Much love to nichbuket and cordykitten!
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Chapter Twenty-One: Ties
Sire and Childe
They landed at LAX at two-thirty-three in the morning. They were half an hour early, but when they entered the arriving hall, Giles was already there. He had been there since midnight, sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, unable to move; unable to think of what to say to her once she reentered his life. The last words she had heard him say kept repeating themselves mockingly in his head, as though they hadn't done enough damage already.
The Slayer is dead.
She'll never be the Buffy we knew.
We can't trust her now.
He worried what shape she would be in. Would he recognize her, or would the morph into the despicability she had willingly let enter her be complete? Only God knew how harsh Spike's influence had been. Giles wanted to meet her with an open mind, but the thought of her transformation harmed him, and frightened him. He didn't know how to handle it.
Now, as she walked hesitantly towards him, he felt how taut his expression was, as though the skin of his face was straining against the muscles and bone beneath it without any real sense of what mask it was producing. His eyes, however, were alert as he fixed them in the vampiress', looking closely at her.
She had slowed her step, and Giles felt fingers yanking at his insides, brushing along his nerves, wiping his thoughts until they were an absolute blank.
The three travelers came to a stop in front of him, and he managed to produce a tentative smile.
"Hallo," he said, uncharacteristically.
The vampiress' brow creased.
"Hallo?" she asked. "Dead me walking, and that's the best you can do?"
"I'm sorry."
She smiled then. He stared at her, but all he could see was Buffy. Nothing but her. Before he realized it he had pulled her into a hard hug. One of her arms wrapped around his waist, only it wasn't as convincing as his hold, and after another moment he reluctantly let her go.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Tired," she said.
He felt ashamed at his selfishness, thinking only of his own turmoil, and none of hers.
"Come," he said. "You can sleep in the car."
x
Sunnydale. The mere name seemed dusty, otherworldly, cool to the touch. Like some forgotten artifact on a rotting shelf in her mind. She had so decidedly put it there, that now, searching for it, hunting for one speck of the familiar in it, she couldn't find it. But as she stepped out of the car and onto the curb outside Giles' apartment and looked up, her eyes met Willow's, and the dust was blown away, and the forgotten became real again as the redhead ran across the lawn and threw her arms around her.
"Buffy, I'm so sorry," she said, hugging her tightly. "We never meant for you to think that you had to go away."
"I know," Buffy interrupted her softly, placing her hands on her arms and pushing her away gently, meeting her gaze with what she hoped was earnestness. "I had to go away," she added with a small smile, touching the straightness of Willow's locks and thinking of better times, when she had run a brush through them while Willow sat on the floor munching popcorn and Xander lay beside her on her bed as they watched whatever unusual movie pick of the week.
She mourned it then. Her death. The wire and string that had tied her to her old life snapped one by one as she let the idea, the memory of it go. She hadn't wanted to face it, but it was true. Spike had been right. Giles had been right. The Slayer was dead. Soon to be utterly, irrevocably, dead-dead. But she needed to be put to rest now, so that the vampiress could face whatever was left, awake.
"I missed you," she told Willow, whose eyes glittered with unshed tears and her friend smiled through them.
"Where were you?" she asked hesitantly as they began to walk toward the apartment.
"Where do you think I was?" Buffy countered.
"With Spike," Willow said, even more hesitant.
Buffy smiled as well, though feeling how weak it was, doubting it even reached her eyes.
"Where's Xander?" she asked instead.
Willow was about to answer when Kendra opened the front door of the apartment, looking Buffy over doubtfully.
"Another vampire who I am not to slay," she murmured. "It is a strange business being involved with you people."
Buffy smirked, skipping formalities and proceeding in through the door.
"Hey," Spike said behind her, his voice stirring unprovoked sensations within her, tied to unwontedly fresh memories, and she turned around, reminding herself who he was not. "How did you do that?" he asked.
"What?" she wondered, but then she understood. There had been no official invitation. She frowned. "I don't know," she answered.
She spotted something on the table and walked up to it, reaching out a hand to touch it cautiously. The dagger lay peacefully ensconced in its velvet, and it looked no more a threat to her than the fabric which kept it.
"So," she mumbled. "This is to do the deed."
x
Everybody slept, except the vampiress, who had crept out of the guest bed and slid onto the room's deep windowsill, staring out across the lawn, its green shifting into dark blue which was destined to grow lighter the closer dawn came. The morning mist was slowly, slowly beginning to rise from it.
She thought she could see little shapes move in that white, sweeping vapor. Fairies on their way to greet the rising sun, dancing hand in hand to pay tribute to its brilliance. Buffy missed the sun. The warmth of its rays on her skin. But the mere memory of it made the vampire in her shudder and she directed her thoughts on the moon instead, of the chill of night and how it was her confidant now.
She rested her chin against one knee.
Not knowing how much time she had left was the worst part. This whole undertaking was built on nothing but a stack of questions, and without a satisfactory answer to each and every one, it would all come tumbling down. Giles had gotten a bit further in the research, but he maintained that a ceremony such as this was not to simply be preformed. He had to make sure that he knew every last step of the ritual, or something could go horribly wrong. Since the world wasn't cracking around the edges just yet, he had told her that he figured there was still some time.
She had almost asked if there was anything that could be done to save her, but then thought better of it. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't have overlooked something as vital as that. There was a sacrifice that needed to be made, and that was that.
She moved away from the window, slipping soundlessly up to the door and opening it painstakingly slowly, continuing through it on light feet and entering the living room.
The Slayer was asleep on the couch.
Buffy kneeled beside her, watching her face for a long minute. She wished she could delve into the other's mind; see what she was thinking, dreaming, feeling. Join with her somehow. Perhaps even share some of herself with the other. She gently touched the other's hand with her fingertips, the heat of its skin startling her into standing, taking a step back. The thump of the Slayer's heart filled her head, beating louder and louder until she wanted to scream for it to stop.
Tear at the jugular. Make it seep out.
She was at the front door in a blink, running outside.
Morning embraced her as though it wanted to keep her with it until nothing would be left of her but ashes. The world drawing a last breath of relief as there was nothing more for it to do but perish. Her feet pounded the pavement in objection.
She didn't stop until she reached another door.
Of a crypt.
The sun was minutes away now, and no matter how she wanted to run even more badly from this place than she had the other, she had no choice but to proceed inside. The door closed with an unsubtle bang, but she knew it wouldn't wake him. She stepped inside, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling suddenly exhausted.
"Buffy?"
Unbelievable.
She turned her head to the sarcophagus, from on top of which the voice came. That well-known voice, bearing an unknown trace of concern in it. How welcomed it was, hitting her ears as though wanting them to get used to it.
"Anything wrong?" the novelty continued as he sat up, bare-chested and newly awake, the slumber still tainting the blue of his eyes.
"Yes," she replied, then shook her head. "No."
Her thoughts were spinning a web. Around and around it went, tangling them up in it as it took form.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing here," she said, turning around and grabbing the iron ring of the door.
"Can't do that," he stopped her, at her side now, and she saw the light which had just begun to gild the air and dust of the place, dancing calmly in its proclamation of certain death, should she venture into it.
She let the ring go, smiling a little as she met his gaze.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"No," she confirmed.
"Even with that welcome party breathing down your neck and the hugs and the kisses?"
"There were no kisses."
He smirked.
"That why you can't sleep?" he inquired.
She gave him a look, but his mouth and his eyes and his hands were all Spike's, and so there was no real sting in it.
"Got a cure for it," he declared.
"I'm sure you do," she said, watching him as he walked up to where his duster was slung over a beam, pulling it down and extracting something out of one of its pockets.
A flask.
She wrinkled her nose, but as he unscrewed it and reached it out to her with a rather encouraging smile, she couldn't resist. She accepted it with a smile in return.
"Thanks," she said. "I guess."
She sniffed the strong liquor once before taking a deep mouthful, swallowing it down with a shudder.
He smirked once more.
"I think there's hope for you yet," he said and she smiled widely.
x
"He tortured me," she said, half an hour later as they sat on the floor, backs against the sarcophagus. "Nearly killed me," she added. "Give me some more of that."
He handed her the flask and she finished off the contents – which they had been sharing amiably between them – with one gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"He's hateful," she grumbled. "I hate him."
The last sentence was so quiet she wasn't sure he had picked up on it, but then he huffed.
"Doesn't make it any easier, though, does it?" he asked.
She looked up at him.
"No," she grumbled. "It doesn't."
"He's stubborn," he said. "Makes him too blind to see what he's missing."
She smiled again.
"What about Buffy?" she asked.
"What about her?" he wondered, getting to his feet.
"Is she too blind to see what she's missing?"
He smirked, but didn't answer.
"Let's get some sleep, love," he said, reaching out a hand to help her up.
She almost giggled at the gesture, but kept it down, sliding her hand into his.
x
Willow snuck past the sleeping Slayer, walking through the short hallway taking her to the guest bedroom. Kendra had graciously given up her room for the vampiress and was currently situated on a mattress upstairs; though Willow wondered if her forgoing hadn't been for all of their peace of mind. As though having four walls around Buffy would make it seem more normal that she wasn't human anymore.
Willow straightened her back as she stopped in front of the door.
She had decided almost the second Buffy ran off, all those weeks ago, that she would never allow herself to jump to conclusions about anything, and that she would show nothing but the support and respect she had always had for her friend before. Buffy wasn't gone. Even though she had decided to let Spike bite her and then drink his blood.
Willow raised one arm and knocked gently. When there was no reply after her third knock, she slid the door open. Her eyes widened at the sight of nothing but a barely disturbed bed. She spun around and practically stumbled into the living room, shaking life into the Slayer, who sat up groggily, trying to fend her off.
"What? What is it?" she exclaimed.
"She's not here. She's gone!"
x
Angel opened his front door, rubbing one sleepy eye and frowning at the unanticipated sight of the Slayer.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
He widened the gap of the door; closing it behind her once she had entered, unsure of what she was doing there.
"We got back last night," she stated.
"Yeah, I know," he nodded, reaching for a crumbled up shirt on the floor and slipping it on casually, beginning to button it up. "I mean," he continued, "I heard. That you were coming back. I just..."
"You wanted her to come to you," Buffy filled in.
"Yeah," he admitted. "In case she didn't want me to... Or if she wasn't ready."
"She'll want to see you," Buffy cut in. "Don't worry, she will. But I'm guessing she didn't come by last night."
He furrowed his brow again.
"No," he replied.
"Okay."
"Wait," he tried to stop her as she turned and went back out the door.
"Can't!" she called over her shoulder.
x
The sound of the door opening stirred the vampiress from her sleep and she slowly sat up, resting one hand on Spike's chest where he lay beside her. The black leather of her pants was lined with dust and she had the strongest yearning for a shower. Her back was stiff. His arm lost its grip on her shoulders and slapped down on the sarcophagus just as she looked up and met the stricken gaze of the Slayer.
"I was looking for you," the latter said, her voice unsteady, and she cleared her throat. "Even went by the house..."
"Was she there?" the vampiress asked, something steel-toothed clamping down on her heart at the thought of her mother.
"No," the Slayer answered.
The stillness was absolute as none of them could think of anything to say.
"I couldn't sleep," Buffy finally blurted. "He..."
"No, no," the Slayer stopped her with a smile. "Of course. I'm sure you're both tired. I'll leave you to it."
With that she turned and the next moment was swallowed by blazing sunlight.