We exit the sewer tunnels without much trouble and immediately melt into the throngs of people that are milling around outside, blending seamlessly into the crowd as we step out into the street.

It's a relief.

I realize dimly, glancing around, that I haven't spent much time outside at all in the past week. And hardly ever feeling free to walk around. There are Christmas lights dotting the buildings on either side of us, the faint sounds of music and bustling traffic and the smell of food wafting through the air, reminding me that it's the end of December.

Three weeks until my birthday.

But it's nice. Calming, in a way. I wonder if there's something about being here again, walking along these streets that I somehow just know I've walked before, that's making me feel better. Even knowing we're not free and clear just yet, knowing it's probably only a matter of time before Wolfram and Hart come after us again, the frigid New York December air has me feeling another small renewed sense of hope.

And also very cold.

Spike doesn't speak to me as we walk, following my father further down the street. He doesn't speak, either. The tension emanating between my Dad and my vampire, and me, somewhere in between the two, is thick. It surrounds us even in the open air. The only time Spike seems to fully acknowledge my presence beside him is when he removes his duster and drapes it over my shoulders.

I hadn't realized I'd been shivering until I'd stopped.

He still doesn't say anything, doesn't speak to me. But it's okay, I think, because there isn't much to say. Spike had been right before when he'd said there isn't anything to talk about yet. There's still so much we don't know. So many questions unanswered.

Even though we aren't speaking, I catch myself paying extra attention to my vampire as we walk. His shoulder dips when he moves, like he's hurting. He'll be needing blood soon, and I'd like to have a chance to clean his wound, get a better look at the damage the crossbow bolt had done.

He'd said it felt different.

I'm trying my best not to be too concerned about what that could mean just yet.

For not having been in this city for over eighteen years, it seems like Dad still pretty much knows his way around. He leads us quietly, without pausing, down to a cross section of two streets, then turns to the left, leading us down an empty back alley.

He comes to an abrupt stop about halfway down, peering intently at the solid brick wall in front of him. Beside me, Spike's shoulders tense up.

It's slight, almost imperceptible, but I can't help but notice. It has to be the connection, this hyper attuned awareness of his body I have wherever we go.

I've been feeling it for a while now, probably since he'd first bitten me, but there's no denying it's gotten stronger. Will probably continue to grow for the next several weeks, until the prophecy can be fully satisfied.

I turn to look at him, but his eyes are down, focused on the ground.

I look away from him, glance around the space, frowning. There's something eerily familiar about this place. It feels like I've been here before, maybe, but that...it's not possible. At least not that I should be able to remember, not this clearly.

And then I see it. Up ahead just a little ways, maybe half a block down, I see it. Glowing red, half the letters are sputtering, blinking on and off with some fidgety electrical pulse. The sign.

Max's.

My head starts to spin and I step back, glancing wildly around the alleyway, only now recognizing it for what it is.

This is it.

This is the alley where my mother was killed, the one from my dreams. The last place I'd seen her alive. Dad said she'd been taking me to Richard. Spike had said that Richard and his son...they'd shown up out of nowhere, maybe two minutes too late. Here.

Right here.

I look at Dad, who's still staring hard at a set of bricks in front of him, and I realize he doesn't know. Doesn't know where we are, what this place is.

He reaches out and places his hand against the wall, pressing into the brick, brow furrowed. Whatever it is he's thinking about, he's concentrating very hard. It takes me a minute, but I'm able to put two and two together.

They cloaked it.

The wall. That's what dad's looking for, checking for the cloaking spell on the wall.

"Is it here?" I ask, taking a step toward him.

Dad doesn't answer me.

"Is what here?" Spike asks.

They're the first words he's spoken to me since leaving the sewer.

I turn my eyes on him, and his scarred eyebrow is quirked. I can see on his face that he knows the same thing I know. That we both recognize this place. But he isn't going to bring it up, not now. There's no reason to.

So neither am I.

"The apartment," I say instead.

Spike frowns, turning his eyes back on Dad, then to the very solid looking brick wall of the building in front of him. He looks dubious for all of five seconds, then he shrugs.

"Right."

"It's here," Dad murmurs suddenly, more to himself than to either of us. Still, Spike and I both turn our eyes toward him. "It's here, I can feel it. I just…" he trails off, placing both hands on the brick wall now, moving them slowly around in rhythmic circles. "Can't remember…"

"How to get past it?" I ask.

Dad turns his eyes back to me, almost like he's just remembering I'm here. "More or less."

"Well, aren't all these spells sort of the same?" I ask, stepping closer to the wall. I frown. "You know...seen one cloaking spell, seen 'em all."

This brings a small, appreciative smile to my dad's lips. "Not exactly, honey."

"Can't we just bloody break through it?" Spike asks, unfolding his arms and stepping closer to us. He gestures toward the brick my dad still has his hands on. "'S just behind the wall, yeah?"

"Great idea," Dad snarks, turning on the vampire. "And while we're at it, why don't we hang a flashing neon sign over the door, too."

Spike narrows his eyes, takes one menacing step forward. "Better'n standin' out here doin' nothi—"

I groan.

"Can't we just try knocking?" I ask, cutting him off mid-snarl.

Two pairs of incredulous eyes turn on me, two sets of eyebrows raised.

"What?" I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Why is that any worse an idea than breaking the wall down or just standing out here, staring?"

"Buffy, you can't just knock."

"Why not? It's polite."

"If they're in there, they've been in hiding for almost twenty years."

"So, you're telling me they haven't left ever? Or never had visitors?"

"Yes."

I step past him with a huff, placing my body in between his and the brick wall. I reach up and wrap my knuckles, hard, against the brick his hand had just been pressed against.

"It's worth a try," I say, turning around to face him. "At least while you're trying to figure out how to get through it."

I'm in the middle of speaking, of defending myself, when Dad suddenly reaches forward. Extends his hand out, palm up, and whispers something under his breath.

I'm about to ask him what he's said when I hear it. A shifting sound, coming from behind me.

Dad grins at me. "I remembered."

I turn around to face the brick, watching in silence as the solid form of the wall seems to melt away, revealing a door with a steel cage in front of it. Not your average, run-of-the-mill front door, but more solid looking. Like it might be reinforced.

And then the door creaks open, revealing a sliver of light spilling out onto the street at our feet. There's a figure there, in the doorway. Obviously male, but I can't make out anything else in the silhouette against the light.

But then the door swings all the way open in a sudden, near violent movement and I'm staring up at a man with shortish, dark brown hair, peppered slightly with grey on the sides. He looks to be in his mid-forties, probably the same age as Dad, with steely blue-grey eyes peering out behind a pair of glasses.

The eyes are wide now, blinking, focused just over my shoulder. Like I'm not even there.

"Hank?" He murmurs, the shock registering even through the sound of his accent.

I turn my head over my shoulder to glance at my dad. He nods toward the man in the doorway. "Hello, Ripper."

I frown.

Ripper?

There's a long, breathless pause between us all, and I turn back to look at the man in the doorway. I'd pictured him differently. Taller, maybe. More…imposing. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's what Spike had told me before, about the Watcher's Council. How scary he'd made them sound.

The man standing before me isn't scary at all.

And he's still staring with wide eyes at my father. "How did you…"

"I remembered," Dad says, repeating the same words as he and to me a minute ago. "I wasn't even sure you'd still be here."

They continue to stare at each other for a long moment. It starts to feel tense.

I clear my throat, more out of habit than anything else, and ask, "Are you Richard?"

The man's eyes shift, light on me.

If possible, they widen even more.

"Oh, dear," he murmurs softly, his gaze now pouring over my face, studying me. "Y-you…you must be—"

"Buffy," I supply, cutting him off abruptly before he can call me Elizabeth.

I'm tired of people doing that.

"Yes, Buffy." He steps further into the doorway, a little closer to me. His eyes still searing into me as he narrows them, like he's seeing something that he doesn't understand.

Like he's seen a ghost.

"You look just like her," he whispers.

I don't have to ask him who he's talking about.

Her. My mom.

But he still hasn't answered my question.

"So we know who I am," I say, feeling a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "I don't mean to be rude but I still don't know who you are."

My words jar him. An expression crosses his face, something akin to horrified. Maybe that he's forgotten to introduce himself.

"Rupert Giles," he says, extending his hand out to me. I take it, but can't keep the frown off my face.

Rupert? But that isn't right.

Unless…

"This is Richard's son, Buffy," Dad says from behind me, answering the thought I'd just had a moment ago.

Oh.

Richard. Rupert. Ripper.

What's the deal with R names?

Is that a Watcher thing?

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Giles," I say. There's a short pause, then, "well, see you…again. I guess."

I let go of Rupert's hand, and he smiles at me warmly, if not a little distantly.

"Yes, it's been…a long time." He's still looking at me that way, his eyes riveted on mine. "And please," he adds after a moment, "just Giles is fine."

From behind me, Spike snorts.

"This is real nice and everythin'," he announces, "but can we maybe have our little reunion, I don't know, inside?"

Inside. Right. Where we might actually be safe for a minute or two. The reason we'd come all the way here in the first place. Where our answers are.

Giles's eyes snap away from mine, back over my left shoulder, narrowing when they land on my vampire. It's obvious he hadn't noticed him until now.

"You," he hisses, all English gentlemanly pretense vanishing in the blink of an eye. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Spike just smirks. "Nice to see you too, mate."

Giles's eyes flash.

Dad's brow furrows. "You two know each other?"

It only occurs to me after he's said it that he doesn't know. Doesn't know Spike was there that night, in the alley.

Doesn't know he'd fought Mom. That it was his insane lover who'd killed her, and not just a member of his order.

But if he didn't know before, it sounds like he's about to find out.

"We told you to never come back here," Giles says, his voice very low. "That was the deal."

I frown, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Deal?

Spike tenses, the smirk falls and his eyes narrow to slits.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, "things change."

I watch the muscle in Giles's jaw clench. "You and Drusilla—"

"Dru ain't here, is she?" Spike snarls, dropping his hands to his sides and lurching forward.

I don't know exactly what's just happened, but I'm thinking that there's more to the story from the night my mom died than what Spike's told me.

I glance back and forth between Giles and the vampire to my right.

A lot more.

I reach out and put my hand on Spike's arm. His muscle twitches briefly, but relaxes under my touch. I turn back around.

Giles's eyes are narrowed, brow furrowed in confusion.

"What exactly is going on here?" He asks, looking toward Dad.

"Let's stand out here and talk about it some more," Spike snarks, darting a glance down the alleyway, the direction from where we came.

"Ripper," my dad interrupts suddenly, "we'll explain everything, but it isn't safe out here. We need to get inside."

Something, some kind of wordless understanding passes between the two men. It's clear to me that there was a relationship here. Even after eighteen years, I can see it, but whether it was a good one or bad one, I can't tell.

I wonder how well they'd known each other. Dad had told me before that Mom was close, to both Richard and his son, but I hadn't thought about what that meant for Dad. Or for me.

It isn't like I have any real memories of any of them.

Giles gives Spike one last, hard look and then reluctantly steps back out of the doorway, allowing room for me to pass. I step inside, and Dad follows me. I turn back around to see Spike standing on the street, directly in font of the door. He's folded his arms back over his chest, looking up at Giles expectantly.

"Little help?" He asks, indicating to the threshold in front of him.

"And," the older man says, tilting his head. "What makes you think I'll invite you into my home?"

The whole thing plays out a little silly to me. In the time I've known Spike, I haven't witnessed this little detail of vampire lore come to life. It would almost be comical, if there weren't such a rush of panic flooding my veins.

"It's not safe out there," I repeat the words Dad said a minute ago.

Apparently, they don't have the same meaning coming from me.

"I'm sure he'll be just fine," Giles says coolly, preparing to turn away from the door.

I frown.

"We need him," I insist, taking a step back toward the doorway.

Giles looks down at me, puzzled.

"What on earth could you possibly need–"

I reach my hand up, yank my hair to the side to reveal the bite mark on the curve of my throat.

"He's as involved in this as I am."

I don't know exactly what I'm hoping to prove, what I think showing them the mark will do. Maybe remind Dad that, whether he likes it or not, some part of me is connected with some part of Spike. Remind him that we don't fully understand, don't really know, what that means.

It works, and not just for the reasons I think it might. A subtle change steels over Giles's features, his eyes flickering between my exposed throat and my father. His jaw tics, and his lips form a thin line.

"Unfortunately," my dad says pointedly, casting a scathing glare in Spike's direction, "she's right. We need him."

I don't know if it's what Dad says, or maybe just how he says it, but something in Giles's face changes again. Hardens. His gaze is ice cold when he turns it back on Spike, but it doesn't matter now.

The decision's been made.

"Fine," he says stiffly, standing aside. "I invite you in."

Spike smirks, stepping forward and deliberately crossing the threshold with a sinuous flourish.

Giles puts on a brave face, his features stony, but I notice him flinch away from Spike as he passes by.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side, dropping his voice to a menacing rumble, "you're too old to eat."

Giles glares at him once more before turning his back, marching down a long, narrow corridor.

I toss Spike a hard look, frowning.

"What are you doing?" I ask, voice hushed as we turn to follow Giles down the small hallway. Dad's already disappeared around the corner.

Spike looks at me, eyebrow raised. "What?"

I raise my own eyebrows, indicating back to the doorway, his attitude with Giles.

It's like he's trying to make things worse.

Spike exhales, pursing his lips. "Just didn't like the way he was lookin' at me, pet."

I drop my gaze down to the floor.

"He sort of has a reason to look at you that way," I remind him softly, thinking back to the exchange between them in the alley.

It shouldn't surprise me, that things would be tense between them, it just hadn't been my number one concern before now.

The last time Giles had seen Spike had to have been that night, right after it happened. After Drusilla had killed my mom.

And from what it sounded like a moment ago, I'm thinking something else happened, too.

"Yeah," Spike says, sounding suddenly very tired. Like he wishes I hadn't mentioned it. "I know."

We reach the end of the narrow corridor, turn the corner. I stop at the room's entrance, taking the opportunity to glance around.

The room widens out into what looks like a small dining area, complete with a round table and four wooden chairs. From there, the room extends back into a galley style kitchen. There's a staircase to my right. The walls are hidden behind rows of big wooden shelves, which are almost entirely lined in books.

It's small, a little cramped, but it's cozy. Nice.

My eyes finally come to land on Giles from across the room.

"You're safe here," He assures me, offering me a small smile. "As soon as that door shuts, the cloaking spell falls back in place."

He's misunderstood my shifting glances for nervousness and not the simple curiosity it is.

I don't correct him.

"Thank you," I murmur instead.

He smiles again, turning his gaze toward the staircase just as Dad comes back down. He pauses as he turns the corner, his face grave.

"Richard?"

Giles nods gravely. "A few years ago."

And that's all it is. The exchange is that brief, but it isn't hard to tell what's going on. I know what's been said. We've come here looking for Richard, but he's gone.

But we're not entirely out of luck. Dad had said that both Richard and his son were members of the Watcher's Council. And isn't that what Spike had told me anyway? That Richard being a Watcher, the schooling involved, is what might mean he'd be able to read the prophecy?

"So," Giles says, turning to look first at me, then back to Dad, "what is it I can do for you?"

But he asks it in a funny way. Not the way he asked what was going on earlier in the doorway, but more resigned. He doesn't really ask at all, more just…says it. Like he doesn't need to ask, or maybe like he just already knows what's coming next.

"It's happening, Ripper."

It's the only explanation he gives. Apparently, it's the only one he needs to.

"You're certain?"

Dad looks over at me. His eyes wander over my face, down to the hands clenching the lapels of the leather, then over to Spike who's still standing halfway behind me.

"Pretty damn."

Giles doesn't look surprised. He looks grave, dropping his gaze down to the floor.

"How?" He asks.

Dad crosses his arms over his chest, exhaling slowly. "Need me to start from the beginning?"

Giles shakes his head. "No time."

"I think we might have Oedipused ourselves here."

Giles nods, turning his back and walking over toward the table and chairs.

"It's what father was always concerned about. What he tried to warn Joyce of." He turns, eyes snapping up to Dad's. "And you."

Dad shifts his eyes over to me, expression drawn. "I know."

I shake my head, trying my best to decode what is they're saying to each other. They're speaking so fast, with so much unspoken understanding. It might as well be another language.

"Hey," I interrupt, looking back and forth between the two older men. "Someone want to explain to the rest of the class?"

This brings both of their attentions back to me.

"We reacted out of fear of what the prophecy said, going to great lengths to avoid it," Giles explains, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "In doing so we may have in fact caused it to come true."

I stare at him.

Oh. Oedipus.

A low growl rumbles from Spike's chest before he says simply, "That's bollocks."

Cool grey-blue eyes turn on him, eyebrows raised. "Is it?"

"This isn't some sodding greek tragedy," he says, coming further into the room, stepping up beside me. "I thought you Watcher's were supposed to be the goody good guys. You know. Never give up, never surrender, all that crap."

Dad squares his shoulders, turning his body to face Spike. He crosses his arms. "Do you have a suggestion?"

The vampire scoffs.

"Bloody right I do," he says, looking over at me with the same urgent intensity I'd seen from him before, when he'd kissed me, before turning back to the other men. "We stop it."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Giles asks, reaching up and pulling his glasses off his face.

Spike narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to respond and promptly freezes. Mid-thought, lips already forming his next word. His brow furrows, and he turns to look at me.

"Ow," he murmurs, eyes confused as they search mine. Then again a little louder, "Ow."

And then his shoulder jerks, spasms, and he cries out again, louder this time. It only lasts for a second, and then it stops again.

I stare at him with wide eyes, reach tentatively toward him. "Spike?"

He doesn't move, doesn't respond at all. I'm not sure he's even heard me.

"Spike," I try again, stepping a little closer to him, "what is it?"

My eyes scan over him, from the pained expression on his face to the tense, strained muscles in his neck. Down further, until I see it. The tear in his t-shirt where the crossbow bolt had embedded itself.

I frown. Is it just now starting to bother him? He'd been acting just fine.

I reach for him, unthinkingly, hands automatically going to the space on his back. My fingers barely touch him when the muscle in his shoulder suddenly spasms again, and he jerks out of my reach.

I pull my hand back, blinking, confused.

"Ow," he cries out one more time, even louder this time. But it's more than just pain in his voice, it's also shock. His eyes widen and he whips his head back, trying to get a look at the wound on his shoulder.

No one moves. I don't think any of us know what's happening. I want to reach for him again, but I'm almost afraid to.

"It's fine," he says after a minute, but his voice is strained. "I'm fine. I think it's stop—"

But he's cut off, another wild cry of pain emanating from his lips as the muscle spasms again, more violently this time.

I watch as a little curl of smoke escapes through the tear in his shirt.

He sees it, too.

"Bloody hell," he gasps, voice coming out pitched high with pain.

I don't hesitate to reach for him now, frantically tugging at the black cotton of his shirt until I have it up high enough, yank it over his head. He growls when it scrapes over the wound, but doesn't pull away from me this time.

I'm not sure what it is I'm expecting to see. Maybe some blood, some discoloration around the space where the bolt had struck him. What I see instead is something else. There's an obvious wound, about an inch in diameter. He'd probably made it wider when he'd torn the bolt out. And there's a little blood. A tiny amount, congealed around the edges, already starting to heal.

It's what's inside the wound, though, that catches my eye. Where the little curls of smoke are coming from. A tiny piece of metal, not much larger than the head of ballpoint pen. Whatever it is, whatever it's supposed to do, it looks like it's malfunctioning. Even as I stare at it, I see it crackle, releasing a sickening, sizzling sound and shooting tiny sparks out onto his skin.

And it's in deep.

I whip my head up, finding Dad's eyes with mine.

"Help me," I say, immediately maneuvering Spike around, pushing him down into one of the wooden chairs so I can get a better vantage point. "Help me get it out."

Dad frowns, looking confused. "Get what out?"

I don't know how to explain it.

"There's something in him," I say, the words sounding silly to my own ears, "they shot something…" I dart my eyes back and forth between Giles and my Dad, fumbling for words. They're both looking at me like it's my turn to be speaking a foreign language.

"There's something inside the wound," I explain finally, my voice coming out louder than I expect.

That registers. Both their eyes go wide with understanding.

"What is it?" Giles asks.

The small metal thing sparks again, and Spike cries out in pain.

I don't care what it is. I just want it out. Now.

"Tweezers," I say, wild eyes meeting Giles's. "Do you have tweezers? It's in too deep."

He only hesitates for a moment before turning and heading toward the kitchen. He emerges a few seconds later, crosses the room and pushes me out of the way. He deftly wields a pair of needle nose pliers into Spike's shoulder wound without a second's hesitation.

"Bloody hell," Spike roars, leaning forward and gripping onto the table with both hands, so hard his knuckles visibly whiten. "That hurts, you git."

"Terribly sorry," Giles murmurs, but he doesn't look sorry at all.

I watch as he twists the pliers, then pulls. Hard. They come away with the tiny metal object lodged between the prongs.

Spike groans in relief, slumping forward, laying his head flat on the side of the table.

I turn my eyes up to the little metal object.

"What is it?" I ask, stepping in to get a closer look. Now that it's out, now that Spike no longer seems to be in immediate pain, I take the time to care.

"A tracker," Dad says immediately, stepping forward, plucking the pliers out of Giles's hand and staring down at it.

"A tracker?" I repeat numbly.

So that's why. Why Holland had only fired the crossbow once. Why he hadn't aimed to kill. Why he hadn't sent hordes of armed guards down into the sewers after us.

He hadn't needed to.

"I worked with them before, when I was with Wolfram and Hart," he explains, shaking his head. "Granted, they were much larger then. Not nearly as sophisticated…"

I frown.

"I thought you were spell guy for Wolfram and Hart," I say, "not tech guy."

"I was." Dad glances at me, then looks back down. "I worked on a…well, it was more of a compound than a spell, I guess. Liquid invisibility. Never got it to work on anything much larger than this, but…" He trails off, looking at the little tracking device almost dreamily. Like he's reminiscing about the good old days.

But he catches himself, shaking his head is if to clear it.

"These are supposed to be coated in the spell before use," he continues, pulling the pliers slightly away from his face, turning them and dropping the metal into his hand. "If you're shot with one, you don't even know it's there."

Giles tilts his head, looking at the tracking device curiously. "And if you don't know it's there—"

"You don't know to remove it," I finish the train of thought, brow furrowing as I glance back over at Spike.

He's still resting against the table, little wisps of smoke still curling off his skin where the sparks had landed. If it hadn't started sparking, started malfunctioning, would we even know it was there?

I might have cleaned the wound like I'd been thinking about doing since we let the sewer, bandaged it up and Spike's super hero healing would have taken care of the rest.

And none of us would be any the wiser.

I turn my attention back to Dad. "Sounds like something out of a spy movie."

He nods, looking back at the tracker again.

"Who do you think we were testing it for?"

Something twists up in my stomach. It's one thing to hear from people that Dad used to work for the bad guys, but when he says things like that…it just feels weird.

I look at the tiny metal device in his hand; think about the uses people might have for needing untraceable tracking devices.

Special Projects.

Holland wasn't kidding when he'd told me they were more than a law firm.

"This one looks like it had a little malfunction," Dad's saying now, turning it slowly around with his fingertip. "Probably got wet in the sewer. Some wires got fried."

I wonder if that means it shorted out before now. If it had, maybe Holland hadn't had a chance to track where we were headed. Wolfram and Hart's been two steps ahead of us this entire time. We haven't been big with the break catching so far, but this would kind of be big one.

We're due for a big one.

"'S that way it feels like someone stuck a branding iron in my shoulder and wiggled it around?" Spike asks, turning hazy, narrowed eyes on the three of us.

His skin has finally stopped smoking.

"Lucky, really," Giles says, putting his glasses back on and giving Dad a meaningful look. "Probably wouldn't have known it was there otherwise."

"Yeah," Spike groans, pushing himself back up to a sitting position. "I feel real lucky."

"Were they tracking us this whole time?" I ask Dad, giving voice to the thought I'd had about maybe finally catching a break.

If they had been, then we need to move. Soon.

"Hard to say," he answers me, frowning. He crosses the room and sets the metal tracker down on the table. "I can't know exactly when it started shorting out."

I chew on my lip, thinking over what's been said. The wires got fried, which Dad said might have been due to getting wet when we landed in the sewer.

And something else had happened then, too.

"You said it felt weird," I say, turning to look at Spike. "In the sewer, you said it felt different."

He nods, but he's frowning.

"It did. Not quite like that, though," he murmurs, gesturing with a tilt of his head back toward his shoulder. "Bloody thing felt like it was burnin' me from the inside out."

I think it's the way he says it. Or maybe it's the look on his face. How worn out, how tired he seems to me suddenly.

Giles and Dad are still talking, discussing whether or not they think we're safe here for the time being.

But I've stopped listening.

I look down at Spike, at the creamy alabaster of the skin on his back, marred now by open sore he wouldn't have gotten if it hadn't been for me.

I don't think I've ever stopped to think about how unnatural this all must be for him.

Trying to keep me safe.

He'd told me that, back in Kansas City. And that's what he's been doing ever since. Long before we reached Wolfram and Hart, before Angelus, before Holland and the prophecy.

And now he's sitting at a table inside of a Watcher's secret apartment, surrounded by people who don't like him, certainly don't trust him. Going against everything he is, everything he'd repeatedly told me that he is. And why? For what?

Me.

The daughter of a slayer. The daughter of a slayer he fought, almost killed.

Because that's what's in his nature.

Not this. Not what he's doing now.

And I realize I've taken his affection for me very lightly. Letting the fact that he doesn't have a soul determine how much I'll let myself believe he can care for me.

I see how very tired he looks now, and all the adrenaline from tonight sort of feathers out of my body. Everything that's kept me going, constantly moving since that giant metal door opened earlier and he'd tackled that guard to the ground.

I melt into the chair beside Spike, reaching still slightly shaking fingers out toward the open wound on his back.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly, letting my fingertips press tenderly into his skin, not sure what it is I'm doing. Trying to do.

I just feel like I need to touch him.

Spike's eyes drift closed, and I worry for a moment that I'm hurting him. But then he leans into me, pressing the cool skin of his back up into my hand.

"'S nice," he murmurs, lashes fluttering open to look at me. He gives me a lopsided grin, tilting his head. "You think I'm a ponce now, don't you."

"Because you were all with the "owing?" I ask, a tiny smile curving my lips.

Spike mock glares at me.

I ghost my fingertips in a soothing circles around the wound.

"Never," I tell him honestly, turning my gaze from his to his back. "Do you need blood?"

Spike shakes his head, though the dazed look in his eyes kind of makes me think otherwise. "I'll be fine."

I nod. I won't push it, not now. I'll wait for later, when we can have some privacy.

When I look up I find two pairs of dubious eyes on me. Both Dad and Giles have somewhat puzzled looks on their faces, having stood by and silently watched the entire exchange.

"All right," Giles says, tearing his gaze away from me and looking back at Dad. "Maybe we should start from the beginning."

It takes a long time, but we finally get through most of the long-winded story. Everything from the beginning, even the parts I know Spike in particular would rather have me skip. We talk about how he found me. The list, the other girls, what Wolfram and Hart had offered him. We talk about where we travelled to; the bite (very briefly) and when we first started noticing things were different with me.

About being pursued by Angelus. When things had started to change.

The fight in the hotel, the plane. Arriving at Wolfram and Hart.

Of course, I don't tell them the whole story. I leave a few choice moments out.

Spike knowingly waggles his eyebrows at me when I do. It doesn't go unnoticed by the two older men across the table.

Normally, I'd probably find it pretty cringe worthy, but I'm sort of just glad he seems to be feeling better.

I'd asked Giles for bandages before beginning, wanting to take care of Spike's back before anything else. But now we're all seated around the dining table now, previously steaming mugs sitting in front of three of us, and a largish tumbler of amber colored liquid in front of Spike. Whiskey or scotch, I can't remember which.

Some of what we talk about is new to both Dad and Giles, a lot of the stuff from the beginning, which makes for interesting sidebars between the two of them.

When I finally get to the part of the story about Holland and the prophecy, things around the table get tense.

More specifically, things between Dad and Giles get tense. I'm not sure why, and neither of them comes out and says it, but it's obvious. They argue briefly, haltingly, amongst themselves for a few heightened moments before both turning their eyes back on me.

Giles clears his throat.

"You were coming here to find my father," he says, pushing his mug a little ways away from him. "I'll venture a guess that has something to do with the prophecy."

I nod.

"We were hoping he'd be able to read it," I tell him, dropping my gaze down. "I mean, I know what Holland told me it says. And I know what we think we read." I look at Spike, gesturing between the two of us. "But we don't…" I trail off, exhaling through my nose. "We were kind of hoping we'd be wrong."

Giles picks his glasses up off the table and pushes them onto his nose. "May I see it?"

"This is just the copy Holland gave me," I say, pulling the crumpled papers out of my pocket, open them up and spread them out, smoothing the wrinkles. Giles extends his hand across the table to take them from me. "It's practically gibberish."

"'S Latin," Spike supplies, leaning back in his chair. "Or some derivative of. I tried translatin' but I'm pretty sure I bollocksed it up."

Giles lifts his eyes to my vampire, staring at him over the rim of his glasses. Then he shifts the papers in his hand, gazes down at them. He's concentrating hard, brow furrowed as he flips from one page to another. Once. Twice. On the third read through, I'm starting to feel antsy. Beside me, Spike reaches over and puts his hand on my fidgeting knee. I shift my eyes over to his, and he winks.

He doesn't have to say what he's thinking for me to understand.

Everything's fine. We're safe here. We'll figure this out.

It's funny that knowing he believes that makes me almost believe it, too.

"Where did he say this was found?" Giles asks, drawing my gaze back to his as he lifts his head. His eyes are still narrowed, lips a thin line. "The Pergamum Codex?"

I frown.

Where had he said it'd been found? Pergamum...that doesn't sound right, but I can't remember. T. It started with a T.

"T...something," I try, shaking my head. "Ti...Tiburon…" I pause, chewing on my bottom lip. "Tiberio-"

"The Tiberius Manifesto," he interrupts me quietly.

I snap my fingers, tapping my finger against the tip of my nose. "That's the one."

There's a pause as Giles considers the papers in front of him one final time. Then he sighs, shaking his head. His eyes come up, first looking at me, then tossing a cursory glance at Spike.

"This isn't Latin," he says finally, spreading the papers out in order across the expanse of the tables. "Not exclusively."

It's something we'd already assumed, something Spike had told me so many times since first reading the text. But hearing it from the mouth of someone who knows, really knows, makes it feel like it matters.

Spike and I share a meaningful look, hope fluttering its little butterfly wings in my chest.

"What is it?" I ask, turning back toward him.

Giles puts his hands on the table, pushes himself to his feet so he can lean over the pages from a higher vantage point.

"This is...something else entirely. It looks like an amalgamation of some kind. I see three, maybe four different dead languages here."

What?

"What?" Spike echoes my thoughts, leaning forward in his chair, peering down at the text in front of us.

"Is this the version of the prophecy Holland showed you?" Giles asks, this time directing the question toward my dad. He's been sitting very still, very silent for the last fifteen or so minutes. Ever since he and Giles got tense over Holland. But he addresses all of us now, glancing down at the pages on the table, shaking his head.

"No," he says, looking first at me, then to Giles. "He showed me the translation."

This makes me pause.

Be kind, rewind.

"There's a translation of it?" I ask, turning wide eyes on Dad. Why hadn't he mentioned that before? When I'd told him we needed Richard to read it in the first place?

Wouldn't that have been a good time to say no wait, we don't need a translator; I've already read it?

"It's one of the first things they do with prophecies," he says, nodding. "Translate them and archive them."

This isn't making sense. Any of it.

More answers, more questions.

"I don't get it," I say, pushing myself to my feet, leaning over the table to look at the papers. I reach over, pick the middle page up and stare at it for a minute. Then, turning my eyes up to Spike's, "If there's a translation of this, why wouldn't he have just given me a translated copy?"

His eyes narrow, like he's realizing something for the first time.

He answers my question with another question.

"Why would he give you a copy at all?"

I stare at him, blinking.

It's another one of those questions I hadn't let myself think about. It hadn't made a lot of sense to me when he'd handed the papers to me, but I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't been thinking about anything other than what Holland had told me. Who I am. What Wolfram and Hart expected of me, wanted me for.

And then I'd asked Spike to read it, translate what he could. And all that had done was fill my head with fresh panic.

But why? Why had he given it to me? It isn't like he'd thought I'd be able to read it. And if what Giles has said is true, maybe it was never meant to be translated fully.

Four different dead languages.

"Is it the same?" I ask suddenly, turning back to Giles. "I get that the languages are wonky, but is the meaning there the same as what Holland showed Dad."

"Most of what I can decipher here matches what you told us initially, Hank." He takes the paper out of my hands, scanning the text again. "But other pieces...don't match up."

I blink at him, my heart skipping a beat. "Which pieces?"

Giles levels his gaze at mine. "The bits that were in Latin."

Latin. The only parts Spike could read. My vampire and I share another look.

The parts about me being unstoppable. No mortal hand. The parts about me bringing the apocalypse.

"So the Latiny parts aren't true?" I ask in a rush, gesturing wildly toward the pages.

Giles looks up at me, frowning.

"It isn't necessarily that those parts aren't true," he says slowly, cautiously, "just that they don't fit with what Hank was told originally."

"But it's possible right?" My hand instinctively goes toward Spike, and he takes it, squeezing.

Giles looks at me for a long, thoughtful moment, but finally nods his head.

Relief, warm and heady and the first I've felt in what feels like days, floods my veins.

"So...the part where I'm the big destroyer of the world?"

"What?" Dad asks, suddenly speaking up again. He looks at Giles, then down at the papers. "It says that?"

Spike clears his throat, standing up beside me.

Giles looks at both of us, then up to him. "More or less."

I realize we could have cleared a lot of this up in the sewers if I had just asked Dad, point blank, if that's what he'd been told. It seems silly now.

"Right then," Spike says, more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Now that we have that settled. Which parts do sync up?"

"Essentially, all the rest seems to fit." "Both pieces of the puzzle, the hand that took your mother's life and the discussion of your age, Buffy. They're here, as they were there initially." He looks to Dad for confirmation, who simply nods. "There's also mention of a weapon, fashioned from good and from evil, and the end of days. But it's the same vague reference your father mentioned to us before."

"So I am a weapon, then. That part matches up, too."

Dad looks meaningfully at Giles, who nods solemnly. "A very powerful one."

I bite down on my lip, considering this.

"But no world endage?" I ask after a minute, glancing around the table at all three of them.

Giles gives me a small, wry quirk of his lips. "It's the main puzzle piece that doesn't fit."

I nod. While it still feels huge. Huger than huge...kind of completely overwhelming, it doesn't seem quite so bad as it did before. Maybe because that seems less final...a weapon, even just a deciding factor in the end of days isn't the same as being one of the Four Horsemen.

"I don't know why Wolfram and Hart gave this to you, Buffy," he says, reaching up, removing his glasses and tossing them down onto the table. "But in short, I can say with some certainty what we're looking at is not a copy of the true prophecy."

"How can you be sure?" Spike asks, putting his knuckles down on the table and leaning forward, craning his neck toward the prophecy text.

Giles sighs, nodding his head toward the scattered papers. "Apart from the obvious mix of languages, and the strategic placement of Latin?" There's a definite note of sarcasm in his voice as he folds his arms over his chest. "If it came from Tiberius the original text would have been written in Sanskrit."

"So they manipulated the text on purpose," Dad says, coming to the conclusion at the same time as I nods gravely. "Appears that way."

So we know what they did. Just not why they did it.

So I ask.

"But why would they do that?" I look back and forth between Giles and my dad. "Just to scare me?"

Did Holland think scaring me would make me more cooperative? Some further threatening tactic, the same way he'd planned to use Dad. To use Spike.

But it doesn't make sense. Surely he must have known that couldn't work, that I'd rather be dead than be the big bringing of the apocalypse.

Seems like a big risk to take on his big weapon. On something he'd spent so many resources on.

My question seems to jar something, some distant memory or realization in Giles. He rifles through the pages again, like he's looking for something specific.

"I doubt it was to scare you." He picks up a particular page, turns his attention to Spike. " Is there any way they might've known about your ability to read Latin?"

My vampire blinks at him.

"Dunno," Spike says, turning to look at me. "'S not like I go around advertisin' it."

I think of all the things that had to have aligned perfectly for the prophecy to be fulfilled. All the things Wolfram and Hart manipulated into being.

"It's possible," I murmur, still focused on my vampire. What relief I'd felt a moment ago is slowly being pushed aside for a niggling feeling of fear in the back of my mind.

Across from me, Giles frowns, his eyes darting back and forth over the page in his hand. "I think the purpose of this was to confuse you, Buffy."

I'm starting to think that, too.

"But why?" I ask again, getting really sick of having to ask that question. "Confuse me for what reason?"

Again, it seems like they're two steps ahead of us.

"I don't know," he says, exhaling a long sigh. Then he pauses, brow furrowing. I can see the wheels turning in his head.

He looks up, first at me, then over to Dad. "Unless…" he trails off, setting the paper back down on the table. "Unless they wanted you to seek help."

And they'd known. They'd known exactly where we would go, who we would seek out for that help.

It hadn't even occurred to me before. I'm not sure why. Maybe with everything that's been happening I just hadn't stopped, hadn't let myself consider it.

"It wasn't safe here anymore, for any of us."

Wolfram and Hart hadn't just been after Mom and Dad eighteen years ago. Richard and his son, Giles. They'd been in danger, too.

"They've been in hiding for almost 20 years."

Somehow, they'd managed to live here that long, in the same place, and they'd never been found. My eyes shift down to the corner of the table, to the broken metal tracking device.

"You think they wanted us to come here?" Spike asks, incredulous.

Like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

But the whole thing is starting to take shape in my head.

I think about the fake prophecy, what Holland had said as he'd handed it to me. "You have a lot to think about." But he'd known how confused I was, known that I couldn't read it. Must have known I'd ask Spike about the text.

And that, too, hadn't even made sense to me at the time. Why he'd let Spike and I stay together, spend all that time alone. Given us time to talk, time to plan.

It would have been better for them to have separated us.

I think about the escape, how little threatening it took for that guard to tell us where Dad was. Sure, we'd had those guards to fend off...but even then.

It was too easy.

The crossbow bolt, the tracker...the reason no one followed us into the sewers. Spike's words from a moment ago ring in my ears, my head starting to swim.

They wanted us to come here?

"They let us out," I whisper, looking back up slowly.

And again that same question rattles around hollowly in my skull, reflected back to me in three pairs of differently shaded blue eyes.

Why?