Darkest 3
By Annie
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Spoilers; Again, references to the end of Buffy Season 6 and Seasons 2 and 3 of Angel. BTW; in this particular storyline, Spike never went to Africa.
Thanks to Merritt for some important lines. Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
DARKEST 3
I stared at the phone for an hour, wanting to make the call, but all the noise in my head would have prevented me from conversation anyway. You can't call, you can't do this, it's not the natural order of things. Tara couldn't come back, your Mother couldn't come back, only you get to come back; there WILL be consequences.
And my other little voice, running as undercurrent to the louder voices of reason. I want something for myself. Why do I have to constantly sacrifice everything? Can't I just have something, some kind of personal happiness. Don't I deserve it? Or have I already cashed in all my markers by having this unusually long life? Unlike all my Slayer ancestors, who met their fates at a much earlier age. Except, I had met my fate. Several times. Besides, since when was Spike something I wanted to have for mine. After I had broken it off with him, I had tried my damndest to push him away. Why was I now willing to break the laws of nature and risk whatever to get him back? I had Willow as an abject lesson as to why this was the baddest of ideas.
Somehow, it didn't matter.
Who would help me? Angel hated Spike; Willow was forbidden to be anywhere near any kind of magic; Xander hated Spike as well, although he would help if I asked him. Dawn would help without question. Giles would warn against it. Anya would help if asked, I thought.
I had to get the story, had to find out what had happened and how it had happened. I dug the little business card for Angel Investigations out of a drawer in the desk. Cordelia had sent it, proud of the fact that she had found a niche for herself. I picked up the phone
Just then Dawn came in from the kitchen, where she had been keeping watch over Spike's remains. "Who are you calling?" she asked, still a small sniffle detectable in her voice.
I put the phone back down again, and plunged right into it. Might as well get her reaction right from the start.
"Did I ever tell you about Darla?"
She nodded, interest piqued. "Just that she was Angel's sire and girlfriend for about forever, till she got dusted at the Bronze."
"Right," I agreed. "There's a bit more to the story, though. Spike told me that when Druscilla came back here to Sunnydale that last time, she told him that Darla had been 'mojoed' back from the dead, and that Angel had tried to burn them both up or something. I'm calling Angel and I'm going to make him tell me who did it and how."
I saw the tiny spark of hope in her eyes and almost cried again. But then it went away.
"Angel won't tell you," she said. "Angel hates Spike."
"But, he doesn't hate me. If I have to, I'll go to LA and make him tell."
"Good luck," she told me, quietly hopeful, as she went back to the kitchen counter.
My fingers were shaking as I dialed the number, and my brain went blank when I didn't recognize the voice of the female who answered at the other end. A voice, I might add, that sounded a bit frazzled.
"Is Cordelia there?" I asked uncertainly.
"No. Who is this? Do you know where she is?"
I frowned. "No, I don't know where she is, or I would call her somewhere else. Who is this?"
'This' was a woman with the unlikely name of Fred, who informed me that she and her co-worker had no idea where either Cordelia or Angel might be, and that Angel's son Connor was also among the missing.
The frown lines got deeper. "Son?" I repeated, thinking some nut case had walked into Angel's office and just answered his phone for the heck of it. And now I realized deep down how much I had changed over the last few years; how my experiences had grayed the line between good and evil. Once Angel was my life. Now I could hear about his having a son and being missing with no more than mild curiosity.
Fred sighed. "Long story. And who are you again?"
"Buffy Summers."
"Buff.." and then in an obvious aside to her unseen companion. "It's her! The Slayer!" She turned her attention back to me. "We don't know where they are. Cordy called and asked Angel to meet her, and no one has seen or heard from them since. And Connor disappeared right after that."
I had no intention of trying to get the, probably, extremely long explanation of why there was a Connor. And who his mother was, more to the point. Not wanting to deal with that whole sitch just then. I tried another tack.
"Can I speak to Wesley, then?"
Hesitation on the other end; I sensed it uncomfortably there in my house.
"Wesley isn't here..doesn't work here anymore," Fred told me.
Now that was damned odd. Angel's best prophecy-interpreter, not working there? Didn't want to hear that story either.
"Fred, can I have Wesley's number, if you know it?"
She did, and she gave it to me willingly, and I scribbled it on the back of the card with a pencil stub I located in the drawer. "But Wesley won't know where Angel is either, I'm pretty certain," she warned me.
"I'll take my chances," I said hurriedly, ready to just hang up. I changed my mind though. "Fred, when they get back from wherever, tell them I called."
"I, I will," she promised, and I thought her voice sounded like she was about to cry. Hmm. Bunches of goings-on in LA these days, I mused absently as I dialed the number she had given me.
"Yea," a rough-sounding voice answered the phone.
"Wesley," I asked tentatively. "Is that you?"
"Depends on who wants to know," he replied gruffly.
"Buffy. Buffy Summers."
"Ah, a voice from the dulcet past. Need a new Watcher? I'm not doing that anymore."
There was venom in his voice, and not necessarily directed at me. Something terrible must have happened in the City of Angels.
"You know I don't need a Watcher, Wesley. I need to know something, and it's information that I can probably only get from you or Angel."
"Oh, yes, Angel. The missing defender of all Mankind, or whatever. Well, I'm not telling you anything. I'm done helping."
When I spoke next my voice was lowered dangerously. I was getting impatient with the getting nowhere stuff. "Wesley, if you won't at least listen to me, I'm coming to LA and I guarantee you will tell me."
He laughed, unafraid. "Go ahead, tell me your woes, little Slayer. I can listen better than I can speak these days."
"I want the spell that brought Darla back after she was dusted. I want to know who did it, and how they did it. If you don't know, tell me who does."
"You want to bring Darla back?" he asked curiously. "It's been done, Buffy, and it didn't turn out well in the long run. I could relate for you such a tale of prophecies misread and gone wrong."
I interrupted him. "Not Darla. Spike. I want to bring Spike back."
He laughed shortly at that. "Spike?" he repeated in disbelief. "What, did you dust him and it felt so good that you want to do it again?"
"Why doesn't matter just now. Do you know the spell or not? Does Angel?"
"Angel would never help you bring Spike back. On the other hand, since that's true, then perhaps I will oblige. You will call me and let me know how it comes out? If you survive, I mean?"
"I'll survive," I assured him.
"Do you have e-mail?" he asked.
Of course, I didn't. I couldn't afford a computer and the internet on Double Meat Palace money, and Willow's laptop was with her at Xander's. A momentary guilt went through me. Something else Dawn should have, to be like the others kids - a computer. But Anya had e-mail at the shop, so I just gave him that. He promised to send it soon, and then laughed just a little bit as he hung up. Sounded to me like old Wesley Windham Price was losing it in LA.
I peeked into the kitchen, where Dawn was sitting at the counter, dawdling when she should have been getting ready for bed.
"Dawn, bedtime," I prodded her gently.
She rested her hand briefly on top of the little container. "Are we just going to leave him here? In the kitchen?"
I steered her into the hall toward the steps. "No, I'll put him somewhere safe," I promised, watching till she made her way to her room.
I called Anya and asked her to watch for my e-mail, then went back the kitchen myself, staring at the white plastic thing dejectedly, the doubts creeping to the forefront of my mind again.
"No," I told myself quietly. "I get to have something, too."
To be continued
By Annie
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Spoilers; Again, references to the end of Buffy Season 6 and Seasons 2 and 3 of Angel. BTW; in this particular storyline, Spike never went to Africa.
Thanks to Merritt for some important lines. Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
DARKEST 3
I stared at the phone for an hour, wanting to make the call, but all the noise in my head would have prevented me from conversation anyway. You can't call, you can't do this, it's not the natural order of things. Tara couldn't come back, your Mother couldn't come back, only you get to come back; there WILL be consequences.
And my other little voice, running as undercurrent to the louder voices of reason. I want something for myself. Why do I have to constantly sacrifice everything? Can't I just have something, some kind of personal happiness. Don't I deserve it? Or have I already cashed in all my markers by having this unusually long life? Unlike all my Slayer ancestors, who met their fates at a much earlier age. Except, I had met my fate. Several times. Besides, since when was Spike something I wanted to have for mine. After I had broken it off with him, I had tried my damndest to push him away. Why was I now willing to break the laws of nature and risk whatever to get him back? I had Willow as an abject lesson as to why this was the baddest of ideas.
Somehow, it didn't matter.
Who would help me? Angel hated Spike; Willow was forbidden to be anywhere near any kind of magic; Xander hated Spike as well, although he would help if I asked him. Dawn would help without question. Giles would warn against it. Anya would help if asked, I thought.
I had to get the story, had to find out what had happened and how it had happened. I dug the little business card for Angel Investigations out of a drawer in the desk. Cordelia had sent it, proud of the fact that she had found a niche for herself. I picked up the phone
Just then Dawn came in from the kitchen, where she had been keeping watch over Spike's remains. "Who are you calling?" she asked, still a small sniffle detectable in her voice.
I put the phone back down again, and plunged right into it. Might as well get her reaction right from the start.
"Did I ever tell you about Darla?"
She nodded, interest piqued. "Just that she was Angel's sire and girlfriend for about forever, till she got dusted at the Bronze."
"Right," I agreed. "There's a bit more to the story, though. Spike told me that when Druscilla came back here to Sunnydale that last time, she told him that Darla had been 'mojoed' back from the dead, and that Angel had tried to burn them both up or something. I'm calling Angel and I'm going to make him tell me who did it and how."
I saw the tiny spark of hope in her eyes and almost cried again. But then it went away.
"Angel won't tell you," she said. "Angel hates Spike."
"But, he doesn't hate me. If I have to, I'll go to LA and make him tell."
"Good luck," she told me, quietly hopeful, as she went back to the kitchen counter.
My fingers were shaking as I dialed the number, and my brain went blank when I didn't recognize the voice of the female who answered at the other end. A voice, I might add, that sounded a bit frazzled.
"Is Cordelia there?" I asked uncertainly.
"No. Who is this? Do you know where she is?"
I frowned. "No, I don't know where she is, or I would call her somewhere else. Who is this?"
'This' was a woman with the unlikely name of Fred, who informed me that she and her co-worker had no idea where either Cordelia or Angel might be, and that Angel's son Connor was also among the missing.
The frown lines got deeper. "Son?" I repeated, thinking some nut case had walked into Angel's office and just answered his phone for the heck of it. And now I realized deep down how much I had changed over the last few years; how my experiences had grayed the line between good and evil. Once Angel was my life. Now I could hear about his having a son and being missing with no more than mild curiosity.
Fred sighed. "Long story. And who are you again?"
"Buffy Summers."
"Buff.." and then in an obvious aside to her unseen companion. "It's her! The Slayer!" She turned her attention back to me. "We don't know where they are. Cordy called and asked Angel to meet her, and no one has seen or heard from them since. And Connor disappeared right after that."
I had no intention of trying to get the, probably, extremely long explanation of why there was a Connor. And who his mother was, more to the point. Not wanting to deal with that whole sitch just then. I tried another tack.
"Can I speak to Wesley, then?"
Hesitation on the other end; I sensed it uncomfortably there in my house.
"Wesley isn't here..doesn't work here anymore," Fred told me.
Now that was damned odd. Angel's best prophecy-interpreter, not working there? Didn't want to hear that story either.
"Fred, can I have Wesley's number, if you know it?"
She did, and she gave it to me willingly, and I scribbled it on the back of the card with a pencil stub I located in the drawer. "But Wesley won't know where Angel is either, I'm pretty certain," she warned me.
"I'll take my chances," I said hurriedly, ready to just hang up. I changed my mind though. "Fred, when they get back from wherever, tell them I called."
"I, I will," she promised, and I thought her voice sounded like she was about to cry. Hmm. Bunches of goings-on in LA these days, I mused absently as I dialed the number she had given me.
"Yea," a rough-sounding voice answered the phone.
"Wesley," I asked tentatively. "Is that you?"
"Depends on who wants to know," he replied gruffly.
"Buffy. Buffy Summers."
"Ah, a voice from the dulcet past. Need a new Watcher? I'm not doing that anymore."
There was venom in his voice, and not necessarily directed at me. Something terrible must have happened in the City of Angels.
"You know I don't need a Watcher, Wesley. I need to know something, and it's information that I can probably only get from you or Angel."
"Oh, yes, Angel. The missing defender of all Mankind, or whatever. Well, I'm not telling you anything. I'm done helping."
When I spoke next my voice was lowered dangerously. I was getting impatient with the getting nowhere stuff. "Wesley, if you won't at least listen to me, I'm coming to LA and I guarantee you will tell me."
He laughed, unafraid. "Go ahead, tell me your woes, little Slayer. I can listen better than I can speak these days."
"I want the spell that brought Darla back after she was dusted. I want to know who did it, and how they did it. If you don't know, tell me who does."
"You want to bring Darla back?" he asked curiously. "It's been done, Buffy, and it didn't turn out well in the long run. I could relate for you such a tale of prophecies misread and gone wrong."
I interrupted him. "Not Darla. Spike. I want to bring Spike back."
He laughed shortly at that. "Spike?" he repeated in disbelief. "What, did you dust him and it felt so good that you want to do it again?"
"Why doesn't matter just now. Do you know the spell or not? Does Angel?"
"Angel would never help you bring Spike back. On the other hand, since that's true, then perhaps I will oblige. You will call me and let me know how it comes out? If you survive, I mean?"
"I'll survive," I assured him.
"Do you have e-mail?" he asked.
Of course, I didn't. I couldn't afford a computer and the internet on Double Meat Palace money, and Willow's laptop was with her at Xander's. A momentary guilt went through me. Something else Dawn should have, to be like the others kids - a computer. But Anya had e-mail at the shop, so I just gave him that. He promised to send it soon, and then laughed just a little bit as he hung up. Sounded to me like old Wesley Windham Price was losing it in LA.
I peeked into the kitchen, where Dawn was sitting at the counter, dawdling when she should have been getting ready for bed.
"Dawn, bedtime," I prodded her gently.
She rested her hand briefly on top of the little container. "Are we just going to leave him here? In the kitchen?"
I steered her into the hall toward the steps. "No, I'll put him somewhere safe," I promised, watching till she made her way to her room.
I called Anya and asked her to watch for my e-mail, then went back the kitchen myself, staring at the white plastic thing dejectedly, the doubts creeping to the forefront of my mind again.
"No," I told myself quietly. "I get to have something, too."
To be continued