A Serendipitous Beginning
by
Lisa Y. Drexel
Chapter Seven
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Friends, Comrades and Angst: A Beautiful Combination
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It was the horrible pounding in her skull that pulled Mike out of her deep sleep. Groaning, she opened her eyes as she felt the telltale singing in her head. Instead of just Willow's signature—there were now three distinct Quickenings.
Luckily, for everyone—she recognized the other two.
"Shit," she moaned, as she tried to sit up, but was restrained by a pale arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
Spike...
"Honey...let go of me...I have to get up," she whispered as tugged on his hand.
She heard his deep voice groan softly. "Gods below—we just fell asleep!" Instead of releasing her, he rolled over on top of her, pinning her underneath him. "Who is it?" He asked, growling softly.
"From the throbbing in my head, I'd have to say its Richie and Mac," she said grinning as she watched him try to open his eyes.
He lifted his scarred eyebrow questioningly once both eyes were open. "So, I finally get to meet the great and wonderful Duncan MacLeod?"
Mike groaned as a low chuckle escaped her lips. "Oh, this is going to be so fun," she said, groaning softly. Mike lifted her head and kissed him chastely on his lips. "So, are you going to let me go?"
"Never," he whispered right before his lips descended down onto hers, stopping her from protesting as his tongue slipped inside her mouth and danced with hers.
He gently broke the kiss and smiled down at her. "Never Mike, never again."
Tears filled her eyes and she nodded in agreement. "Never again, Spike."
He bent down and kissed her wet face, his tongue lapping at her tears and finally rolled over, freeing her.
She squeezed his hand and took a deep breath, as the sound of the doorbell filled the house. "Why Mac?" she asked as she swung her legs off the bed and stumbled towards the door. "Do you realize that this is the first time he's bothered to visit me since I lived with Methos?" Biting her bottom lip, she tried ignoring the stabbing pain in her heart. His absence in her life had stung deep. She knew he wasn't her mentor, but when she looked back at those two years she spent with Methos first in Seacouver, and then Paris, Mac had always been there. As her friend, confidant, teacher and then suddenly he was gone. Not there at all. Instead, there was a big fat empty spot in her life—right next to where Methos' should've been.
It hurt that he had chosen to keep his distance for this long. And though she should feel grateful for his help now, especially with Morden hanging around, she found she just couldn't feel that way. What if he decided to use his age and wisdom to tell her that she was wrong in the way she was helping Willow or dealing with Angelus and Morden? Or worse yet, what if he came down to Sunnydale to inform her that he had found a way to sever the link between Spike and her? She knew he hated it—just by the way he avoided talking about it whenever they were together.
How could one person cause all this turmoil in her heart when she wasn't even in love with him? Usually, this kind of mass confusion in her heart was reserved for Spike and Methos.
She looked over at her lover and saw her emotions being reflected back to her from him.
"I know, baby," Spike whispered as rolled out of bed and walked over to her. After taking her hand and squeezing it gently, he gave her one of his patented smirks.
If only she could bottle them, she'd make a fortune.
"Let's go say hello to the annoying Celt, shall we?"
Laughing softly, Mike nodded and they left the bedroom.
Once entering the living room, Spike released Mike's hand and nodded towards the door as he heard the soft moans of pains coming from the darkened corner. "You go get the door, love and I'll check on Willow."
Grimacing, Mike nodded as he felt a flood of guilt hit him—almost as if it were his own. He knew she felt as if she were letting Willow down, but hadn't realized how intense it was. Gods, everything Mike was feeling for the last few hours were intense. He wondered if it had something to do with the link—since his emotions seemed to be much more dulled than normal. Maybe that was the way things worked—the stronger one took on the other's pain until it wasn't needed anymore.
Another question for Vachon, he thought to himself as he easily wove his way through the darkened room until he reached Willow's cot. Kneeling beside her, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Wills, it's okay, pet. It's the Quickening again," he whispered, staring into her owlish green eyes.
He heard Mike unlock the door and wave in the two Immortal guests, quickly shutting it behind them.
"See love? Mac and Richie are here?"
"Mac? You mean Duncan MacLeod?"
Pursing his lips, he nodded—unable to totally cloak his resentment towards the elder Immortal.
Willow pulled her hand out of his grasp and sat up. "Why is he here?"
Spike could only roll his eyes and shrug. "Beats the living hell out of me, love. As if we don't have enough problems on our own."
After she rubbed her eyes, she stared over at him. "You don't like him too much, do you?"
Spike sighed airlessly. "I don't know." He shook his head, wondering if he would ever be able to put into words exactly how he felt. Or what exactly were his feelings versus Mike's feelings. All he knew was that for the past six years, he'd been silently fuming at the older Immortal's obvious hands-off approach with Mike. If it had been in character, he could've understood. But the bloody prick was embodiment of The Boy Scout and his avoidance of Mike and her obvious hardships were totally at odds with his personality.
So, it had to be personal. MacLeod must not like Mike.
And if that were true, then Spike had to wonder why. Mike was a likeable person. A helluva lot more than Spike had ever been so what was MacLeod's problem?
Chuckling mirthlessly, he just shook his head as he watched Mike lead MacLeod and Richie into the kitchen. "Let's just put it this way—he's got some explaining to do and then maybe I'll make a decision."
Willow nodded. "Well, I'm going in there with you. I can't sleep anyway and if I had to lie in here all the while knowing you guys are discussing my future—I'll just explode! Or maybe that's implode..." She shook her head, chuckling softly. "When I start babbling—I know I'm on autopilot."
He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze and stood up. "Don't be so hard on yourself, pet. The way this past day's been, if it had been possible I'd have been running around with my demon face permanently plastered on my face."
He held out his hand and pulled her up to her feet. Once they were both standing, he looked down at her and cupped her chin gently. "How are you? Really?"
Tears flooded her eyes as she turned her head. "It hurts, Spike. It really hurts."
Nodding, he could understand all too well—feeling that same ache (albeit, dulled by the bloodlink)—in his own heart. "We'll get Peaches back, love. I promise you that."
She nodded as she wiped her face with her bare hand. "Thank you. I wish I could say the same about Buffy," she added softly.
Spike felt his chest tighten as he nodded curtly. "So do I, love," he said as his mind flashed on Buffy's broken body the night before. Good, it still hurts, he thought to himself as he wrapped an arm around Willow's shoulder and gave her a quick hug. Once he let go of the red head, he turned and he started walking towards the kitchen, trying not to think about her pain or his own too much—knowing that if he did, he could easily become the basket case he was the night before. And yet, despite that, somehow knowing that Buffy's death still hurt gave him comfort. It was actually nice to know that his pain was still his own—despite the link.
Not even a minute later, they were standing at the same doorway Spike saw Mike lead Richie and MacLeod into and he stopped. "Ready love?" Spike asked her.
Willow gave him a small smile. "As I'll ever be."
"Well, I'm not sure I am," he muttered as he stepped through the doorway and waved Willow in. Once the youngest Immortal was inside, he reached for the sliding door, and pulled it closed—effectively shutting the room off from the hallway.
Without giving either guest a glance, he strode through the kitchen to entryway that led into the dining room and pulled out another sliding door. "I had them installed after Buffy had decided to take up cooking in the middle of the morning. Bloody hell, she'd keep me up all day banging pots and pans around here," he added softly, clenching his jaw. He then walked over to the backdoor and hit a switch, turning on a fan—filling the room with its mechanical buzz. "She also loved cooking with garlic." He leaned back against the sink and lit a cigarette as he looked over at Richie.
"So, how are you, mate?"
Richie shrugged. "All right I guess. Been writing some."
Spike smiled, remembering the paperback book that Willow had given him a little over six months before. A fantasy novel—trolls and everything. "Yeah, I read your last one—what was it called...A Nefarious Journey? I liked it—good read."
"Thanks man. Next one is going to be out in a month. They even want me to do a book tour on that one! I had to beg out of it," he added, his tone a bit forlorn.
Spike couldn't blame him either. It was one of the downfalls of immortality—be it vampire or Immortal—one had to stay out of the limelight. Mike would never be able to publish papers on the psychological problems of inherent to being Immortal, Richie would never get his well-earned fame for being a great storyteller and Willow would never be known for her work on incorporating computer technology with magical elements.
Their work would all be forced down under the cloak of immortality.
Morose much, Spike? he snapped at himself as MacLeod stepped up to him.
He lifted his eyes and really studied the infamous MacLeod, instantly realized that he wasn't too far off from his original opinion of the Immortal: he was too much like the Peaches Spike had been reunited with when the blond vampire first came to Sunnyhell. And because of that, Spike found himself instantly disliking him. MacLeod oozed in self-righteousness and morality and yet Spike knew this man had made mistakes.
Two of the said mistakes were sharing the same room with him—and yet both Mike and Richie insisted this Immortal should be the One—if the Game should really come to an end. Spike could never understand that. He'd much rather see the world under Mike or Richie's gentle, empathic care than MacLeod's.
He'd never met a righteous man he even cared enough about to try and like.
Shrugging to himself, he nodded at the Immortal.
MacLeod held out his hand and for a fleeting second, Spike almost didn't take it—that is until he felt Mike mentally nudge him.
We don't need anymore problems than we already have, Will...
Clenching his jaw, Spike took the hand and shook it once and met MacLeod's dark brown eyes. "You know, MacLeod—I've gotta wonder why you're even here. For over six years, you've stayed out of all things concerning Mike. So what changed your mind, if don't mind me asking?"
MacLeod released his hand and sighed softly. Spike watched as he clenched his teeth and stare off to the side. "I knew this wouldn't be easy. I also know that I've been neglectful when it comes to Mike—"
Spike could feel her anger and pain as it flowed through her. You've got that right, mate, he thought to himself.
"—and I should've come to St. Louis as soon as Methos went underground." The older Immortal turned to Mike, who was now leaning against the kitchen counter. "I was wrong—on so many fronts. And I'm sorry," he added softly as his eyes met Mike's stormy gray ones.
She bit her bottom lip and nodded and Spike could feel her shoving her anger down—refusing to let her problems with him interfere with everything that was happening in Sunnydale at the present.
It was something Spike couldn't do.
"What I want to know is why, mate? Why did all of you let her go when you knew she wasn't ready for the Game?"
Spike could feel Mike's glare searing into his skin, but purposely ignored it. He had to know if this would happen again—the next time it could be with Willow or even worse, a repeat performance with Mike.
Mike and Richie may trust him, but as far as he could see, he couldn't.
"What would you've done if she hadn't come back here with me? Would you've let her die just because the Old Man couldn't keep his pecker in his pants? Bloody hell, the Old Man was fuming about it! He couldn't believe that you didn't pick up after she left here." Spike shook his head in disgust. "I know, he told me as much." He paused, his eyes pinning the Scot's down. "Think of how many heads she took while you were sitting safe and sound in good ol' Seacouver—"
"Spike—"
"No love, don't. What I want to know is why you care now, MacLeod—when for the last six years, Mike's only contact with other Immortals have been challenges, clients or Richie and Cassandra—"
"Cassandra?"
Spike watched the Scot's mouth drop in shock. "You've been in contact with Cassandra?"
Spike watched his lover nod as she scooted over closer to him—as if fearing the Scot's reaction. Inwardly groaning, Spike was reminded all over again why he hated it when more than a handful of intimate acquaintances gathered in one place at the same time. Humans called it Christmas and Thanksgiving most of the time, but Spike called it hell. And right now he had a front row seat to the emotional fireworks filling up the kitchen.
Poor Willow, he thought to himself as he watched her begin to make the coffee. After scooping out the grounds, he stepped back from the sink far enough for her to fill the glass decanter for the coffee maker. Once finished, he went back to his previous spot. The git's probably wondering if she should even bother living past today the way things are going...
"Richie, did you know this?" The Scot asked, refusing to let the subject drop.
Richie groaned loudly, banging his head on the table. "Yes, I knew it!" He shook his head and looked over at Spike. "Why are we talking about this now? I mean—what about Willow?"
Although Spike may've agreed with him under any other circumstances, this one battle needed to be fought now—despite its possible inappropriateness.
After dropping his cigarette into the sink, Spike turned back to Richie. "Because mate, how can I trust him with Willow after all that has happened with Mike?"
"Why should it matter if you trust him or not, Spike? Isn't it my life?"
"Yes it is, pet. But, I told you last night. You're my responsibility until we get Peaches back—he's my sire, my friend and you are his mate. You're family, love, and I can't let that go."
Spike watched Willow nod—acknowledging the truth of his words—and walked across the kitchen to sit at the table, next to Richie. "Okay—he's right. After all these years—first as Angel's friend and then as his lover, one thing I understand is that blood is family to vampires. And since Angel isn't here, I'm sure he would want Spike to do what Angel can't. So, the short of it is what Spike says goes—with moderation."
Mike chuckled softly as she nodded in agreement. "Always with moderation. You can't have them running your life or pretty soon it won't be your life."
"Love, you're not helping any."
"Sorry," his lover muttered although Spike could feel that she was anything but remorseful. They hadn't had a chance to discuss her own trials of establishing independence in the midst of vampiric concern, but Spike had her memories. Even he had to admit that his lover was an expert on maintaining independence despite everyone else's meddling. Shaking his head, he watched in awe as she swiped his second cigarette out of his fingers and take a deep drag off it before handing it back to him.
Spike knew she did that just to spite MacLeod.
And the fun keeps rolling on in, Spike thought to himself as he watched the Scottish Immortal pace in front of him.
"So, MacLeod—what's going to be? I'm no fool. I don't want to turn down your help. But that being said, when it comes to Willow's training, I thought it was agreed to a long time ago that Richie was going to be her mentor—"
"It was and I am. Mac came because of Mike—not Willow—okay Spike?"
"What do you mean?" Mike asked as looked up at Mac. "Why? Did something happen—"
"Mike—no. Nothing bad." MacLeod took a deep breath and grabbed her shoulders. "Richie told me what happened last night—and your neck. I'm just worried. And yes, I'm worried about Willow too. I've stayed out of this," he paused, waving at Mike and Spike. "The bloodlink and everything that came with as well as you once LaCroix got involved. I'll be honest—I don't care for that vampire at all. I had run-ins with him long before I knew of his and Methos friendship." MacLeod dropped her arms and again began pacing in front of her and Spike—tension rolling off him in waves. "And as you well know—I've always had problems with Methos and you. The way he opened up to you while never giving me a straight answer—hurt. And yet, his insistence on being almost a mentor to me coupled with his inability to trust me and then to watch him place all that trust in you."
"He left me," Mike said softly. "He didn't trust me anymore than he trusted you. You just got a different piece of him than I did, that's all." She dropped her eyes as she nibbled on her lip. "So, is that why you lied to me that last night in Paris?"
"Yea," MacLeod nodded his eyes downcast. "And everything just snowballed on top of it. I let my guilt push me away from you. Even though I talked to LaCroix and Nick weekly, sometimes Vachon—even gave the Spaniard pointers—especially when you were in Toronto—I still kept my distance. And as you know, it was my idea for him to take you to Toronto to begin with. But none of that precludes the fact that I wasn't there—when I should've been."
Spike watched as the Scot stopped in front of Mike and gave her a small smile. "And the irony of all it, is that I really care for you—love you like I do Richie and I know that I would've been devastated if anything would've happened to you." He sighed loudly. "All I can say in my defense is that I did know that you were in good hands. Despite any personal feelings I may harbor towards LaCroix, I've always known that he takes his duties and obligations seriously."
Spike could feel her tears before she actually sobbed softly as MacLeod wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
Rolling his neck in a vain attempt to release the stress that had building for the last twelve hours, Spike turned to see Willow leaning against Richie, crying soundlessly as he rubbed her back slowly. Although it may've been too much like airing of dirty laundry—everyone in the kitchen knew how what kind of a toll this had been on Mike. Although she wasn't challenged nearly as much now as she had been that first year after returning to St. Louis, Mike was far from being in the clear.
Despite her compassionate nature as well as vocation, the occasional headhunter still searched for her—wanting to be the one to draw the elusive Methos out of hiding. And Mike shouldered this heavy burden, like she had everything else in the past six years with strength and endurance, peppered with her irreverent sense of humor.
But that did not ease her loneliness. Spike could feel it—even now that their link was wide open and active—stabbing into her heart as a cold reminder of how alone she really was. Although Vachon had been a constant companion of hers for all those years, and before that, Spike was—it did not take away from the fact that her life had been empty of those of her own kind.
With only the occasional visit of Richie, Cassandra or one of her clients, the only Immortals Mike had contact with were the ones after her head. Her biannual trips to Seacouver or Paris had become her only refuge. It was then, during those times, she could recapture the peace of mind she once had when she first became Immortal.
Mike pulled away and chuckled softly as she rubbed her wet face. "Now, wasn't that fun, everyone?"
Spike couldn't help himself—he reached over and wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him. "Loads love. I could go another hundred years without this much angst. How 'bout you, Richie?"
"Definitely in agreement with you, man. Willow?"
She nodded, her lips curving slightly as she shrugged. "I'm used to it—try playing mediator with The Xander and Angel Show for over five years..."
Spike watched her face flash with pain, but to his surprise, Willow managed to push it away. She's a lot stronger than you give her credit to being, mate. Remember that, he told himself as he watched MacLeod walk over to the coffee maker and pour himself a cup.
"Does anyone else want any?"
Three grunts to the affirmative spurred the Immortal to begin preparations. Spike could feel the hunger rise and looked longingly over at the refrigerator.
He felt Mike laugh softly as she disengaged his hands. "I'll get it," she whispered as he felt her amusement at his laziness over the link.
She walked over to the refrigerator and sighed softly as she stared at the bottles. "Which kind, Spike?"
"The one that says Spike's Special, love. That's your blood in it."
She pulled out a bottle and looked at it in awe. "All these years—doing that and yet to see a bottle that has my blood in it—it's kinda weird."
"Is that how you managed to keep the bloodlust down?" Mac asked as he walked over to the table and set down two coffee mugs for Richie and Willow.
"Yeah—between Mike's and Buffy's blood—I've been killer-free for nearly seven years. Well, not counting that Immortal that challenged the Old Man on Holy Ground—sucked him dry and loved every minute of it!" He took the offered bottle and pulled out the cork with one of his fangs. He took a deep drink and leaned back—poignantly aware of the differences now that he had once again tasted Mike.
He was amazed he managed to survive as long as he had without killing.
Mac's eyebrow went up. "You mentioned that earlier—he was here. I think Mike—didn't you tell me that?"
She nodded as she sipped her coffee. "He was looking for me and found Spike instead."
"Yeah, he thought the Hellmouth might deter an especially zealous Immortal by the name of Kahn. The bloke was a fool and actually had the bloody balls to challenge Methos on Holy Ground on the Hellmouth. Luckily for the Old Man as well as for Sunnydale in general—I was patrolling. Back then, Peaches still didn't trust me to do a good job—so he was out there too. We attacked him—much to the amusement of the Old Man. I got to drain the prick and then Methos and I bonded over a bottle of bloodwine for me and a fifth of Jack Daniel's for him."
"What I would've paid to be a fly on that wall," Mac mumbled to himself.
Mike laughed in agreement. "Me too. I'm sorry I missed him. Who knows when he'll come up for air again."
Mac shrugged. "I think it'll be sooner than you think, Mike. He hasn't had a Quickening in nearly five—maybe six years," he said. "Wherever he is, he's managed to find someplace safe to live. I think he'll come around once he hears that you've not been challenged in awhile.
"So, how long has it been?" Mac asked.
"Six months since I've taken a head," Mike said. "Three months since I've been challenged. I talked myself out of that last one—he actually became a patient for awhile," she said, smiling. "Good kid—bad teacher—scared and insecure. I don't think he was actually hunting me either. We just bumped into one another at the movies—of all places."
"It happens everywhere," Mac said softly. "So anyway, he's in contact with someone—because occasionally I get letters forwarded to me—never the same postmark. Joe gets them too. And from what LaCroix has hinted at it—so does he. I think that once Methos feels its quieted down enough—he'll be around."
Spike inwardly grinned, taking perverse pleasure out of the fact that he was indirectly responsible for the Old Man's last dig into obscurity. It was Spike that sent Methos to Aristotle—using the vampire who was directly responsible for creating new identities for hundred's of Souled-Ones. And Spike took a lot satisfaction in knowing that it had worked so well.
And if Methos were feeling confident enough to have the vampire forward letters to his friends, it wouldn't be that long until he finally came above ground.
How Spike felt about that was still up in air. A part of him really liked the oldest Immortal—enjoying his wicked sense of humor as well as feeling a kinship to him that was not unlike that of his recent reconciliation with Angel. Methos, like Spike and Angel, had known and breathed evil that was akin to both the vampires—and Methos dealt with it much like Spike had been for the past seven years—refusing to allow the guilt to kill his soul.
A lesson that Angel had only recently learned.
That is until he lost his soul again.
What Spike feared the most about Willow's plan was that his sire would have to start over once again. That his guilt would once again destroy whatever chance he may've had to become happy.
And that in turn would shatter Willow.
"Mike, can I see your neck?" Mac asked as he walked over to her.
Nodding solemnly, she turned her head and lifted her hair.
Mac ran his fingers lightly over the bruise, pulling back when Mike flinched in pain. "When did all this happen? What time?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.
"About nine last night—when Buffy died," Willow answered as she began wringing her hands. "A minute later, Angel lost his soul and a minute after that, I—I died," she finished softly.
Mac nodded silently. Spike could see that the Scot was not untouched by her pain. "Can you tell me exactly what happened, Mike?"
She licked her lips and set her coffee cup down. After grabbing a cigarette out of Spike's shirt pocket and lighting it, she leaned against the counter and took a deep drag. "We—Richie, Vachon and I—were drinking at Joe's. Vachon was trying to tell Richie that Jim Morrison was a vampire—"
"I didn't believe him! He's always telling me that shit!" Richie interrupted with a playful scowl.
Mike smirked at Richie and turned back to MacLeod. "And then of all a sudden—everything around me just disappeared and I felt this horrible stab of pain that ran through my heart. I just had to get out of there. I stumbled into the bathroom just as I felt something slam into me. I guess I hit the sink and died. Or something, I don't know."
Richie cleared his throat and picked up the story where Mike left off. "I felt a Quickening of sorts. Vachon and I both were already on her tail—and just before we opened the bathroom door—the air changed—you know, like a Quickening—and Vachon growled softly. We both ran in there and saw Mike, dead with her neck broke, laying on the floor."
Spike ground his teeth as the horror of the whole thing hit him. Now he understood why MacLeod came down. Mike died in the same manner that Buffy did. Would that mean, if Buffy had been beheaded...?
Fucking hell, he had almost lost Mike last night too.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, dropping his head into his hands. "Is this because I drank from Buffy?"
"Spike don't kick yourself over this," MacLeod said softly. "You didn't know."
Spike looked up and was almost surprised at the sincerity in the Immortal's eyes. After all the shit Spike just gave the man and he still was trying to be fair with him.
Amazing—considering that all Spike wanted to do at this very moment was stake himself. How could he had been so selfish—
"Don't!" Mike snapped as she swatted Spike in the gut. "Don't you dare. I told you already once—I left you specifically so that you two would get together. It's not anymore your fault than it's mine!"
Mac sighed loudly. "This bloodlink that you two share—it's a lot like the Double Quickening that Methos and I share. Ours isn't nearly as intense—I don't die his deaths or anything—but I feel them as if I had.
"Richie had mentioned last night—and you all have confirmed it—that Angel lost has his soul somehow, right?"
"Right," Willow answered. "And you're worried about me, aren't you?"
Mac nodded meeting Willow's eyes. He walked over to her and kneeled in front of her. "I understand where you're coming from, but I don't think it's a good time for you to do this—at least not take it all on yourself."
"What are you saying?" Willow asked as her body straightened. Spike saw her eyes light up and readied himself for another battle.
He just wasn't sure what side he was fighting on yet.
"In a perfect world, Richie would sweep you up and take you somewhere safe—Holy Ground and train you mercilessly for the next year or so. In that world, Mike, me—even Vachon considering how good of a job he's done with Mike—would intermittently stop by and help you—adding our lessons to those that Richie would give you." He paused as he reached for hands, pulling them apart and stilling them. "And in that world, you would have Angel near by supporting you—and adding his two cents in as well. But Willow, it's not a perfect world."
She shook her head. "I can't leave. He'll follow. And if he doesn't follow—he'll kill everyone he can get to—just to bring me back here so he can destroy me." Tears flooded her eyes and shook her head. "We're linked already. Whether it was from me giving him a soul or getting him out of Hell itself—nothing is going to change that.
"I have to follow through with this—lives literally depend upon it."
Mac looked up at Spike. "Is he really that bad?"
"Worse, mate. I've heard stories about your Dark Quickening and all I can say is that you were a bloody Boy Scout compared to Angelus in all his demon glory. The demon is not right. I think is was him being cursed all those years that drove it mad." He took an unneeded breath and met Willow's tear-filled eyes. "Willow's right. We either stake the bastard or change him over. There's no waiting until Willow is trained. He won't allow it."
The Scot groaned. "I thought as much. Here's my offer. We all know that for the change to happen, he needs Immortal blood, correct?"
Willow nodded yes. "So—what are you getting at? Having him drink from someone else? I don't think so," she said, shaking her head no. "With that kind of intimacy that's involved? Excuse me if I get jealous and possessive, but I've watched the way Mike and Spike are together and I don't want Angel to have that with anyone other than me!"
She ripped her hands out of MacLeod's grasp and jumped out of her chair. "This is the man—or vampire—that I had planned to spend the rest of my mortal life with—before all of this Immortality and him losing his soul again. I love him—vampire and all—with all that I am. To just walk away from him like that—you might as well take my head now—"
"No," Mac shook his head as he stood up. "No—that's not what I'm getting at. I'm saying, that while you will be his main supplier—that you not be his only source of Immortal blood. If we can somehow control the strength of this bloodlink—don't you think that it would be better?
"Oh it's a wonderfully romantic idea to be so entwined with someone that you don't know where they begin and you end—but look at the consequences!" MacLeod pointed to Spike and Mike and the vampire couldn't help but agree with the Scot.
Mike could've really died the night before and it was all because of their link...
"Every time she took a head, he received a mini-Quickening. And she in return, was immediately inside his head—"
"Jesus, Mac. How the hell did you know all this?" Mike asked incredulously.
He shook his head at Mike—a sad smile on his face. "I told you—I stayed involved. Just not outwardly." He turned back to Willow. "For the past six years," he paused; meeting Spike's eyes and the vampire could see the remorse in the Immortal's eyes for what he was getting ready to say. "For six years, Mike has been struggling to just to stay alive while there was a hole in her heart and soul just aching for Spike. And everytime she took a head, she got reminded all over again just how empty and desolate her life was without him. Look at them! They're practically symbiotic!
"If you take this on all by yourself and you and Angel ever split—you could very well suffer a type of hell that makes the last 12 hours seem like a trip to Disneyland."
"Why do you care? How do you know all this?" Willow asked, her eyes shut as tears ran down her face.
"The Double Quickening. I told you it wasn't as intense as the bloodlink—but once it happened—there was nothing I could do to change it. Methos has been carrying a part of myself with him—as I do with him—and we're not whole now that we're apart. And the only way I can get it back is either for him to lose his head or to have him close by me. So, I know at least a bit of where Mike's been. And I wouldn't want that for you. Not now—you're what? Twenty-four years old?" She nodded, wiping her face. "And you're ready to take on something that you know has the possibility of making you less than whole person in the future?"
Willow turned away from him as she headed for the doorway. "I—I don't know," she whispered, her voice soft and tired. "How do we even know that it would work your way?"
"We don't," Mac said. "But it should. Willow, one last thing before you go off and think about what I've said. Mike, Spike, Methos and I never had a choice. Circumstances and ignorance took that away from us. You do have a choice."
She nodded once; her back still turned. "I'm going to check on Vachon," she said as she slipped out the door, closing it behind her.
MacLeod fell down into a chair and groaned softly. "Am I wrong?" he asked Spike.
Spike shook his head. "No mate, you're not. Unfortunately, everything you said was right on the money."
And if Spike were really honest with himself, the cost of this bloodlink was too high—especially when dealing with real life and its misfortunes.
Much too high, he thought to himself as he glanced the dark, ugly bruise that had formed on Mike's neck.
to be continued in chapter eight