slayer is the better warrior." Spike looked down and met her hazel eyes, smiling slightly. "We're well-matched, me an' her," he said, his deep voice just for Buffy and enveloping her like dark molasses, "but she's better." After a moment, he shook his head to the side, breaking their gaze, and looked at the girls. "So, you're safer here than anywhere. 'S'why Mr. Giles brought you here. Anything gets to you, has to come through the Slayer. Anything gets to Buffy has to come through me." He slid into his demon face without warning, his human beauty replaced with ridges and ferocious fangs. Vi actually squealed, then looked embarrassed.
Dawn came up beside him and tucked her arm around his waist. "Eww," she said, looking up into his yellow eyes. She rolled hers.
Spike sighed and resumed his human features. "'S'hard, I tell you, trying to be the Big Bad around here, with even Sweet Bit not afraid of me. Unless," he said, giving her a sidelong look, "I turn into," his voice became melodramatic, "the tickle monster!"
"No, Spike," she said, pushing at him, keeping him at arm's length, "don't." He had a longer reach, though, and she squealed, running away through the dining room, the vampire at her heels.
Buffy listened to the mock growls and giggles coming from the kitchen and rolled her eyes. "You've got to overlook them," she said. "Spike's been… away for a while. They missed each other."
Rona gave her an assessing look. "If Dawn and the vam – Spike are best friends, what is he to you?"
"He's my second-in-command," Buffy said flatly, "and as necessary to me as my right hand." She picked up the cup once again and stood up. "I'll go get started on dinner."
Dawn was sitting on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen, and Spike was slouching against the counter. "Quite a performance," Buffy said dryly.
"Yeah," Dawn agreed, shooting Spike a revolted look. "Tickle monster?"
"What? 'S'the best I could come up with, short notice an' all. Been a bit under the weather, you know."
Dawn scoffed, but Buffy was staring at the two of them fondly. She hadn't had to say anything overt; they had just known what was needed to announce to the new arrivals what their family dynamic was. "Well," she said, clearing her throat, "that was the easy part. Now we just have to figure out a way to explain Andrew and why we're keeping him tied to a chair upstairs."
⸹
Xander picked up Willow at the university library after work and drove her home, staying for dinner. He had spoken to Buffy earlier and ran by the butcher shop first for more blood for Spike.
"Thanks, Whelp."
"Anytime, Evil Dead." Xander gave the blond man a lopsided smile. "Good to see you're back to your usual charming self." The two men gave each other a quick, one-armed embrace. It wasn't as awkward as Xander had feared, but he still shot Buffy a you-so-owe-me look afterwards. He'd gotten her call for favors toward the end of the day, asking him to help put the potential slayers at ease around the vampire, but her suggestion of "hug him or something" was pretty far down on the list of things he wanted to do. Now he was looking at Spike expectantly.
"What?" Same old Spike, obnoxious as always.
"Evil Dead? Not gonna quote Army of Darkness?" Xander sighed. "'Good, bad… I'm the man with the…' blood," he said, shoving the paper bag into the blond man's arms.
Spike stilled the clinking jars and gave him a lazy grin. "First thing that came to mind was, 'yo, she-bitch, let's go,' but hell if I'm gonna say that around that Kennedy bint," he confided in a low voice.
Xander snorted with laughter, quickly covering his mouth. "Let's get this to the kitchen," he said loudly, then continued in a whisper, "Yeah, I don't think my charm was quite high-toned enough for her, either. So," he said at normal volume, "what's for dinner?"
He had passed the word on to Willow as well, and when she had a moment, she came to where Spike sat alone at the dinner table. Leaning over, she said softly, "Buffy said we're supposed to show the girls that you aren't scary."
"I am scary," he said defensively.
She rolled her eyes. "You know, Spike. Not evil."
His eyes widened. "Oh, so that's why I was graced with the manly hug by the whelp." Spike grinned at her. "So, you're supposed to be affectionate to me?"
"That's the plan."
"Do I get to be affectionate back?" he asked, pulling her onto his knee and nuzzling her jaw.
She struggled good-naturedly for a moment, then went still, pivoting on his thigh to look at him. "This is what you always did with Tara."
He looked into her serious face. "Um, Red, I promise I never tried–"
"No," she said, waving away his explanation, "just flirting, I mean. You always flirted with her. Why'd you do that?"
Shrugging, he looked away. "Of all the love interests you Scoobies have had, she was the best of the lot. She – " He glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then pulled her closer, his arms loose around her waist. "What did you see when you looked at her, Red?"
Willow closed her eyes against the pain. "A nymph. A goddess. True beauty."
"Yeah," he agreed softly. "She had beauty, inside and out. 'S'not what she saw, though. Dunno how she did it, being told she was a demon and worthless by that gormless family of hers all her life. She figured out that she was worthwhile and good, but I don't think she ever saw how beautiful. S'why I flirted. Wanted her to know there were people who could take one look at her and see how sexy, how beautiful she was." He shrugged again.
Willow took a couple of steadying breaths. "I miss her so much."
"'Course you do."
"Sometimes I don't know how… I've just made such a mess of things without her."
"Doesn't help much, I know, but let the memory of her be your guide."
"Yeah, WWTD?"
"You won't go far wrong, that way." He touched her mind, wanting to give her comfort and reassurance.
"Glinda the good witch, floating away in a bubble," Willow said softly, having plucked the image from his thoughts. Her eyes glistened.
"Pay no attention to the thoughts behind the curtain," he grumbled. "Dru an' me saw The Wizard of Oz a dozen times or more when it came out in '39. Good movie, the American psyche in a nutshell. Dru had a thing about finding a munchkin to sire for years after that."
"That's just warped," Dawn declared, dropping into the chair next to Spike.
"That's my Dru," Spike agreed.
"Whatcha talkin' 'bout?"
"Your complete lack of grammar," Spike shot back, his brows drawn together.
"Tara," Willow said.
Dawn, typically, ignored the first reply and put her hand over Willow's. "I miss her, too."
Watching from the kitchen, Buffy smiled. She started to join them, but the doorbell rang, so she made a mid-course correction and went to the front door instead. "Giles!" She started to reach for her Watcher, a big grin on her face, but he propelled a tiny Asian girl through the door ahead of him, his eyes nervously scanning the growing shadows behind him.
"Buffy," he said, shutting the door behind him and taking her up on her offered hug. "It's good to see you." He straightened up and nodded at the new arrival. "This is Chao-Ahn."
The Slayer nodded at the short girl. "Hey. Welcome to Sunnydale. I'm Buffy."
"Hull-o Buff-ee," the girl said, than rattled off a few sentences of Chinese. The two females regarded each other, their faces falling into almost identical expressions of discomfort.
"She would speak Cantonese," Giles said, a forced smile on his tired face, "when even my Mandarin is marginal at best. Nonetheless, she's safe."
"And the girl in St. Petersburg?" Buffy asked.
Giles just shook his head, grimacing. He started to say more, but was interrupted by the arrival of almost everyone in the house. He looked around at the potential slayers and the Scoobies, belatedly realizing he was the only thing they all had in common. The Watcher began greeting them, beginning with Molly. He put her in charge of Chao-Ahn, because she had a more obvious motherly streak than his other young charges. Willow hung back to the last, still diffident after her dark period last summer, so he gave her an extra-hearty hug.
"So good to see you, my dear. How have you been?"
"Okay. Frightened a lot of the time." She gave him another squeeze before letting go. "It's good to see you, Dumbledore."
The Watcher smiled down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm being made fun of, therefore I must be home."
Xander passed him, headed toward the door, folding a cell phone. "I just called An to tell her you're here." He gestured toward the door. "I'm going to go pick her up."
Even as Giles smiled at the thought of the ex-demon who had stayed with him through the long night they had spent trying to pull Willow back from the edge, his brows drew together in worry. Xander understood, though, lifting the axe in his other hand high enough for him to see. Rupert nodded in approval. Sunnydale was even less safe than usual. He met Buffy's eyes again briefly, a wry, bittersweet exchange, before collapsing into a chair at the dining room table.
"Dinner's almost ready," Dawn said, bringing in a stack of paper plates and disposable cups. "Spaghetti," she said, making a face. They had economical pasta for dinner more often than she liked.
"Oi! Bit! Where's the colander?"
Startled, Rupert looked toward the kitchen, then up at the girl, mouthing the vampire's name soundlessly. Dawn grinned and nodded vigorously, stepping quickly out of the way as the Watcher hastened past her.
"William?"
"Rupert." Spike's head was almost inside the storage space underneath the island. He came up empty-handed, looking intently at the wall cabinets. The Watcher would have believed his nonchalance if he hadn't seen the blond man's fleeting unsure expression, hadn't seen his lips firm.
"Good Lord, man. You're back with us." He enfolded his countryman in the same sort of hug he'd given Xander, and, after a second, it was returned.
"I could say the same," Spike said gruffly, pulling away.
"How…?"
He shrugged. "Buffy rescued me, yeah?"
"Of course she did," Giles agreed, giving his head a tiny shake. There was a story there, but it would have to wait. "So…" he continued awkwardly, "what have you been up to?"
"Duckin' and divin,'" Spike smirked.
"Colander," Dawn said from behind him, holding up the wire sieve.
"Been to China, have you?" Spike asked, changing the subject as he lifted the pot of spaghetti.
"And Russia, but only the China trip was successful."
"Stand back, Nibblet," Spike warned, as steam billowed up from the draining pasta. "Overheard the greetings, Watcher. Sorry I can't help; was only ever in the Wu- or Mandarin-speaking provinces."
"You speak Chinese?" Dawn asked.
"Picked up a few words. Been everywhere, you know; been to every continent," Spike said. "Didn't do much more than step onto Antarctica, though, then shove off." He gave a self-mocking smile. "'Bout the last place a vampire wants to find himself. No prey to speak of."
"There are penguins," Dawn said reasonably. "Some of them are pretty big."
"Would you eat penguin?" he asked, looking revolted.
Giles smiled, not at all offended by his dismissal. He knew exactly how much it took to get the vampire to open up. Besides, he'd noted the pleased look on Spike's face as he pulled away from him. After so many weeks of losses, having him back felt like an unexpected gift. Despite what he had told Buffy, he'd never thought to see the vampire again.
After dinner, Willow, looking almost panicky and working quickly, magicked her laptop to transcribe the English conversation into Cantonese. Chao-Ahn's smile took away a lot of her unease, but Kennedy's look of intense admiration gave Willow an altogether different case of nerves. There were fourteen of them gathered in the dining room, as Anya and Xander had brought Andrew downstairs and let him eat in the corner, after making sure it was all right with Willow. It was becoming clear that the boy was harmless. Anya wasn't, though, as she and Willow began arguing over the merits of teleporting.
Giles took a breath and looked at Buffy for the go-ahead. At her nod, he got everyone's attention and started on general things: reiterating that the Slayer was in charge, that her friends were experienced demon fighters and should be heeded, that they would set up a training regimen for the girls to hone their latent abilities. There was a quickly suppressed interruption by Andrew, who opined that boys should be called to be Slayers, too. Sighing, Giles continued, explaining that the remnants of the Council were coordinated enough now that others would check on potential slayers, sending them to Sunnydale if it seemed safe enough, and he was back to stay. Buffy couldn't blame the girls for looking relieved; she felt the same way.
Then it was her turn, catching Giles up on what had happened in his absence. The potential slayers joined in, excitedly telling Giles about the Turok-Han. She let Spike tell his side of it, which he did with the minimum number of words. Not wanting to expose him in front of so many strangers, Buffy simply said that the chip had malfunctioned after his rescue, and she blackmailed the Initiative into removing it. Her answers to the girls' questions about the background of the Initiative were short, and they quickly got the message that it wasn't something she wanted to discuss. She finished up by going over what they knew about the Bringers and the First Evil.
In the silence that followed, Andrew spoke up again. "The First Evil is powerful and… evil. There's no use fighting against it. It's like the dark side of the Force, seductive and able to get in your mind and make you believe what–"
"Shut up, Andrew," Xander said tiredly. He turned to the new girls. "I'd just like to point out that he collaborated with the First, so you can pretty much ignore anything he has to say."
"Yeah, Andrew," Willow said, glaring at him and making him shrink against the chair. "We don't just give up. We're… well, Buffy's a hero, and we help her. What if we hadn't bothered to fight Glory? The whole world would be covered with hellbeasts now."
"They did stop an Ascension," Anya added. "I'd never heard of that happening before."
"Thwarted my evil plans," Spike said, throwing Buffy a fond look. She smirked back at him.
"You stopped an Ascension?" Kennedy asked, looking at Buffy with something close to respect. Like Kendra, she had been identified as a potential slayer early, and it was obvious she had absorbed the usual prejudices along with her lessons.
"Yeah, that was fun," Xander said sarcastically. "Happened to fall during our high school graduation."
"That was right after my brother Tucker," Andrew began, his voice falling to almost a whisper in the face of universal glares, "unleashed hellhounds on the prom."
Xander went on to tell the tale of Mayor Wilkins, and Giles joined in, wanting to reassure the youngsters that they had always conquered whatever force of evil they had faced. The Scoobies regaled them with stories of trolls and demons and the dark truth behind fairy tales. By the time Giles finished telling, rather shamefaced, his experience as a Fyarl demon, the potential slayers were looking far more impressed and excited than scared.
"Oh!" Spike said from where he stood, leaning over the back of Dawn's chair. "That about the silver letter opener reminds me, Watcher." He touched his scarred eyebrow. "The sword that gave me this… we wondered if it was a legacy weapon passed along from Slayer to Slayer. It would be dead useful for Buffy if she has to face another übervamp."
Giles grimaced. "It's almost unbelievable to me how many things I just accepted about the Council's methods. That weapon," he said to Buffy, "was mounted in a glass case on the wall of the London headquarters. I doubt it had been used since the Boxer Rebellion, and of course now it's gone. Never occurred to me to ask why–"
Chao-Ahn suddenly scooted away from the table, her eyes leaving the laptop and going to Spike. She began speaking rapidly, backing away until she was behind Molly and Rona, her eyes wide as she pointed a shaking finger at the vampire. Dawn, glaring at her, half-turned in her chair and put her arms defensively across Spike's chest. It took a while to get the Chinese girl calm enough to sit down in front of the computer again so they could explain why a vampire was at the table with them. Buffy grimaced a little during the part about Glory's tower, hating to admit that being the Slayer had been the death of her even once, but by the time she finished, Chao-Ahn was calm enough to ask to see the demon's face. Sighing, Spike obliged her.
Andrew was looking at him worshipfully. "It's just like on Stargate SG-1," he breathed, "where Teal'c joined Colonel O'Neill's team rather than–"
"Andrew!" Xander said, obviously at the end of his patience. The boy quieted down once more.
Buffy was staring at the table. "One thing I want to make clear: in this fight, the best way to stay alive is to have friends around you. Everyone has to fight to the best of their ability, and it will surprise you sometimes just how well you can fight when your friends are depending on you. None of you is alone anymore. That makes us unbelievably strong, all right?" She looked at the newcomers. "Giles started as my Watcher when I came to Sunnydale, but he's much more than that now. Willow and Xander have been with me just as long. I trusted Spike enough to work with him even back when he was evil – which he's not anymore. Anya has an incredible working knowledge of the demon world. Dawn and I are lucky to have them for family. They've all killed more vampires than most Watchers ever see in a lifetime, plus faced a host of other nasties.
"The hardest thing for me has been that the world isn't black and white. Not all demons are evil; not all humans are good. Fortunately, in this situation, the bad guy is pretty much pure evil. Our humanity is what sets us apart, all of us," she reiterated, looking pointedly at Spike. "The First likes to mess with your mind, since it doesn't have a physical form. Just remember that it might appear to you as either me or Spike, or anyone you knew who is dead now. That's as close as it can get to an imitation of humanity. Easy to thwart it, though, if you're unsure – just try to touch it. The Bringers, the Turok-Han… well, you've seen them die. They're on the physical plane, and we can take care of them, too.
"This isn't hopeless, not in the least. I've faced down the First Evil before. We can do this. Now, let's clear away the supper dishes."
"Nice speech," Willow said quietly a few minutes later, sounding impressed as she passed Buffy in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.
The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Thanks, I guess." She caught Giles' look, and the two of them went to the basement and sat on Spike's cot for a more frank, detailed discussion of what had been going on. They both agreed that their best bet for breaking the Bringers' chant was to keep a close eye on the high school and the Hellmouth.
"Speaking of which," Buffy said, hauling her tired body upright, "Spike and I are going to go to the house of one of Dawn's teachers. She said he didn't show up today. No explanation."
"Is he up for a patrol?" Giles asked, frowning. Buffy had been quite upset when she told about the extent of the vampire's injuries. "For that matter, are you? You look tired, my dear."
"You do, too." Impulsively, Buffy leaned over and hugged him. "I'm sorry, Giles. About the Council, I mean. This can't be easy for you."
"No," he agreed, turning his glasses over in his hands. "I feel like I'm on the high wire without a safety net now."
"I feel just the opposite," she said, giving him a lopsided grin. "I feel like my safety net is back."
He cupped her cheek, a gentle smile on his face. "You're a remarkable girl – woman, I should say." Groaning a little, he stood up as well, much more stiffly. "Xander has offered to let me 'crash at his pad,'" he explained. "If he's ready to go, I certainly am. I feel like I've been on a plane for months."
Upstairs, they found that Dawn had manipulated everyone to her liking. For once, Buffy was glad to see it. Her sister had popped in The Princess Bride DVD for the umpteenth time, and all the potential slayers were all in the living room, but they weren't watching it. Dawn had commandeered one end of the couch for herself and her pet vampire, who was painting the fingernails on Vi's left hand without saying a word. Buffy saw that Andrew was sending longing glances at the couch from where he was tied to the chair, but Xander, Willow, and Anya were still sitting with him at the dining room table. The younger Summers saw her and gave her a satisfied smile, waving one hand carefully as the polish on her own nails dried.
Without looking up, Spike started on Vi's right hand. "If you're here to rescue me, Slayer, b'lieve I might be more grateful than I was last time."
"Sorry, Dawnie, Vi," Buffy said sardonically. "I need to steal your manicurist."
"Are you going on patrol?" Dawn asked. At her sister's nod, she added softly, "Be careful."
"We will." Her promise was absently given. She was busy watching her former lover rather skillfully apply pink paint to Vi's thumbnail. Why had she never let him take care of her like that? She'd known, hadn't she? He had taken care of Drusilla for decades.
"There," Spike said, capping the bottle. He lifted Vi's small hands and blew gently on the wet nails. The girl stared at her fingers, then at him, her mouth hanging open. Buffy thought sourly that she had just had her sexual awakening. "Mind, don't smudge 'em."
"N-no," Vi stammered, the face beneath her ridiculous knit hat turning scarlet.
"Keep 'em in line, Bit," he told her, rising from the couch like a cat stretching.
"You be careful, too."
"As you wish," Spike said softly, making Dawn smile.
The pair of blonds passed the magical barrier around Revello and walked along in silence for a while. Buffy opened her mouth a couple of times to say something, but didn't.
Spike gave her a curious look. "What is it, love?"
"Tonight was nice," she said softly. "I mean, other than all those girls and Andrew. It's just… you've always been just mine. Tonight was the first time all of my peeps were together." She grimaced, not sure if her meaning was clear. "It just felt… whole."
He got it. "'Cept for your Mum and Tara," he agreed and, after a pause, continued. "Been a long time coming."
"Yes, it was." She looked at her feet. "I'm sorry."
"No need, love." He shot her a swift smile. "'S'not like I was an acceptable houseguest most of the time." The companionable silence fell again as they continued to Mr. Holloway's house.
"This is it," Buffy said, checking the address she had scribbled on a scrap of paper. "Nice neighborhood." She looked at the dark house. "Getting anything?"
He squinted at the windows and tested the air. "No sound, no unusual smells." There were none of the more subtle vibes that remained after a violent conflict, either.
"Let's see if there's a car in the garage."
"Or a minivan," Spike said sardonically.
"Yeah. No minivans in our futures, huh?" Buffy agreed.
"Thank God."
"I don't know," Buffy said slowly. "I've given up on the whole 'normal girl' thing, but sometimes I still kind of wish I could have it." She shrugged, watching Spike push between the bushes that grew close to the garage to peer inside a window. "You know, house in the burbs and 2.5 kids. I used to want a lot more, a glamorous, jet-setting lifestyle. Live in Europe, marry Christian Slater…" When he looked around at her, one eyebrow quirked, she made a face. "I-it's a daydream from a long time ago."
"No minivans, cars, or vehicles of any kind." He gestured to the back yard. "Do a walk-through, but I think it's safe to say they got the hell out of Dodge."
"What about you, Spike? What did you want, you know, out of life? Back when you had one, I mean."
He raised another eyebrow at her choice of words. "Dunno, love. It's been a while." Love, he could have said, health and long life for his family. Didn't matter now.
"Nice deck," Buffy said, impressed, as the back yard came into view.
Spike pulled her back against his chest and made a sweeping gesture toward the house. "Whatever you want, kitten, any of the empty houses on the Hellmouth. One house in the burbs for my lady comin' right up. 'Course," he continued in a lower voice, "doubt you'd want 2.5 of the kind of kiddies I can sire."
The smile he'd coaxed was already fading as she turned her head to look up at him. "Something you said back when you were, you know, crazier than you are now," this earned her a smile of her own, "about not siring. What did you mean by that?"
"Uh… that I don't sire vampires?" he ventured, feeling that it was plain.
"You don't?"
"No." He shook his head, bemused at the dumbstruck expression on her face.
Buffy turned in his embrace and grasped the lapels of his coat. "You didn't sire Ford?" At his blank look, she elaborated. "You know, that old friend of mine who conspired with you to–"
"Yeah, I remember," he interrupted, glowering. "No, it was Dru that turned him."
"You don't sire at all? But you threatened to turn Willow."
"I did." Spike lost himself for a moment in her eyes, drowning in the fact that they were focused on him, that she was interested in him, in his views, his history. This had been a long time in coming, too. He gave his head a small shake. "Gave her the choice. If she'd wanted, I would have turned Willow that night in your dorm room. Would have been the first time in over a hundred years. Prob'ly would have staked her within the week, too." He pushed back a strand of her hair that had escaped from her ponytail. "Part of it is simple fear, the same kind that keeps kids from bad families from wantin' kids of their own. Don't want to do things to my get that were done to me. But the main thing is, you turn someone, you destroy all they are. You like someone enough to want them around, then you end up with… something else that looks like them. But it isn't. It's never them." He let his eyes wander across her face. Beloved, his heart offered, and he bared it to her.
"You know I'm a demon, love, capable of… Not long after Dru turned me, I went back home. My mother was dying of consumption. Thought I had found the cure – immortality, strength, joy of the night, yeah?" The corners of his mouth turned up, but it never reached his eyes. "After… I killed her, what moved and sounded like her was… an abomination to me. Had to stake her. Never cared much for siring new vampires after that." His eyes slipped away, deflecting her. "Can't say Dru was sorry to lose the mother-in-law."
He would have liked to move away from her searching gaze, but Buffy's strong little fingers were clenched around the leather of his coat. "You've always been like this," she said, her voice distant, thinking to what lengths she would have gone to in order to save her own mother, "from the very beginning."
"Like what?"
"I knew." She let go of his lapels and moved away from him, one hand over her mouth. "I always knew, and I used it, but I never really… saw. Let myself see." Buffy turned back to him. "I knew you'd let us escape as a trade for Drusilla at that vampire club. I knew you would keep your word when… during the whole Acathla thing, to get her back. Just like I knew I could trust you to take care of Mom and Dawn." There were tears in her eyes. "And I kept telling myself it was because of the chip."
He could tell she was upset, but was clueless as to why. "No, Buffy, I would have eventually killed one of the Scoobies to get you to come after me."
Impatient, she waved this away. "Spike, you wouldn't even kill me when you had the Gem of Amara and I was having an emotional meltdown."
"Yes, I would!" He backed down in the face of her disbelief. "Well, no, not after you made the deal with me, Angelus for Dru."
"I just wish I could have seen it," she said, deflating a little. "It wasn't that Angel was different from other vampires; he wasn't a vampire any longer. You were the one who was different from other vampires."
He took a step closer. She saw him; she understood. "And you were different from other Slayers," he said, his voice low, "so… full of life." Spike's hand was at her waist, but he didn't pull her closer.
She always regretted what she did next, backing away from the moment. "Come on, bedroom eyes," Buffy said wryly. "Let's finish this patrol. No way am I going back with grass stains all over my clothes to explain."
⸹
The first of the dreams came that night. She was standing on the edge of a field, wearing cutoff jeans and a checked shirt knotted beneath her breasts, her hair in pigtails. Farmgirl Buffy, she thought, that's me. In her hand was a scythe, sometimes clean, sometimes shining red with blood. Vampires stood before her in neat rows, and she mowed through them with the scythe, slice, slice. They didn't fight back. Why should they? It was no use to fight against her, after all. She was best Slayer in recorded history, after all, maybe the best Slayer ever. Some she recognized: two strokes with her weapon to fell the Master, only one whistling slice to take down both Gorch brothers. Most were anonymous, falling to dust under her blade.
After a while, she came to the end of a row and stopped, one hand on her aching back. She was on a rise and beyond were thousands of rows of vampires waiting for her. Buffy's heart sank, but this was her work, here in the killing fields. She wiped her brow and lifted her scythe again. For a wavering moment, it was an axe in her hand, then a stake.
"Hullo, cutie."
The voice was unmistakable, and she tensed as she turned, afraid that she was going to have to kill him, too. Spike, however, was smiling at her from atop a tractor, wearing boots and blue jeans and nothing else. He held a piece of straw between his teeth, that talented tongue making it dance from one corner of his mouth to the other as his appreciative gaze lingered on her bare midriff. "Need some help?"
"In the end, I'm always by myself."
"We could play it a bit differently." He tilted his head. "Neither of us has ever been much for rules. Just because it's always been so doesn't mean it always has to be."
She looked out over the rolling hills, row after row of vampires waiting for her. None of them was her destiny, but she would kill herself a little at a time going after each of them. Buffy turned back to face Spike. "If you go in, you won't come out," she warned.
He gave her another arrogant smile. "Always play for keeps, love."
"All right," she agreed quietly. When had she started crying?
Buffy watched him turn the tractor into the field, coming straight toward her now, and she was blinded by the headlights. She shaded her eyes, hearing vampires going to dust. All she could see was the brightness bearing down on her and, just above it, that small, self-satisfied smirk that she wanted to smack right off his face. This had to be wrong; it was her work he was doing. That's why she was hurting, why she was so angry, so–
"Buffy!"
"Wha?"
Dawn was shaking her. "Buffy? You were dreaming. You okay?"
"Dream–?"
"Yeah," Dawn said, sounding groggy. Her tone became accusing. "You kicked me."
"Sorry." She put a hand to her temple. "Nightmare." But it hadn't been just a nightmare.
"Well," her sister grumped, "go back to sleep."
Against her expectations, she did. The dreaming was relentless. This time Buffy found herself on stage under bright lights. The rapt audience was entirely vampires, and they watched as she methodically packed stakes in a box. She wasn't nervous, didn't have stage fright, she realized as she stood and placed the box in a long line of identical boxes. There was a ripple of movement from the watching demons as someone stepped on stage, an approving murmur, and Buffy had to fight to stay in character as she felt Spike approach. The audience wasn't going to see this coming.
He played to the crowd, pretending to sneak up on her, and then they fell into a beautifully choreographed fight that wrung gasps and applause from those watching. They ranged from one wing to the other, from the edge of the stage to deep toward the back. Spike's golden eyes were sparkling as they performed their pas de deux, their own unique dance. As they had rehearsed, he brought her down at center stage, between two of the carefully arranged boxes. With his body lying atop hers, fitted to her as if he was made for that sole purpose, she put her thumb on the button of a remote control in her hand.
"My darling, my vampire," she said, giving the melodramatic line her all.
"My Slayer," he returned, his eyes dancing and a snarl in his voice just for their viewers. He lunged for her neck.
She pressed down on the red button, setting off the chip inside his heart. He exploded in a circle of white light, spreading out over her body, driving the neatly stacked boxes of stakes into the unsuspecting audience. As the sigh of dust falling into the chairs subsided, tumultuous applause blasted her from the wings. Giles stepped out, leading a chorus of "Brava!" She saw the smiling faces of her friends and the potential slayers, then she began to crawl around, looking for the trapdoor. She let the remote control (axe) fall from her hand. Where was the trapdoor that Spike had to fall through for it to be a special effect? Then she realized her fingers were covered in grit, in dust. There had been no trapdoor.
"Spike?" She was frantic now, ripping at the well-trodden boards. "Spike!"
"Buffy!"
She sat up, her t-shirt clinging to the cold sweat on her body. "I'm awake."
"Whaz wrong?" Dawn was more awake this time. "'Nother bad dream?"
"Yes," Buffy whispered, clutching her sister's arm like a lifeline.
"No more spaghetti for dinner. And, oww," Dawn said, prying Buffy's fingers off her. She tossed the covers off and stumbled away to the bathroom.
Buffy pulled the covers over her head and curled into a tight ball. Slayer dreams, she thought. Oh, God, those were Slayer dreams.
⸹
March 2003
[Author's Note: The world at large kept on going while Spike was getting his sanity back. Joe Strummer, co-founder of The Clash, died just before Christmas in 2002.]
"Hey." Xander stepped out onto the back porch and lifted his shoulders against the chill in the air. "I thought you might be over here."
"'S a good place to think," Spike said simply. He'd spent a lot of time alone on Joyce's stoop, the only place she'd allow him to smoke.
"And drink." Xander's tone was pointed.
Spike raised the bottle of bourbon. "Not drifting back into my evil ways," he said sarcastically. "Got some bad news. Just learned an old mate died back in December. My version of a wake."
"Oh." Xander made an awkward movement of his head and hunkered down next to where Spike sat on the top step. "Sorry. Somebody Buffy killed?"
The vampire shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and numb acceptance. "No, Harris. Don't have any mates in the demon world anymore – well, 'cept for Clem." He took a drink that lowered the level in the bottle by a finger.
"Who was it?"
Spike hesitated. "John Mellor," he said, even though he figured the whelp wouldn't know the stage name Joe Strummer, either. "Human, actually."
"Sorry," Xander said again. "Someone you knew here?" All he could see in the darkness was the blond head shake in negation.
"London," was the short answer. "Caught up with him a time or two in New York."
"Was he English, too?" Xander asked. Spike, usually so loquacious, just nodded. He stifled a sigh; he never knew what to say in these situations. It was odd enough to think that the vampire had gotten to know humans in ways other than as food before the chip. Spike had always been different, though.
"You ever seen an end of an era, Harris?" Another drink. "'S'hard to see, sometimes, but this… so many of the old crew goin' these days. Wendy O. couple, three years ago, Joey last year, DeeDee this summer. Heard about that one late, too. End of an era, mate."
"When Michael Jordan retired," Xander said, after a moment's thought. "Charles Barkley, and Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, yeah, but when Michael retired… That was the end of an era. Yeah, I know what you mean."
Spike nodded. "Felt the same way when George Best left football."
Xander nodded, although he hadn't a clue who George Best was, either. "Good thing is, there's always up-and-coming people who might be the start of a new era. Kobe Bryant, this kid LeBron James who'll probably be drafted out of high school… There's always the future to look forward to." He gave a wry smile. "As long as we can keep the apocalypses at bay."
"Yeah." Spike laughed a little, a rusty sound. "All down to us, huh? Rage Against the Machine's worth saving, maybe."
"You want to come in?" Xander asked, standing up.
"Nah. Not yet."
"Okay. Don't stay out here long." He clapped the unusually solemn man's shoulder, then went back inside.
"Who were you talking to?" Willow asked. She was rinsing out a cup in the kitchen sink.
"Spike." Xander ran a hand over his hair, shaking his head in bemusement. "We just had, like, a guy talk about sports."
⸹
April 2003
Dawn frowned at the sight before her as she walked onto the back porch. Buffy was huddled on the top step, her arms folded over her chest as if she was cold. Beyond her in the yard, Spike was playing catch-me-if-you-can with the slayers in training, basically making them giggle like the schoolgirls they were as he avoided their best efforts to stake him with Pixie Stix. It had been a difficult few weeks for Buffy, granted, especially with the faux date with Principal Wood turning into a fiasco when Spike showed up to fetch Buffy so they could save Xander from his latest demon girlfriend. Dawn still shook with anger over the thought of the cross-lined shed the principal had lured Spike into. If she'd been there, she would have killed Wood herself.
Next to the Adirondack chair, Amanda lunged at Spike, who leapt lightly over the chair to scoop the dark-haired girl up into a spin that left her too dizzy to stand on her own. The blond man plopped her down and, with a few words of advice, was off to the next potential slayer. Amanda stood back up immediately, unlikely aggression in every angular line of her body. I'll never look that intimidating, Dawn thought sadly. Didn't really matter, though. She was the only one Spike gave private self-defense lessons to – there were some benefits to being the Nibblet. She sat down next to Buffy. "Hey, you."
"Hey, yourself." The Slayer's voice was distant.
Dawn stifled a sigh. Buffy was so remote nowadays. It was almost like the months just after she'd returned from the grave. Dawn blamed Wood for that, too. He'd come crawling back with his mother's bag of Slayer goodies that should have been Buffy's to begin with. As far as she could tell, nothing good had come from knowing that Slayers were made by forcibly merging a young girl with the essence of a demon. Buffy hadn't been sleeping well even before then; now it was almost as if she was afraid to fall asleep. Her sister had never confided in her, but she wasn't talking to Spike or Giles, either, and Willow had left for L.A. to help Angel Investigations with something that Dawn thought was a left little too vague for comfort. Whatever was on Buffy's mind was destined to be a great big mystery.
"He's having fun, isn't he?" the Slayer said abruptly, smiling fondly at Spike.
"Yeah." Dawn snorted. "Turn the game into kissing tag, and I guarantee you they'll catch him."
She felt her sister tense, could almost see her turn green before Buffy relaxed. "Crush city, huh?"
"Uh-huh. Guess who I think would run the fastest?" Dawn asked, pointing at Andrew, who made a feint toward the game of tag. Anya collared him and got him back on task, helping her and Xander whittle stakes. Once the truth had come out about Jonathan, Andrew had stopped holding himself apart from his housemates. He was even useful sometimes.
"Nah," the Slayer said, "the potentials run faster. Any one of them would win."
"Except Kennedy," Dawn said wryly. "Speaking of, have you and Willow thought about what you're going to do about the so-appropriately named Amy-the-Rat?"
Buffy shrugged, a smile softening the lines of her face as Spike snuck up on Rona. "Not much we can do. She's left town, anyway."
"Did Anya give back your sense of vengeance, too?" the teenager grumbled. "Principal Wood getting off with a warning, Amy bringing the specter of Warren back and not getting bitch-slapped for it… Just because there's a global threat to the Slayer line doesn't mean people should be allowed to get away with everything."
"Why so grouchy, Oscar?" Buffy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Your fault," Dawn said pointedly, "as it so often is. You're being secret-keeping Buffy – no, don't give me that look, you know you are."
"I know," Buffy said, looking down and clutching herself even more tightly.
"Something bad is coming," Dawn said, her voice full of certainty. The Slayer nodded, but didn't elaborate. Her sister sighed. "Fine. No more vision quests for you, is all I'm saying." She studied Buffy, who was again watching Spike, a tiny smile flickering on her lips at the antics of the potential slayers. "You know, all you have to do is say 'patrol,' and you can have him to yourself."
"He isn't mine to have," Buffy snapped. She put her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, Dawn. It's just–" She smoothed her hair back and laced her fingers behind her neck. "Can I ask you something?"
"What?" Dawn sounded guarded.
"How did you feel about me after the tower, when I was gone? I mean, how did you get along, knowing…."
"Knowing that you'd given your life for mine?" Dawn finished, looking at her feet. She shrugged and made a mouth. "I-I don't know, Buffy. Other than the grief and the missing you… I never knew you loved me that much. I mean, I know you loved me, you're my sister, but…" She looked over at her sister. "I didn't want to go live with Dad – not that he offered – because I wanted to stay here, where I might make a difference, too. I wanted to live, like you told us to, but I wanted my life to have an impact." Her brows drew together, because she could tell that Buffy was really listening. "Once someone does something like that for you, it's like a law that you have to do the best you can with the time you have left. It's a pretty special gift." She leaned over and put her head on her sister's shoulder.
"Thanks." Buffy sniffled as she put her arm around the teenager's shoulders. "I love you. I loved you even when I was in… when I was gone. I will always love you, you know that, don't you?"
"And I'll always love you."
"Promise?"
"No matter what," Dawn agreed lightly, giving her a squeeze.
Buffy took her sister's hand, and the two Summers ladies sat on the porch watching the slayers-in-training chase a vampire around their backyard, laughter ringing in the empty neighborhood. None of them ever caught Spike.
⸹
Xander's eyes skimmed over Spike's bare chest, the towel over his shoulder. "Uh, if you're going up to take a shower, you'll have to wait a couple of hours."
"Why?" Spike challenged him. "No one's in there right now."
"I just replaced the showerhead." He held up a box of tools as proof. "Gotta give the silicone time to seal."
"Oh. Broke, did it?"
"Nah, just leaking." Xander hesitated. "Do you like living here with this bunch of pink Power Rangers?"
"God, no." One of the most feared vampires of modern times shuddered.
A smirk touched Xander's lips. "Then you can owe me. I put in a massaging showerhead. Detachable, on a flexible hose. Let me tell you, Anya wouldn't live anywhere without one." When Spike looked blank, the dark-haired man leaned closer and elaborated. "Gets rid of certain, shall we say, tensions? The girls might shower for longer, but I guarantee they'll be easier to live with."
The blue eyes widened, then Spike began to chuckle. "Who would have thought it, whelp? You're satisfyin' more women than I am."
⸹
"What?" Spike rumbled. He had noticed the boy edging closer to his television-watching spot on the end of the couch for the past fifteen minutes.
Andrew sat abruptly on the adjacent cushion and looked at his clasped hands. "Nothing. Anything good on?" he asked quickly, as if he was changing the subject.
"West Ham's on in twenty."
"Oh. That's… good? Sure. Can I watch?"
Spike grunted and made himself not roll his eyes. After a minute, the boy started kicking his feet against the couch and bouncing them up, fidgety as any toddler. "Andrew." The boy grew still. With a sigh, Spike thumbed the 'off' button on the remote. "What's on your mind?"
"Well, I was, uh, wondering… You changed, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I s'pose."
"Do you think anyone can change? People, I mean? Not just superhero vampires?"
"'M no 'superhero,' and, yeah, I think people can change." He lifted an eyebrow. "I think you can change, within limits, that's what you're really askin.'"
"Limits? What limits?"
"Changing doesn't mean all of a sudden you have to be a superhero, have bullets bounce off you or something. Changing means putting other peoples' needs before your own. You won't ever be the bravest man in the world, but it doesn't mean you can't be one of any number of brave men."
Andrew wrinkled his forehead. "Like part of a tribe?"
"Yeah. Like we got here."
He met Spike's gaze, seeming both pleased and relieved by the answer. "Oh. That would be okay." Andrew continued to gaze at the vampire. "You know, you have the darkest blue eyes."
"That's what the Slayer tells me," Spike said firmly. It wasn't true, but he didn't want Andrew to have any illusions. The boy could take a grain of sand and build a skyscraper from it. He thumbed the television back on and turned away from the disappointed lad. "West Ham match will be on soon. You'll like it."
"If you like it, I'll like it." He began kicking his feet again.
Spike sighed. He didn't have the stones to scare away children these days.
⸹
"Um, William? Do you have a moment?"
Spike looked up at Giles and nodded. He moved Dawn carefully from his shoulder and lowered the sleeping girl the rest of the way onto the couch. Following the Watcher into the kitchen and down the basement steps, he wondered what was coming. "Er, have a seat," he offered, and Giles sat gingerly on the corner of the cot he'd indicated. He dropped down on the opposite side, slouching against the wall. "So."
"I wanted to say I was sorry about Wood," Giles said, turning toward the blond man even as his eyes focused elsewhere. "The clues were all there; I should have seen that coming."
"You've had other things on your mind," he replied, shrugging.
Rupert let his head fall back. "True."
"Things bad back in Blighty?"
"Bad, yes." He looked down at his empty hands. "A lot of good people are gone – a lot of people I found to be… obstructionist, too, but I find I tend to overlook their faults now that they're no longer there." He shook his head. "Expertise that was once just a phone call away…."
"When the Council would accept your phone calls."
Rupert smiled. "Again, true." Then his smile faded. "Back to Wood. I thought it was exquisite revenge, really." At Spike's raised eyebrow, he continued. "Every time he shaves, looks in the mirror, he'll see your mark."
"Oh. Never thought about that." The vampire sounded bemused. "I was just furious, is all. Wanted to make the point that he wasn't anything more than food to me, whereas his mum…."
"A worthy opponent, yes. I wanted you to know that I've spoken with him, told him much the same thing."
"Free country, Rupes. You can talk to whomever you want." After a second, the penny dropped. "Oh. Erm, thanks."
"I don't know that it did any good," he admitted. "I thought since he was reared by Nikki's Watcher, maybe if a Watcher talked to him… He says he's willing to help in the fight against the First Evil any way he can." Rupert shot him an intense look. "Just… watch your back."
"I can do that."
"Good man." He took a small, white cardboard box from the pocket of his sweater. "For you," he said, handing it to Spike.
"Thank you," he said automatically, quirking an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"
"Your birthday," Rupert said, sounding extremely satisfied with himself. "It's sometime this month, isn't it?"
Spike's eyes narrowed. "April the twentieth," he admitted.
"Wretched microfilm of birth records. Or was it admission records?" he mused. It had been a while. He'd researched William Withorn-Allgood before Willow's breakdown. "At any rate, either the documents were splotched or the film was scratched. All I could get for sure was April… Sir Colinvaux."
The blond man flexed his jaw. "The title was never mine. Went to my uncle, next male in the line over twenty-five, way it was entailed." He gave Giles a fleeting glance. "Impressive, I have to say. Didn't think you'd find anything. You're quite the researcher."
"Go on," Giles urged, "open it."
Spike opened the box and pulled out the black ceramic mug inside. He turned it over in his left hand and looked at the crest.
"I actually thought you would have been a Cambridge man," Rupert said, "but Oxford is a good school, too." He grinned at Spike's narrow look. "Couldn't track down which college, though."
"Christ Church," he admitted. "Never finished."
"Classics? Languages?"
"History." Spike stared at the cup in his hand. "Wanted to be the one who found Troy."
"Ah. So the languages were secondary?"
"Why bother, Watcher?" He shook his head. "I mean, it hardly signifies. Not now."
"I told you that you were a mystery I planned to solve," Rupert replied, unfazed. "And you're still here, still matter."
"This… it's from my boyhood, Rupes. Might as well be a relic from a dead civilization." An odd, soft look touched his eyes as he gazed at the crest. "Had to leave University when my father died, take over his affairs. Gave up any thoughts of archaeology. Had to. I hated being a man of numbers, of… But my mother needed me, was bedridden for a long while. Couldn't very well yomp off to explore dusty old ruins." Spike suddenly squared his jaw. "Became one myself, instead. Dying wasn't so bad, all things considered." He put the mug back in the box. "Thanks ever so, Watcher. Didn't quite feel ancient enough today."
"It's meant to be a practical gift, William. The black won't show bloodstains – or coffee stains. I do hope you'll use it."
"You know the best thing about being a vampire, Rupert?" When the other man just shook his head, Spike looked down at his boots. "It's the rage. Being able to get mad. I had so much anger. Kept everything bottled up inside. Dru turned me, I could just let it go. Didn't matter if anyone's feelings got hurt. Evil, right?"
"I didn't dig into your past to… to use it against you, Spike. All I found were things I would think you would be proud of."
He lifted the box. "'S'not me anymore, Rupes. This wasn't even me the night I died."
Giles set his teeth for a moment, then said in a very precise voice. "And I'm not Ripper anymore, but I was, once. That informs all that I do, how I think now, my understanding of things." He sighed. "If you're trying to tell me that I can't know who you are from reels of microfilm, you're right. But what I'm trying to say is that I wouldn't have bothered finding those records if I hadn't got to know you these last few years."
Spike looked into the other man's eyes, warm behind his glasses. "Watcher," he began, exasperated. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. "I hid all this from Dru and my other kin for years. Guess it shows you can't hide yourself from true friends." He looked away after this admission, in the manner of men, staring into middle distance. "The scally came with the fangs; the Oxford swot wasn't a bad sort, but… I don't care much for who I was after I left university. I… got old too soon, settled into a job, a role I hated. Don't get me wrong, I loved my Mum, it's just… I was a gentleman, Rupert, but I wasn't a man. Jack-the-lad suits me better."
"Bad memories, in other words."
"Yeah. Some of 'em." Spike looked squarely at his fellow Brit. "I wrote poetry."
"Like Byron, Shelley?"
"Ye gods, no. Bad poetry, Rupes. Lurve poems."
"I'm so sorry."
Spike laughed, surprising Giles into joining him. "Not as sorry as the poor sods who had to listen to it," he said, a certain irony in his voice. He opened the box back up and removed the mug. "Thanks, really."
"Well, happy birthday." The Watcher was back suddenly. "Now that you're obligated, I want to pick your brain."
"Slim pickings."
"Be that as it may, has Buffy confided in you recently?"
Spike's fingers clenched around the handle of the cup. "No," he said shortly.
"When was the last time you really talked?"
The vampire let his head fall back and sent a stream of air through his nostrils. "Last time we spoke beyond a fare-thee-well would have been the night you came back. Really talked? Maybe before the First sent the blind mice after me."
Rupert nodded. "She won't talk to me, either."
"Bit's mad at her. Says she's keeping secrets again."
"I think her most recent encounter with the First Slayer was difficult."
"'S'more than that."
"I know." Giles sighed and thought on it for a moment, then let it go. "The training is going well, though."
"Glad you think so; frustrates the hell out me." When the Watcher raised an eyebrow, Spike elaborated. "They're just girls, Rupes. Sometimes I see a flash of skill, of instinct… but I don't trust a one of them to handle more than a single fledge. Bit would do better, or even Willow without the magic."
"It'll come with experience."
The vampire made an impatient sound. "They're never going to become the slayer, Rupert. You know I'll make sure that opportunity never comes."
"And I'll do all in my power to prevent that, too. But the training gives them at least a fighting chance, Spike. That's what it's for. They're still targets. They have to be at least as equipped as Dawn or Xander." He gave the blond man a sly look. "And the girls enjoy the training so much."
"Sod off."
"You know you enjoy it, too," Rupert said, standing up with a soft groan, "wanker."
"Chuffer."
"Yob."
"Berk."
"I cannot believe," Giles said with a good deal of dignity, "that I've stooped to exchanging insults with my elders. Willy."
"Ooh, low blow."
"'Specially for those of us who are soon to be one hundred and fifty-one."
"'M well-preserved. And it's just one-twenty-three… Dad."
"All right, Randy. That's enough out of you." Giles headed for the stairs, hiding his smile.
⸹
May 2003
[Author's Note: Buffy, Faith, Kendra, and other Slayers who were Chosen get the capitalization to honor the burden they've borne. The potentials who get bumped up will be small-s slayers.]
"Gather 'round, my lovelies," Spike said loudly, projecting his voice so it reached all corners of the back yard. "Gotta talk some sense into you." It had been a bad patrol, with a group of Bringers shadowing them. Spike and Buffy had split to either side, taking out all but one of the minions. A newcomer, Caridad, had saved Kennedy's life by stumbling into that Bringer's back, knocking him into the short sword Kennedy was carrying. After the encounter, the girls had lost their confidence, and when Spike held the lone vampire they were able to find, not a single potential slayer had stepped forward to stake it. Disgusted, he let go of its arms and shoved it toward them. Rona finally moved in, rolling her eyes at the others, but it took her two jabs to do the job.
"Right, then," he said, once they had settled around him, a fortunate few in the Adirondack chairs, the rest on the ground. Buffy stood off by herself, watching him intently. It was all she ever did these days. "Not happy with you lot. You were stalked, and you let it unnerve you. Got to tell you a story, make you think a bit clearer. When I was six, still evil, I was hunting with my family in Paris. The four of us, me and my sire, my grandsire and his sire, after two humans, a mother about thirty and her son, maybe ten.
"Now, you've all seen how fast I move. Some of you think I'm too rough, hit too hard, hold too tight – this despite the fact that I feel like I'm treating you lot like delicate, day-old kittens. You're all young and in fair physical condition, and I don't think there's a one of you here tonight who feels up to facing a lone vampire," he looked at all the girls, but few met his eye, "much less four." He clapped his hands together, making some of them jump. "So, there we were, dressed like fashionable Parisians, following them at our leisure, predators stalking prey.
"Humans have more senses than the usual five, too, and the mother veered off down an alley with her son, trying to get away from us. She found a policeman at the other end of the alley. Ang– my grandsire had sent me up to the rooftops in case they needed to be flanked, so I could see everything that happened. Our prey went to wait for the policeman to escort them, and the gendarme went into the alley. Not long after, his body came flying out."
Spike looked at their upturned faces, knowing he had their full attention. "The mother knelt down by the body, trying to see if she could help, and here comes the rest of my family. They've got their demon faces on, because it's game time. The mother sent her son running for help. She didn't really expect help; she just wanted to get him away from us, because that's what mums do." He moved at speed and took the sword from Kennedy, holding it wrong. The dark-haired girl's expression became even more sullen. "She put herself between three vampires and her child, and when they got close enough," he changed his stance and tossed the sword to his left hand, "she nearly beheaded my grandsire," Spike imitated the movement, swinging high and spinning around, "and gutted his sire." He pushed the sword backwards and made a very visceral upwards cut.
When he turned back to the group, he was smiling. "I saw it all. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wasn't overly fond of either of them and rather enjoyed the show. Then I came down from the roof and disarmed the human. She wasn't a Slayer. She wasn't strong or fast or young. I thought she was just a mother protecting her child. But," Spike waited until they were all looking at him, "now I think she must have been a potential. Like you lot."
"In six years, I'd never seen a whole mob of humans hurt my family like that. A couple more inches, she would have beheaded granddad right away. If she'd known what to do, had a stake, she could have killed the Scourge of Europe. They were lying at her feet, incapacitated, bleeding. One little woman, doing what generations of Watchers had failed to do."
Buffy broke into the silence. "What about Drusilla?"
Spike turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Nearly scratched Dru's eyes out." He shrugged. "Not as dramatic."
"What about you?" Her arms were folded across her chest.
He stifled a sigh. It was always a mistake to bring up his past with her. "I let her go."
"You let her go?"
Spike turned to see Giles leaning against the side of the house. "Yeah, Watcher. I let her go." He gave the human a wicked grin. "Watchin' her carve up my elders like that, felt I owed her. Was the happiest I'd felt in a long time." He focused on the potential slayers again. "Back to my point, this wasn't a Slayer. This was a woman who was just like you… except, she had no training." He looked at Kennedy. "She had no guidance, no information," his eyes went to Vi, "no backup." Spike met Rona's guarded gaze. "All she had was… potential.
"Now, off to bed." He clapped his hands once more, and the girls got up and began moving toward the house. "Giles," he said gravely as the Watcher approached.
"True story?" When Spike nodded, he asked, "How could you just let her go? I would think Angelus and Darla would be mad for her blood."
The blond man considered him for a moment. He couldn't feel the Slayer any longer; she must have gone in with the girls. "I fooled them into thinking she'd thrown me over a bridge." At the Watcher's skeptical look, Spike said, "I know I'm a bad liar, Rupert, but I can pull one off every once in a while. You know vampires are almost physically unable to admit to their abilities, speed, or whatnot, always playing it close to the vest. Even at six, I was capable of a lot more than I let on to them."
"Considering your family, probably a good strategy," Giles said dryly.
"Kept me alive, so to speak."
The Watcher regarded him shrewdly. "What are you capable of, Spike? Shapeshifting? Mesmer? Flight? Drawing shadow?"
Spike gave him a look of mock horror. "I would never stoop so low as to use such foul abilities. Hardly be fair if I did."
"Doesn't mean you don't have them."
The vampire touched the side of his nose and smirked, then walked away, the leather fluttering around him seeming darker than usual, his bright hair somehow not catching the light to the usual degree. Rupert smiled after him. He was cheeky, maddening, and able to give the potential slayers just the right kind of encouragement. What were the odds, Giles wondered, that he could get the Council to hire a vampire as a Watcher?
⸹
Xander gave Faith a polite smile, his third of the night, then made a beeline for Spike, the smile on his face turning into a fixed grimace. "Hail, fellow testosterone refugee."
Spike looked up from the couch, where he was determinedly trying to watch a football match amid the stragglers after the group meeting. "What?"
"You know, I just don't get the whole charming Englishman thing," Xander said dryly.
"Well, with you, I don't try."
"Just for that, no good night kiss."
Spike chuckled and thumbed the power button on the remote. "Wasn't Man U, anyway."
"Can we get out of here? I really don't want to be around psycho-slayer."
"Story?"
"Let's take a walk." Xander rummaged in the weapons chest for his favorite axe. "I wanted to ask you something anyway."
"So," the blond man said after they turned onto the sidewalk, "you and Faith. What's the gen?" He figured it had something to do with Faith holding Joyce hostage, something he was struggling to put aside himself.
Xander shook his head. "You know the expression, 'take someone's virginity'… Faith took mine, capital T."
Spike turned to stare at him. "You lost it to a Slayer?"
He shook his head again. "To Faith. Didn't get much in return."
"Ouch. No wonder you're so high-strung around her."
"Worst thing was, I thought it meant something." They walked in silence for a while, watching the shadows, both of them considering the wisdom of a sexual relationship with a Slayer.
"You, uh, wanted to ask something?"
"Yeah. It's about my parents." Xander stared ahead. "Lots of people have left Sunnydale, and I'm trying to get them to join the exodus."
Spike gestured vaguely at the town. "Yeah, not a good place to be right now. Tell me again why we're stayin'?"
"Well, we're the heroes."
"Yeah, I keep forgettin.' Anyway, your parents?"
"I, um, got them a place in Elmwood."
Spike absorbed this, letting the financial burden Xander had assumed go without comment. "Over an hour away."
"Figured that was about far enough." He took a breath. "The thing is, they won't go. I can't exactly say, the First Evil is claiming this town because it's on the Hellmouth, and there's gonna be a really big rumble because it was our Hellmouth first."
"Not your normal conversation, no."
"So, I wanted to ask," he laughed a little, "if you would mind terrorizing my family?" At the blond man's raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "Your invite's still good. Just go in and… scare the hell out of them. Or scare them out of hell. Whatever."
"You want me to suit up and chase your family out of town."
"Yeah. That's pretty much exactly what I want you to do."
Spike bit back on his next words. Why do you even care? He cared about his family, didn't he, evil and all? Or, rather, his old family. He was proud to be included in the Slayer's family now. "Yeah, all right." They both slowed when they saw a dark shape move in the shadows but relaxed when they saw it was a coyote. Spike growled at it for good measure, and it slunk away, tail tucked between its legs. "When do you want me to do it?"
"Nothing wrong with tonight. From what Willow and Faith learned from that potential in the hospital, the First has found its body. Speaking from prior experience, things are going to move fast from now on."
"Reckon you're right. Springtime in Sunnyhell; nothing like the merry month of May for an apocalypse. Let's go, then, whelp."
"Using pet names again, sweetheart?"
"I am a demon, you know. Means I can't hardly resist you."
"Slut."
"Tease."
"Love's bitch."
"Bloody hell."
⸹
"Faith? Can we talk?"
"Sure, B." Following her, Faith was surprised when Buffy didn't stop by her bed, but opened the window and climbed onto the roof. The dark-haired Slayer followed. They sat on the shingles in silence for a couple of minutes. "Peaceful up here."
"Yeah. Look, I want to tell you about the First Slayer–"
"The First Slayer? Not the First Evil?"
"Right. Listen…" Buffy went on to tell Faith what she had seen in her vision, the origin of the Slayer line, and the Turok-Han who were massing beneath the Hellmouth. When the other woman didn't say anything, she asked, "Have you been having any dreams, Faith? Slayer dreams?"
She shook her head. "No. Gettin' out of prison and this thing with Angel have kept me pretty preoccupied." Then she frowned. "Well, there's something. Like a recurring what's-it, motif. Not a prophecy or anything, but… I've seen this… axe a few times."
"Is it red?"
"Yeah, sometimes," she replied slowly. "Yeah, it is, B. Think that's what preacher-man has that belongs to us?"
"Maybe. Or it could be another potential."
Faith shook her head. "She'd be dead."
"I think so, too. But can we take the chance?"
"Are you suggesting that we go on the offense?"
"Wanna go find the bad guy?"
Faith's dark eyes sparkled.
⸹
She wasn't going back. That's all there was to it.
Buffy kicked out at a mailbox, knocking it from the post, across the street, and forty feet into someone's back yard. She stood still, her leg still extended, breathing hard.
God, that was ugly.
She understood, she did. Girls had died. Molly died, one of her first charges. Virginia and Carla died. Caleb had nearly killed Xander, might have cost him an eye. She closed her own eyes, remembering Spike's desperate leap, hearing him snarl again, "Hands off the whelp!" Spike had pulled her out, and she had lashed out at him, wanting to stay and keep fighting, drawing blood from his cheek. He was her loyal second, and she had hit him. Again. No wonder he left with Andrew to check on that old Catholic mission.
She couldn't go back. They didn't understand. This was hard. It had always been hard; now it was harder because the responsibility fell on her. Those deaths were on her. Xander's injuries were on her. Spike… past and future, that was on her. She couldn't stand under the weight of her burdens, but she had to. Every day, she had to.
Who else was going to stand against the First? Faith? She would try, but she hadn't even been able to stop Kakistos, the only demon of consequence she'd ever faced. Sure, Faith had changed, but she had been out of commission for years.
No, this was her work, and she was doing a lousy job. Her house was divided on itself. Buffy wiped her cheeks, shaking her head at the phrase, fitting though it was. High school history would pick now to rear its ugly head. The potentials were scared and rebellious; her friends were shaken. Anya, terrified for Xander, had been particularly harsh. Giles and Dawn were steadfast, but they couldn't make their voices heard over Kennedy's, and Willow's loyalties were torn. When she couldn't take any more, she'd just left.
Buffy walked aimlessly, wishing she could find a vampire, even a Turok-Han to fight. She needed a good fight, a spot of violence—
She needed Spike.
Didn't matter. Wasn't going to get him. Her dreams were clear about that.
The biggest burden of all.
⸹
"Hey, Spike." Willow's voice was hesitant.
"Red," he replied in measured tones. "Join me?"
She sat down next to him on the back porch and looked up at the stars. Since the electricity was gone, there was no light pollution. Willow spotted three constellations right away – Cassiopeia, the Big Pineapple, and Moose Getting a Sponge Bath. A lost little smile flitted across her face. The night was clear and mild, but there would be no games of vampire tag. Everyone was huddled inside, the trauma of the bomb and the fear of tomorrow's battle weighing upon them.
"Are you mad at me?"
"Yeah," he said heavily, putting out his cigarette. Willow couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him smoke.
"Will you talk to me, anyway? In private?" She held out her hands.
Spike sighed and took her warm fingers. You lot put her outside of your wards, Willow, into danger. Yeah, she's the Slayer, but she was all alone.
She's the one who left, Spike. How could we stop her?
Maybe by not making her feel as though she couldn't stay? Spike pulled his hands away, balling them into fists. 'M mad at Anya, but I can understand – she was sick with worry over Harris. But I'm furious with your bint, Willow. I'll help her in the battle tomorrow, but after that… wouldn't cross the street to spit on her if she were on fire. All she wants is to be in charge, not knowing how hard that is, and she rammed through her opinions until – Either she leaves, or I do. Won't stay in the same house with her another night.
Willow looked stricken. She could see no forgiveness in his mind. She's not so bad, Spike. Really.
He shook his head, and when he looked back at her, there was a look of disgust on his face. It was, Willow thought, one of his few expressions that didn't have a sidecar of come-shag-me – angry, amused, worried, sorrowful all looked pretty hot on Spike. But disgust was just disgust. She's toxic, Wil. She's too stupid to know she's stupid.
I love her.
Do you? Why? She that good in bed? His jaw clenched, and he shook his head. Sorry. That was… sorry. It's just… How can you be with that, Red? After Tara?
She saw what he meant by Tara: class, kindness, beauty, goodness, and quality. Tara was his definition of a lady, in rarified company along with his own mother and Joyce Summers. Willow sobbed once and clamped her hand over her mouth. Spike muttered something foul and took her in an awkward embrace.
'M so sorry. Never know when to shut my gob.
Where am I ever going to find someone like her? I'M NEVER GOING TO FIND SOMEONE LIKE HER.
Shh, pet. I didn't mean – He held her for a while, rubbing her back the same way he would do for Dawn.
Willow wiped at her eyes. Do you think I'm a slut for sleeping with Kennedy so soon after…?
Got no right to throw stones, pet. I slept with Anya less than a month after Buffy broke it off with me, yeah?
I know Kennedy's not anything like Tara, but she's so pretty and she wanted me, she pursued me, geeky little Willow –
I wanted you, too, once. You were smart then, knew that wasn't a good idea.
You never wanted me. I was just a Buffy-substitute.
Spike pulled away, one eyebrow raised. Oh, is that what you think? He showed her a well-worn fantasy set in an abandoned factory that began with her saying, "There will be no having of any kind," and finished with him seducing her into lots of having of various kinds.
She stared at him, her mouth dropped open. Spike pushed her jaw up, grinning wickedly. You really meant it, all those times I thought you were just flirting? Her mental voice was faint.
Yeah. Dunno how you see yourself, Red, but I don't think it's quite how everyone else sees you. Something you and Glinda had in common. He looked down at his scuffed boots before meeting her eyes. You don't have to sleep with her just because she's a lesbian and the last person you loved happened to be a woman. You loved Dog-boy, too, with the common theme being, you loved them. Some people, it doesn't matter about the outside package, just the love part.
I do love her. It's not the same as what I had with Tara – or with Oz, for that matter. But I do love her. There's more to her than you know.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. After tomorrow, we all need to take a vacation. We've bloody well earned one. We defeat the Turok-Han tomorrow, spend a while apart… Maybe by the time people start coming back to Sunnydale, I'll be able to look at her without wanting to choke her. Even Spike's posture was grudging. Only reason I'd tolerate the window-licker is you, and I might have to stay drunk off my face to do it.
"Spike?" They both looked up to see Xander, who had opened the door just enough to poke his head out. "Can I borrow your lighter? Can't find any matches for the candles," he added, by way of explanation.
"Sure. Bring it back." Spike fished in a coat pocket and tossed the lighter to the other man. Xander caught it neatly and nodded his thanks.
When the door closed, Willow turned back to Spike. Do you think we'll be okay tomorrow?
'Course we will. He shrugged. Better plan than you lot usually have. He put a big hand on her shoulder. You'll do fine, Red. Those potentials, they're trained up, and once you juice them, they'll be fine, knock those vamps on their arses. Even Kennedy.
What about you? Willow had held the amulet in her hand earlier, but hadn't felt anything. It was cold and dead, rather like its bearer.
Spike shrugged again. Whether the amulet does anything or not, it's a fight, yeah? My kind of party.
I wanted to tell you, you know, in case anything… I think of you as my friend, Spike. I love you. I would love you for being so good to Tara, even without what you do for Dawn and Buffy. He looked away, his jaw flexing, but Willow was in his mind and felt how her words had overcome him. Love's bitch, she thought sadly, and slid her hand into his.
Love you, too, Red.
They sat on the porch for a few more minutes, watching the stars, then went inside the dim, quiet house.
⸹
"All aboard," Spike said quietly, handing Dawn into the school bus. Principal Wood was already in the driver's seat. Spike pulled the blanket down and gave Principal Wood an even look, nodding his head in greeting. The tall man's mouth thinned for a moment, but he nodded in return.
"Here, sit with me," Dawn said, pulling the vampire down next to her. She longed to throw herself into his arms, but she didn't want Spike to know how scared she was, so she pulled him closer by the pendant hung around his neck. "This is the ugliest necklace."
"'M doomed to wear ugly jewelry," Spike sighed.
"So, you don't know exactly what it's supposed to do?"
"Nope." He didn't particularly care what it was supposed to do, or if it did anything, just that Buffy had chosen him to wear it. She'd called him a champion. He still felt somewhat dazed by that, by the trust she put in him.
"Angel didn't know, either?"
"Nope."
"He never was too bright."
"Can't disagree." He put his forehead against hers. "You all right?"
"No. Not really."
"You'll be fine. Never were scared of me, were you?"
"Yeah, well you aren't as scary as those übervamps."
He looked offended. "I kill those f – um, chuffers, I'll have you know."
She rolled her eyes. "It means the same thing, Spike. I'm not a child."
"Yeah, well, it's not written on bathroom walls in this country. Means I can get away with it."
Dawn made a mouth. "Okay, how's this: you're not as scary, but more dangerous."
"All right, then."
"Keep her safe, okay?" Dawn asked quietly, watching her sister walk past. The usual pinched expression was on Buffy's face, and her eyes looked enormous.
"Always." He closed his own eyes, feeling Buffy moving away from him, headed for the back of the bus. They had slept in each other's arms the last few nights, taking what comfort they could. Last night she had wanted him physically, had kissed him, but he'd seen her face when Angel showed up. The difference in the way she looked at the other vampire… Now he knew what love looked like on her. It wasn't that Spike thought she would be thinking of the other man; all he wanted was what she could honestly give him. Her friendship was enough for now. She seemed to understand, didn't get angry, but with the Slayer, you never knew. He'd probably regret it, but he was determined that, when they did make love again, it was going to be for the right reasons. That's the kind of thing champions did, right?
"Do you ever get scared, Spike?"
"Sure I do. 'Specially about you and big sis." He slouched against her shoulder.
"For yourself, I mean?"
He was silent for a moment, staring at the back of the seat in front of them. The bus lurched into gear, and he turned to give her a solemn look. "Yeah. The Initiative. Being held in a cell there. That was scary. The unknown, you know? I didn't know what they wanted from me." He pulled the blanket over his head against the changeable sunlight coming through the bus windows.
Dawn shook her head. "I'm scared all the time. You and Buffy, you're different. You're heroes."
"Me?" He scoffed.
"My hero," she said simply.
A smile lit his eyes. "That I can do." He picked up her hand and laced his cool fingers through hers. "Love you, Sweet Bit."
"Love you, too, Spike."
⸹
"I love you."
"'Course you do. But thanks for sayin' it."
Buffy held her weeping sister, rocking back and forth in the school bus seat. She was pretty sure she was sitting where Spike had sat just hours before. Giles had taken the wheel of the bus, and they were on their way to the hospital in Dutton. Behind them was a crater that used to be Sunnydale.
"Shh… I'm here, Dawnie. I'm here." Her hushed words didn't make any impression on the girl. Why would they? She'd just lost one of the two people she loved best, and eight others.
Buffy lifted her head, her own eyes dry, and her gaze roamed around the other riders. Kennedy was watching Willow, who was holding Xander. His big shoulders shook, and he almost engulfed the redhead as he clung to her. Andrew was sitting awkwardly beside Kennedy, not sure what to do. He had been the one to tell Xander about Anya.
Faith had her arms wrapped around Robin, her expression remote. She met Buffy's eyes and gave her a nod. Buffy nodded back, not sure what the gesture meant. The new slayers were clustered together, looking shellshocked. Buffy couldn't imagine what it must be like for them – the euphoria of suddenly being superheroes, the horror of the battle they had just endured.
She looked straight ahead and met Giles' red-rimmed eyes in the wide rear view mirror. He gave her a death's-head smile, meant to reassure, before returning his attention to the road. Buffy supposed her automatic smile in return looked just as ghastly. She bent her head back to Dawn, not wanting to see anyone else's grief. Dawn's was enough.
"…thanks for sayin' it."
He hadn't believed her. Why should he? She didn't believe it herself. But he had tried to reassure her, had sent her on her way so he could die in her place… as she had known he would. Night after night, the Slayer dreams had been clear on that point. Buffy clenched her jaw. She wasn't going to cry. If she had learned anything when she sent Angel to hell, it was that.
Murderers don't get to mourn.
Next Chapter: Scenes from Los Angeles, where a ghost cannot wait to be reunited with family... though he may already be with family.
