Author's Note: Here it is, folks, the far-too-long-awaited conclusion of Hero Trip. I appreciate everyone who has read to the end, especially those who have been around since the beginning. I tried my best to give the story a fitting finale after a decade. I hope you agree, but I'd love to hear what you think either way. Many, many thanks. J.W.

Chapter 20:

When Spike asked her to stand, she complied robotically, her gaze locked on his hands—gun in one, dagger in the other.

He held out the knife, offering the handle. "Take it."

Mind clouded, sluggish, Buffy watched her fingers grip the weapon, watched her arm hang loosely afterward. She barely felt the flat of the blade as it came to rest against her thigh, hardly heard her voice ask, "What is this?"

"This is freedom. Mine. Yours. Theirs." Spike said, scanning the seemingly empty room. "Always nipping at my heels. Speaking out of turn, showing up where they're not wanted. Can't shake 'em, especially those six. They don't want pills; they won't be suppressed. They want proper release, an' so do I." His gaze fell to the dagger.

Buffy came back to herself in a rush. "You brought me all this way… to kill you?"

"It has to end where it began. It has to be you that ends it." Taking her wrist, he moved the knife to his chest, pressed the point against his heart. "Kill the man, kill the monster. Send us all home."

"No." Buffy dropped the knife, heard it clatter against concrete. She shook her head. "No. I can't."

"An' I can't walk in both worlds anymore. It's too bloody much. Slay the beast," Spike raised the gun, aimed the barrel at Angel, "or he will be the last offering."

"What are you talking about?!" Buffy shouted, immediately panicked. "You said you wouldn't—!"

"I said his death is not mine to make. It's not. The choice is yours."

"Stop it!" she demanded, beginning to cry. "That's not a choice. He's my husband."

"Exactly." Spike lowered the pistol but kept it cocked, his finger on the trigger guard. "When I found out about him, I was angry. That he had you, that I hadn't known. Was jealous, I'll admit, an' thrashed him for it. But I spared him. Didn't need to, certainly didn't want to."

"So, why did you?" Buffy asked. She'd assumed Spike had simply been exercising the power he enjoyed wielding—over life, death, and her.

"If not for Liam, some other unlucky sod would be in his place right now. Probably whoever lives in my gaff, had we gotten there ahead of the cops. 'Cept it wouldn't mean as much. Realized it should be someone close to you. Someone as close as Cecily was to me."

He stooped to retrieve the dagger. "You send me down, or I send him up. Doesn't matter which. My debt will be paid."

"You're not making sense. Either way you'll just be adding one more body to the pile."

"Aye, one more. Seven total. That's spiritual perfection, luv. Sate demon an' deity both, rid me of these bleedin' wraiths."

Creation, Destruction. They're more similar than you might think. Anyway, it's not forever. One day, there will be a choice.

"Fuck you! This is not my decision! How can you ask me?"

"Not askin'. There's no one else. Never will be." Spike said, his expression solemn. "You're the Slayer. You're the one."

Los Angeles

Detective Finn paused the recording. "Are you sure you want to continue? As next of kin, it's your right, but you're not required to listen to this."

As soon as he'd learned about the tape recovered from the warehouse, Liam had petitioned the FBI for access to it. It had finally arrived at the precinct that morning.

"I have to know what happened," Liam replied.

"You could read the police report. It might be…easier."

"I need to hear it," he insisted.

Riley nodded; his mouth set in a grim line. He pressed the button to resume the reel.

"I don't want to be the one."

"It was always going to be you, pet. At the first taste of your blood I knew you'd be my ending. Jus' didn't know when."

"Why now?"

"The years I had you with me, I had peace. It all went to shit when you left. Bore it as long as I could, but they were doing my head in. All of them, talking. Telling me it was time. Telling me, go…go…to hell."

"Don't listen to them. That's your illness talking. Listen to me. You don't have to do this."

"It's done. I'm done. I need to rest."

(pause)

"Take me instead."

"Haven't you heard a word I've said? You can't be my martyr. 'S quietude I'm after. Never have that with you gone."

"No. Take me with you. We'll leave. We'll live. Together. But no more of this. No more death."

"Bollocks. You can't follow me into the dark."

"I can. I will."

"Won't work."

"If you love me—"

"Loving you doesn't change what I am. Accept it, an' do what you're meant to."

"I'm meant to make a choice. Right? This is it. What you are won't change. Fine. Change what you do. It will be enough."

(pause)

"You don't speak for Them. You can't know."

"Spike, please."

(pause)

"This is what you want?"

"It is."

(sighs) "Fuck. Buffy, I—"

(Click)

"That's where the tape ran out," Finn said. "We don't think they were aware the machine was still recording." He ejected the cassette, returned it to its plastic evidence bag. "How did you come to?"

"In the chair. The restraints had been cut, and I was alone. The sirens woke me."

"It seems Elizabeth called 911. Told dispatch where to find you…before they left."

"Buffy couldn't kill a human, no matter who it was."

"I know she couldn't."

"She only went with him so no one would get hurt. She'd never leave me by choice."

The man sounded desperate to believe that. Riley wasn't so sure.

"The Feds are still on the case," he said. "I'm sorry there's not much more I can do."

"You've done a lot. Thank you." Liam said, extending a hand for Riley to shake. "When she gets a chance, when it's safe, I know she'll contact someone."

Riley wasn't so sure about that either. "I'll keep you updated."

What else could he say?

They lay low in upstate New York for two weeks, long enough to physically recuperate and let the heat die down a bit before attempting to cross the border. Holed up in a small family-owned hotel, they presented themselves as newlyweds honeymooning in Niagara Falls, which provided sufficient justification for rarely leaving the room. It was the first time they'd truly shared a living space since this whole thing began, and Buffy wasn't entirely surprised to discover that Spike indeed survived on minimal human necessities. He smoked and drank often, but ate infrequently and slept even less. On several occasions she woke in the middle of the night to find him up and reading by moonlight, or watching her from across the room with an intensity that should have been disturbing but somehow wasn't.

What it meant that he functioned so well on so little, that he never sickened from swallowing her blood, and that (mission completed, choice made) he was now remarkably and consistently lucid, she could not begin to figure, and was making every effort not to try. Spike existed, so did she, and that was all. Their situation was only sustainable if Buffy refrained from probing too deeply into Spike's mind or actions. When he returned from procuring falsified passports—they were now Randall and Joan, at least on paper—she didn't ask how he'd gotten them, and he didn't tell. The rules of their new relationship were tenuous, the integrity precarious at best. She knew for certain the threat of losing her kept him from seriously harming anyone; she chose not to think much further than that.

The days leading up to their US departure were spent fucking each other and fucking around. Spike had an unexpected affection for soap operas; he never missed an episode of Passions. In the nightstand,Buffy found a deck of cards (along with the KJV, which she discretely returned to the front desk), so Spike was teaching her to play poker. The wagers were primarily sexual favors, and he let her win at least twice as often as she caught him cheating. Their conversations were easy, the silences that followed companionable. They slipped into their roles as lovers effortlessly. Nothing felt forced, or wrong.

With any luck, they and their fabricated identities would successfully gain entry to Canada. Buffy assumed they would then head to some country lacking an extradition treaty with the US, but Spike was being tight-lipped about the end location. She couldn't blame him, really. Many complicated, sometimes conflicting emotions existed between them, but trust was still not in the mix. It amazed her how love—and so much of it—could exist alongside such an absence of security.

She did love him, although she hadn't said it aloud. Spike hadn't either, not since the warehouse, and she couldn't yet bring herself to broach the subject. She got the sense he was waiting on her; that he would wait indefinitely as long as she stayed by his side.

Ontario

The DeSoto's metal was cool against Buffy's exposed stomach and breasts. With her blouse unbuttoned and her skirt hiked over her ass—she'd abandoned underwear entirely at this point—Spike fucked her from behind, one strong hand fisted in her hair, the other covering her mouth to stifle her moans. Even at this time of night someone could stumble upon them, and it wouldn't do to be found balling in the long-term parking lot of Ottawa International Airport.

When she was close to orgasm, Spike jerked her head back; she could feel his mouth at her throat, fangs hovering just above the skin. He always made her beg for it. Whether it was ego or a twisted form of chivalry, he never used his teeth unless she asked. Which she did now, the plea muffled by his palm.

"That's my girl." He bit, and she bucked beneath him, coming hard, increasingly intense waves of pleasure crashing over her as he drank.

Lost to her own senses, she didn't register his spending until she felt his weight resting on her back. They sprawled across the car's hood, both breathing raggedly. When Spike began to withdraw, Buffy flexed herself around him, relishing his deep groan.

"Not yet," she protested.

"I'd stay inside you forever, luv, but we do have a flight to catch," he replied, pulling out and tucking in. "Flights, plural, in fact. Too risky to travel direct."

Buffy stood upright and straightened her clothing, then began twisting her long blonde locks into a compact bun, looking around for the wig she'd been wearing when they'd first arrived. She'd chosen a black, chin-length asymmetrical bob; Spike wouldn't hear of her cutting or dyeing her own hair, but she'd convinced him to darken his. He'd also reluctantly agreed to wear blue jeans (he wouldn't budge on the black tees), remove his nail polish, and stow away his duster until they were settled. She knew hiding wasn't his style, but there was no alternative if they hoped to avoid detection on their journey to…wherever.

Buffy found her wig discarded on the ground and set about readjusting it. She produced a silk scarf—blood red, just in case—from her purse to cover the fresh puncture wounds. Searching for her compact mirror, her fingertips grazed two small, metallic objects at the bottom of her bag: her wedding set. She looked over at Spike. He was leaning against the driver's side door with that air of excessive nonchalance he'd perfected, smoking his final cigarette before the long, nicotine-free hours ahead.

"Hey," she called, approaching him and holding out the rings, "Why do I have these?"

"Figured you'd be needing 'em soon enough," he said, tilting his head back to blow smoke skyward. "Whenever your mind changes about me, I won't keep you."

Her heart ached at this; how certain he was that she would leave him.

"Scooch," she said, nudging him aside to open the car door. She placed her rings on the dashboard and stared at them a moment, thinking of her husband with a twinge of guilt. She knew Angel would never understand her decision, but she hoped he'd forgive her someday. She closed the door and turned to Spike. "I won't be changing my mind."

His grin was guileless; the look in his eyes brought heat to her skin. She wondered if she'd ever grow accustomed to the way his gaze stripped her bare. "Well, that works out nicely, then. It'd be a spot of bother getting back to the States from Ukraine."

"You would pick Eastern Europe." She rolled her eyes, trying not to let on how pleased she was that he'd revealed their destination. "I guess we should get moving. Ready, Randy?"

Spike frowned. Their aliases had been assigned by the document forger, and while Buffy quite liked hers, he was less than thrilled.

"Ready, Joan."

They hefted their bags and began walking to the terminal entrance. Glancing over her shoulder at the DeSoto, she said, "I think I might actually miss that car. It's a shame we have to ditch it."

"For the best," Spike replied, smirking. "Nicked it, didn't I?"

Buffy hit his arm, "I fucking knew it!" she said without real anger. Of all Spike's crimes, grand theft auto was the most forgivable.

"Turns out I'm not a decent bloke after all," he said, taking a last pull off his cigarette before flicking the butt across the lot.

"You'll try to be, though. Won't you?" she asked gently.

Halting at the question, Spike considered her for several seconds, then used his free arm to pull her flush against him. "If I can manage it for anyone, it will be you, pet," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Buffy smiled, her stomach fluttering with the hope that he would manage, and that it would be enough.

END