Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thanks ever so to ObscureBookWyrm for taking the time to trudge through my horrible grammar.

Then: Spike went to the neurosurgeon, but had second thoughts about getting his chip taken out, while Buffy questioned her feelings for the father of her child. The baby shower was a huge success. Buffy and Giles made up, and Spike gave her a beautiful Mother's Ring. Joyce reamed Giles sideways and the boys bonded.

Dawn of a New Age

Chapter Twenty One

A high-pitched electrical whine emanating from the shadows was his only warning. He dove for Buffy, twisting midair so he took the brunt of the force when they landed on the ground. Darts wrapped in blue arcs of lightning flew past, lodging in a pine tree beside them.

"What the hell?" Buffy sputtered.

Before Buffy could struggle to find her footing, Spike was upright and leaping into the fray. He braced one booted foot on a tombstone, launching off and toppling three black-clad men with the heavy sprawl of his body. The men hit the ground with hollow thuds, and Spike recoiled with a strangled growl, clutching his head.

"Don't taze her. Nets only."

Spike knew that voice. He'd heard it once before.

"Back off!" Buffy's command was sharp and fierce, but Spike could hear fear winding beneath it. There was a thunk of flesh on flesh and a deep groan.

Spike bit down on the tip of his tongue, the sharp stab of pain and metallic tang of blood invigorating him. He reared up, straddling one of the men. For a nearly a year Spike had been restrained, but never weakened. To save himself from incapacitating agony he checked his strength and ferocity, but now it was time to unleash.

Spike slammed his fist into the man's face, feeling the hard edge of mandible crumble beneath his knuckles. Spike roared, the pain nearly unsupportable. He swung blindly at the dark shadow rising beside him, the snapping of vertebrae reminded Spike of the grotesque sounds of Xander shoving popcorn into his bottomless maw.

Wet, lukewarm liquid trickled out his nose and over his lips. The faint scents of pig and orangutan assaulted him.

"I'm human." A pause, then slightly more urgently, "I'm pregnant!" The panic in Buffy's voice sent chills down Spike's spine. He lashed out, the thick tread of his boot grinding hard against the smooth roundness of a kneecap before it buckled backwards.

He couldn't see. The world was reduced to watery shadows. There was scent, sound-and primordial instinct. The radio chatter was inaudible to Buffy, but he could hear orders being issued by a cold female voice to capture them alive, the fetus intact.

"I doubt you're human. That thing in your belly sure as hell isn't."

Spike didn't recognize the voice, but the disgusted malice was chilling. He launched himself towards the voice, only to fall short, landing on the cold ground damp with evening dew. The fresh cut blades of grass were sharp under his palms as he tried and failed to lever himself to his knees. His skull was splitting open and sharp-clawed demons were digging their way out. He didn't have the strength to fight past the pain.

There were more soft thuds and guttural grunts. Spike focused all his rage on himself. As a human he had been a failure as a son, unable to forge a place in society and care for his dependents as a man born of Victorian England was trained at birth to do. As a vampire he repeatedly disappointed his lover. His viciousness was never mercilessness enough, his destruction too unimaginative, his vampiric nature too human, until she finally tossed him aside for not being demon enough. The incessant fervor of his mind-his failure as a man, a father, and a vampire-forced him to his knees with a pitched keen of distress. The world tilted sharply on its axis. Rotted bile stung the backs of his molars, his tongue too thick to swallow it down. He reached out to steady himself, his fingertips brushing starch-stiffened fabric. Male. Musk. Human. Not Buffy. He threw himself at the body, wrapping his arms around the man's knees and toppling him to the side.

"Shit!"

The astringent taste of enhanced blood coated his mouth, spraying the back of his throat in a warm gush. He worried his fangs into the muscular thigh, ripping flesh, striking bone. Agony whited out all his senses until he was deaf, dumb, and blind.

He was torn from his prey and he howled. The comforting heat of Buffy enveloped him and he choked back his primal drive to rend and tear. Steel fingers wrapped around his biceps, hauling him to his feet. He swayed and would have collapsed if it weren't for the small powerhouse supporting him.

"C'mon, Spike. We have to go!" she urged.

The desperation in her tone flooded Spike with resolve. He leaned heavily on her as they stumbled out of the cemetery. Blind with pain, he felt along his pockets until he found his cell phone. He fumbled it out of an interior pocket of his duster, depressing the buttons by touch to send the prepared text to Dekker.

"We have to…I don't know. Get ahold of Giles and the gang. Let them know." Buffy's terror prevented her from articulating a fully realized plan.

"Get us back to Revello. Dekker will be waiting to take us to a safe house."

It cost him to speak. He gagged on his own tongue, his sinuses filling with blood.

"What about Mom? Giles?"

"Everyone," he choked. "We take everyone."

He couldn't feel his feet and was leaning heavily on Buffy as she dragged them through the darkened streets of Sunnydale. They were easy pretty for any predator-her awkwardly pregnant and his brain fricasseed.

"I failed."

"No, honey. You did good. You got four of them. God. You must be in so much pain." The soothing hand she ran down his back was like a physical blow. He didn't deserve her sympathy or her praise.

"I'm weak," he gasped again. The pain of the truth almost felled him. He had been right there in the doctor's office, the nurse motioning him into pre-op, Dekker's anxious presence at his side and he'd turned around and walked away. He had placed his own selfish desires above the needs of his family. He hadn't wanted to give up Buffy-give up their little domestic dream. A dream meant for a man, not a monster like him. What a mockery. All his words about how Angel was too weak to stand beside her, and it turned out that his grandsire was the stronger one. In the end, the great poof had done what was right for Buffy, not himself, and walked away to protect her-unlike Spike, who couldn't accept his nature, his place in the world, and now his family was paying for it. Their enemy had underestimated them tonight and Buffy, even awkward and unbalanced, had been able to fight them free. But the Initiative wouldn't make the same mistake twice. When they came again, and they would, Buffy would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Especially if she was fighting to protect him as well. Spike dropped his head, trudging onward as guilt and insecurity weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Dekker was waiting for them at the house, trying to convince a harried Joyce to pack an overnight bag. Buffy laid Spike on the couch and took charge. She had her mom packing essentials for them both while she phoned Giles and coordinated with Dekker to get the Scoobs transported to the safe house. Crisis was her element and she was magnificent. He would have been proud if he weren't wracked with self-loathing. Shadows danced in front of his eyes and he still couldn't make out details, but Spike could feel Dekker's accusatory glare crawling over his skin.

Seven minutes after they arrived at the house, they were piling into a dark SUV driven by one of Spike's bouncers from the club. Ten minutes later they were pulling up to a renovated dock house in the river district. It was small, the square footage more defendable than most of the warehouses. More importantly it butted up against the river, where Spike had a speedboat docked for a quick getaway.

Dekker maneuvered him into the back room, laying him on the simple double-wide bed while explaining to Buffy that a crew of demons was hidden around the perimeter keeping watch. Spike had prepared the contingency plan down to the smallest detail, including stocking Buffy's latest craving for mocha mudslide ice cream in the freezer.

Cold liquid leaked down his face, but he didn't know if was blood or tears. When a warm cloth touched his cheek he startled away. He hadn't realized Buffy was still in the room with him.

"It's just me, baby." She tried to wipe his eyes with the cloth, but he pushed her away. "Stop. There's blood all over your face."

"Don't touch me," he growled. He couldn't bear her kindness. Her careless affection.

"Geeze, Spike. I know you're in a lot of pain, but you don't have to be so grumpy." He could hear the confusion underneath her sarcasm. She didn't understand why he was pushing her away, why he was so angry.

"You don't know anything." How could she? How could she know that he chose her over his own wrinklies? He had reached for an impossible dream. He didn't even have the right to be disappointed. He knew before he had grasped for the stars that he would never obtain them. Happiness wasn't for monsters.

"I know you did the best you could despite being handicapped." She actually sounded like she was trying to console him. Did she think her words were comforting? Did she have no idea how emasculating she was?

"Handicapped," he laughed mirthlessly. "That's right, keep the fact you cut my balls off as PC as possible."

He felt her heat recede as she backed away. "What do you mean me? I had nothing to do with your chip. It's all the Initiative's doing."

Spike levered himself onto his elbows, still blind, but tracking her like a predator. "Yeah, their doin', but what would happen if I got it out, hmm? That'd be the end of Ol' Spike. You'd stake me or throw me out on my ear. Wouldn't even bother with this parody, would we? That's what this, isn't it? All this love and affection. Calling me honey and baby, taking care of my wounds. It's all a big soddin' joke."

Her breath was hitching through her chest, and he could hear the air wheeze in her lungs. She was on the verge of tears, but he didn't care. He was sure the cold wet trails on his cheeks were his own.

"You're a killer, Spike. Nothing has changed." The words were high and tight, strained past a convulsing larynx.

"Everything has changed," he roared. "You're just too stupid and blind to see it."

"What I see is a man who's not happy with what he has." Anger radiated off her, calling him with her heat.

"Not a man though, am I? You won't ever let me forget that I'm a vampire. Not even a proper one. Can't protect. Can't defend. Just a fangless pup curled up at your feet beggin' for scraps. That's how you like me, isn't it? A little pet to fetch and carry at your whim. A convenience to play at being a mockery of a man until you find the real thing. Until you find your normal."

"You know what? You're just being a big baby. I don't have time for your pity party right now."

The washcloth she held landed in the center of his chest with a wet plop. He reacted instantly, flinging it across the room where it spat against the wall.

"That's right, run off. It's what you do, innit?"

"I have to save the world. Again!" she hissed with fury and hurt. She didn't run away. She did her duty. Time and time again. At high personal cost, but no one ever understood that. She thought Spike had, but she was wrong.

She slammed the door hard enough to rattle the wall when she stalked away.

Spike was thankful when she left him alone. He didn't think he could bear to be touched by her. She would never accept him for who he really was. He tried to change for her, tried to be what she wanted, but the cost was too high. Even chipped she would never love him. How could she? The chip was a cover for his real self. She was just waiting for the moment it was pulled back and he was revealed in all his evil glory.

Dru had thrown him out because he wasn't demon enough, and Christ, was she right. He was nothing more than a neutered parody of what he used to be. So completely whipped that he balked at freedom when it all but shoved itself in his face. He was like one of those moon-eyed cows that dumbly chewed its cud instead of bolting when the meadow gate was left wide open.

He wasn't a man either. Not in the sense that Buffy or her mates would ever accept him. He was a fool for even trying. What was he thinking with his posh loft apartment and half respectable day job? What a bleedin' joke. He would never be a man. Spike lay back on the bed, his wide hand covering most of his face. His head hurt so badly he was sure his skull was fracturing under the pressure of his swelling brain.

His damaged mind urged him to sleep, to heal, but it trapped him in oddly arousing nightmares. Buffy splayed on a hospital cot, her stomach flat, thighs bloody. A baby wailed as he stood at her bare feet, undoing his his belt. He slid between her thighs, dipping to kiss her pale, colorless lips. Empty eyes stared back at him. He gripped her by the shoulders, shaking her limp body, her hands flopping off the cot instead of clutching him close. The baby's wails choked and died. He looked behind him and fifteen year-old Buffy stared back at him coldly. She was dressed in army fatigues and clutching a stake. Her eyes were blue and her cheekbones razor sharp. She shook her blonde head and gold coins fell out of her hair, hitting the floor with metallic tings. Her newly sable tresses floated around her shoulders as she leapt towards him with the grace of a jungle cat. She landed on him hard, shoving the stake through his chest. He managed to twist his head, staring into Buffy's dead eyes as he coated her body with his dust.

Spike woke with a start. The room was unfamiliar, the lapping sense of nearby water making his chest tight with panic. A slick, sweltering heat was pressed against his spine. When he inhaled he was inundated with scents of moist female flesh and rich, hormone-laden blood with notes of green apple and citrus.

He turned, gathering Buffy into his arms. She nuzzled his chest sleepily but didn't wake. He pressed his face into the crown of her head, his silent tears falling into her hair. She was right to reject him. He was a monster. Even a half-demon was too much. If he wanted to protect his family he needed to embrace his nature. He could no longer go on living this half-life.

He drew away, wiping his face with wide sweeps of his palm. The dresser held several changes of clothes he had stocked weeks ago. He picked out dark jeans and a t-shirt, locking himself in the bathroom to clean up. Buffy was still sleeping when he exited. He wasn't fool enough to believe she had forgiven him for their argument earlier. There was just no other place for her to sleep. She moaned, curling around her swollen belly, trying to ease the near constant ache in her lower back. He cast her one last longing look as he slipped from the room. It was close to dusk, but the only other person awake was the Watcher, who sat at the breakfast nook, furiously jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad.

"You're up." Giles sounded mildly surprised and Spike wondered how bad he looked. Without a reflection he could only guess it was as bad as he felt.

Spike grunted, shuffling over to the fridge to pull out some blood. As it heated he held up the teakettle to the watcher in silent question. Giles nodded, and Spike filled the kettle, putting it on the burner.

"Slayer's mates?" It hurt to talk. He swallowed delicately and reached for his blood.

"Everyone made it in. Your man is remarkably organized." Spike nodded at the backhanded compliment. "They're all sleeping now. We were up all night and most of the day strategizing."

Spike felt the burn of anger that he wasn't included. It was his forethought that whisked them away from the Initiative's clutches, his safe house they were hiding in, his men protecting them. They could have had the decency to wait until he was healed. Rationally he knew time was of the essence and they couldn't wait a day for him to recover, but that knowledge didn't lessen his bitterness. Buffy didn't see him as an equal in this fight. He was just another body for her to protect.

"Is there a plan?" Spike asked. He fixed tea for them, adding extra honey in lieu of sugar to his.

"All the planning in the world is useless without an idea of where to attack. Thanks to you, we have a basic layout of the labs, but we still don't know where they are."

The Englishmen frowned at their tea. The white crease at Giles' temple was nearly permanent from his worry.

"Xander suggested kidnapping Professor Walsh or Riley and torturing them for the location."

"That won't work," Spike replied off-handedly. He downed the pig's blood and sipped on the tea to cut the vile aftertaste.

"Quite," Giles agreed. "I highly doubt they would reveal the information and I don't want Buffy involved in something so distasteful."

The knowledge that the option would remain open was left unsaid between them.

"I've suggested to Buffy that the best strategy is for her to lay low until she's had the baby and she's back to fighting fit."

"I'm betting that went over well, mate." Spike grimaced at his second mug of pig's blood and turned away to rummage through the cupboards. The watcher sighed.

"No, it did not. Buffy dislikes being curtailed."

"Dislike is such mild word, Watcher." They shared a strained look of understanding. "Any luck with the Council?" Spike placed an open box of biscuits on the table between them. Giles didn't recognize the writing on the package. He politely took a few pale pink cakes.

"I spoke to my contact last night. It seems the defunding has been placed on hold. Apparently a world-renowned doctor is claiming they've had a breakthrough. It's all very backroom, but the rumor is that they have some sort of super soldier."

"They might be counting their chickens before they're hatched. They're assuming our child will share my traits and are rushing the data to get more funding."

"Perhaps. Or they have something else. Another project you didn't see. Either way the Council is suspicious."

Spike straightened in his seat. "How suspicious?"

"Enough for them to send a team."

"Bloody hell." The marble countertop creaked ominously beneath Spike's clenched hand. Dealing with the US government was one thing, but the Council had no oversight committee to petition. They were a free entity and if they decided the Slayer was corrupted there was little anyone could do to save her from their machinations.

Giles broke one of his biscuits in half. "I truly believe the Council will never suspect you are the father. Unless they read it in an ancient prophesy they are going to write the probability of you fathering a child off as impossibility. They will more than likely assume that Buffy was a victim of teenage hormones and poor judgment. If they dig deep enough they'll learn of her dalliance with that Parker boy and assume it's his."

Spike growled low in his throat. There was a wanker he'd love to get his fangs into. "It doesn't matter. They see me hangin' about and they'll put an end to it."

"Most probably," Giles agreed. He glanced slyly at the vampire from beneath his lashes. Spike was frowning at the swirls of white misting through the black marble countertop. "Perhaps it would be best for Buffy and the child if you left town after this."

Spike's body hardened into deadly lines and Giles hastened to soothe him. "Only for a time. Until the Council completes their investigation."

Spike didn't reply and the silence roared between them. To assuage the tension Giles took a bite of the biscuit he'd ruthlessly mangled. The texture melted on his tongue, releasing subtle flavors that hinted at blackberries in summer.

"These are quite good. Where did you get them?" Giles picked up the box to examine the label.

"There from a demon dimension. They're considered a delicacy. Most demons can't eat human food, so I make quite a bit of dosh exporting goodies."

Giles hummed in agreement, but Spike didn't hear him. He swiped the box from Giles' hand.

"In fact, many demons have dietary needs that require specialty foods if you want to keep them alive for any period of time." Spike dropped the box and stood up.

Giles mimicked him. "Where are you going?"

"My club. I need to contact my suppliers."

Giles straightened. "I'm coming with you."

Spike didn't reply, his mouth grim with a makings of a plan. They shrugged on their jackets and headed for the sewer.