---
Part Two
---
Dawn was sprawled across the couch, reading a loose paged paperback in the warm glow of the desklight. In the window, the bells she'd strung up rang softly in jingling, random chords, swaying in the Ohio summer breeze.
The walls were bare, white. It wasn't much like a home. She could hear the quite rush of the cars far below her. And she rolled onto her side, sighing, rolling her neck in a loose circle to work out the stiffness. It was almost two in the morning. But she waited up. Sometimes, she was lonely, now. The apartment was silent and empty, and there were no hoards of girls, giggling under sleeping bags in the night.
She talked more and more, recently, about going away. Not too long before she could go to college. Perhaps meet up with Willow, help with the work they all had been so excited to begin. She wasn't sure how Buffy felt about that. It was always hard to tell, with her.
Footfalls echoing down the hall. The jangle of keys at the lock. She was home.
The door opened and her sister's bags skidded across the floor through it. Her sister followed, hair slightly disheveled. She shed her coat and draped it over a chair. She paused in the entry, and inhaled heavily.
"Hi!" Dawn called out cheerfully, head popping up from the sofa. Buffy looked up, startled
"Hey!" she said, pulling that wide smile over her features that she thought masked when she was tired, "You're up late-- uhm, early."
"Had to wait for you to come back," Dawn replied, "And who spends half the weekend on a plane just to spend three hours in Los Angeles anyhow?"
Buffy had wandered into her bedroom. Her clothes flew through the open door, barely missing the laundry basket resting there, waiting patiently for attention.
"Apparently, me."
When she walked out again, she was in comfortably worn sweats, hair pulled back. And she went directly for her weapons bag.
It wasn't like Sunnydale. This was a city, where it'd attract too much attention to carry anything large. Had to stick to small arms, that she could conceal. She strapped a dagger into her sleeve, tucked a stake into her belt.
Dawn's smile crumbled.
"I was kinda hoping we could do a late night cartoon network binge..."
"Dawn I have to do a sweep, I missed yesterday."
"I thought it'd be different... I mean, shouldn't it be different?"
Buffy didn't look at her as she threw the strap of a light bag across her shoulder.
"You really should get some sleep, Dawn."
As she headed out the door, Dawn leapt up. Something sinking was twisting in her gut.
"Stay," Dawn said, a hint of pleading in the tone. But they tried so hard at being casual, the meaning was lost in the delivery.
Buffy sighed, closing the door as she responded.
"Dawnie-- I have to."
And it sent chills through Dawn's spine.
---
Inhale.
Exhale.
It was almost hypnotic.
Breathing.
On the shore of the quiet lake, the man sat naked and breathing, as the light was just beginning to fade in the sky.
Birds gathered in the brush, and insects skipped across the still surface of the water. And he felt like he might be the only one left alive in the world.
The only one left alive.
And that made him laugh. Great gales of giddy laughter, boiling up from within. He had no idea what was so funny, because as far as he saw it, he was screwed.
And he couldn't seem to concentrate. He should be thinking of what he should do next. Try to find Buffy?
Buffy. He hadn't thought of her until just then. There was just too much to take in. What did that mean?
He picked up a smooth stone, skipped it lightly across the water. It made a series of perfect, concentric circles across the surface. And he just tried to breathe.
And he smiled. He must've made quite an impressive explosion, to look at what remained afterwards.
Good on him.
---
Angel was watching the sun set.
He stood inches away from the glass. The mild shine of the surface eflected the room behind him. The desk, the sleek-yet-efficient office furniture. A nice setup.
And he could see directly across the street, see the pale sky peering through the towers, with their shining windows of far more conventional manufacture. He brushed his hand across the surface of his own window. It was cold to the touch. It felt solid.
And he wondered how hard he'd have to hit it before it his fist would shatter through.
---
Darkness settled over the still waters. Cold, damp fog filled the air, obscuring the far side of the lake to him. He realized he was shivering. He was cold. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not, yet.
Wrapping his hands along his forearms, he just continued to stare, trying to cut through the fog. The bats had gone to their nests, that he had been watching feast on flies in the dusk. Flying cartwheels in the air and skimming the surface like mad birds in the evening light.
Everything was muddled, misty. The corners of his vision were indistinct. The shadows were long and impossibly dark. The fog choked the trees, hanging low all around him like a cloak.
He had to do something, but he just wanted to stay here. Maybe he could still wake up and find himself away from all this-- this striving and not knowing. This slow creep of hours, of minutes.
And he heard a quiet sound. Muffled, a fair distance across the lake from him. A splash, the whooping sound of something calling out. Inarticulate, wild sounds.
A white form, stripped, diving into the water. He stood, squinted tried to make them out in the night.
And brilliant, yellow eyes met his. Vampire. Visiting what remained of the hellmouth to swim naked in the cold, summer night.
He couldn't see, but he was sure it was smiling.
---
Angel had killed a girl, once, who looked a bit like Cordelia. Long ago. She'd been engaged. He remembered because of what he'd done to her trembling hands, when he saw the ring there.
He wondered if her young man had felt anything like this, at the time.
He turned away from the window, back to the room. He wouldn't be tearing at the office furniture, breaking the glass. Flooding the room with deadly light. The kind that wasn't filtered.
Because he had to push the grief away, that pulled at the inner dark heart of violence at the core. Had to bind it with iron so it would settle silently to the bottom of his soul like a casket in the ocean.
And that was the surface of his being. Drowned, airless caskets of memory, lying cast about and random. Covering-- settling slowly with silt. Obscuring their features, piled in haphazard rows, where it was too deep for light to touch them-- where nobody new or saw or sensed the living bodies inside, writhing with unfettered rage, beating against the prison walls..
His mind was alive with the screaming voices, tearing at their bonds, choked with silence and straining through it, pulling at him. They woke him, sometimes, when he was sleeping. And half asleep, they could fill him with almost erotic pleasure at the array of them, the furious clustering masses of them. When he was still too gone into the other countries to know them for what they were. And when he woke, he pushed them down again with an intensity bordering on desperation. Best they drown.
Best for everyone.
And he stood alone, all this running through his mind. An image of perfect stillness and expressionless quiet in the sunlight.
---
Spike hit the ground, gagging in rasping breaths. He felt blood on his tongue from where he'd bitten it. His ribs were broken, and the bruises were burning on his face. It was all he could do to stay awake, as heaviness filled his mind and he tried to push up once more on the palms of his hands..
It was suddenly over him again, grabbed him by the shoulders, threw him across the brush once more. The branches of the bushes raked at his back as he landed once more, knocking his wind out.
And he forced himself to stand, grabbing at the trees, pulling himself up. They were dry. He needed to concentrate. He knew how this worked. He snapped off a dry branch, and fell into a familiar, defensive stance.
And in an instant it was on him again. It threw a fist forward and Spike dodged it lightly, ducking beneath the arm and leaping back on the balls of his feet. The muscle memory, if not the strength, remained. It sent a shooting pain through his chest, where the ribs were hanging loosely. He felt anger welling in him as he moved to strike back.
"I was trying," he gasped, striking the creature in the jaw with his best right hook. It sent a jolt of pain through his arm. The vampire smiled again, unmoved.
"You should try harder," it replied, calmly. It seized his arm and twisted it casually. It snapped. Spike screamed out at the sudden, sharp pain. He stumbled and fell. He held his makeshift stake close to his chest.
"I--" Spike said again, blue eyes shining.
The vampire leaned over him, grabbing him by the neck. He gagged against the firm grip. But he smiled, even caught in its throttling hands. It was young and arrogant. It hadn't seen the branch.
"You what?" it sneered, pulling Spike's face in front of its own. And with all that remained of his strength, drove the ragged point home.
As he fell onto the ground, chalky ash sprinkling over him, he gagged to catch his breath. And he spoke softly, to the ashes.
"I was trying--" he gasped out, "To think."
---
He buttoned the dark, patterned shirt, which fit him poorly, but provided some shelter from the elements. He's found the vampire's clothes, left in a careless pile by the shore. And it had little use for them, now.
His bruises were swelling, his arm throbbing. He hoped, vaguely, that he didn't have a concussion.
He pulled the collar up, trying to shield his neck form the cold, night air. As his fingers brushed across it, he paused. It had something dry and rough spattered across it.
He looked down. The shirt was covered in a dried spray of blood.
Somehow, looking at it-- the smell of it-- it made something snap in him. He sank onto the ground again. He felt like he might vomit, but his stomach was painfully empty.
And he remembered something. Words. From before, in her gentle, distant voice. The tired one she let through, sometimes, in those rare, special moments of openness with him.
"Everything here is bright, and hard, and violent... this is hell..."
This is hell.
And he felt a sudden compassion for her, her struggles, as he knelt in pain and horror in the dust of a ruined city.
---
Dawn was sprawled across the couch, reading a loose paged paperback in the warm glow of the desklight. In the window, the bells she'd strung up rang softly in jingling, random chords, swaying in the Ohio summer breeze.
The walls were bare, white. It wasn't much like a home. She could hear the quite rush of the cars far below her. And she rolled onto her side, sighing, rolling her neck in a loose circle to work out the stiffness. It was almost two in the morning. But she waited up. Sometimes, she was lonely, now. The apartment was silent and empty, and there were no hoards of girls, giggling under sleeping bags in the night.
She talked more and more, recently, about going away. Not too long before she could go to college. Perhaps meet up with Willow, help with the work they all had been so excited to begin. She wasn't sure how Buffy felt about that. It was always hard to tell, with her.
Footfalls echoing down the hall. The jangle of keys at the lock. She was home.
The door opened and her sister's bags skidded across the floor through it. Her sister followed, hair slightly disheveled. She shed her coat and draped it over a chair. She paused in the entry, and inhaled heavily.
"Hi!" Dawn called out cheerfully, head popping up from the sofa. Buffy looked up, startled
"Hey!" she said, pulling that wide smile over her features that she thought masked when she was tired, "You're up late-- uhm, early."
"Had to wait for you to come back," Dawn replied, "And who spends half the weekend on a plane just to spend three hours in Los Angeles anyhow?"
Buffy had wandered into her bedroom. Her clothes flew through the open door, barely missing the laundry basket resting there, waiting patiently for attention.
"Apparently, me."
When she walked out again, she was in comfortably worn sweats, hair pulled back. And she went directly for her weapons bag.
It wasn't like Sunnydale. This was a city, where it'd attract too much attention to carry anything large. Had to stick to small arms, that she could conceal. She strapped a dagger into her sleeve, tucked a stake into her belt.
Dawn's smile crumbled.
"I was kinda hoping we could do a late night cartoon network binge..."
"Dawn I have to do a sweep, I missed yesterday."
"I thought it'd be different... I mean, shouldn't it be different?"
Buffy didn't look at her as she threw the strap of a light bag across her shoulder.
"You really should get some sleep, Dawn."
As she headed out the door, Dawn leapt up. Something sinking was twisting in her gut.
"Stay," Dawn said, a hint of pleading in the tone. But they tried so hard at being casual, the meaning was lost in the delivery.
Buffy sighed, closing the door as she responded.
"Dawnie-- I have to."
And it sent chills through Dawn's spine.
---
Inhale.
Exhale.
It was almost hypnotic.
Breathing.
On the shore of the quiet lake, the man sat naked and breathing, as the light was just beginning to fade in the sky.
Birds gathered in the brush, and insects skipped across the still surface of the water. And he felt like he might be the only one left alive in the world.
The only one left alive.
And that made him laugh. Great gales of giddy laughter, boiling up from within. He had no idea what was so funny, because as far as he saw it, he was screwed.
And he couldn't seem to concentrate. He should be thinking of what he should do next. Try to find Buffy?
Buffy. He hadn't thought of her until just then. There was just too much to take in. What did that mean?
He picked up a smooth stone, skipped it lightly across the water. It made a series of perfect, concentric circles across the surface. And he just tried to breathe.
And he smiled. He must've made quite an impressive explosion, to look at what remained afterwards.
Good on him.
---
Angel was watching the sun set.
He stood inches away from the glass. The mild shine of the surface eflected the room behind him. The desk, the sleek-yet-efficient office furniture. A nice setup.
And he could see directly across the street, see the pale sky peering through the towers, with their shining windows of far more conventional manufacture. He brushed his hand across the surface of his own window. It was cold to the touch. It felt solid.
And he wondered how hard he'd have to hit it before it his fist would shatter through.
---
Darkness settled over the still waters. Cold, damp fog filled the air, obscuring the far side of the lake to him. He realized he was shivering. He was cold. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not, yet.
Wrapping his hands along his forearms, he just continued to stare, trying to cut through the fog. The bats had gone to their nests, that he had been watching feast on flies in the dusk. Flying cartwheels in the air and skimming the surface like mad birds in the evening light.
Everything was muddled, misty. The corners of his vision were indistinct. The shadows were long and impossibly dark. The fog choked the trees, hanging low all around him like a cloak.
He had to do something, but he just wanted to stay here. Maybe he could still wake up and find himself away from all this-- this striving and not knowing. This slow creep of hours, of minutes.
And he heard a quiet sound. Muffled, a fair distance across the lake from him. A splash, the whooping sound of something calling out. Inarticulate, wild sounds.
A white form, stripped, diving into the water. He stood, squinted tried to make them out in the night.
And brilliant, yellow eyes met his. Vampire. Visiting what remained of the hellmouth to swim naked in the cold, summer night.
He couldn't see, but he was sure it was smiling.
---
Angel had killed a girl, once, who looked a bit like Cordelia. Long ago. She'd been engaged. He remembered because of what he'd done to her trembling hands, when he saw the ring there.
He wondered if her young man had felt anything like this, at the time.
He turned away from the window, back to the room. He wouldn't be tearing at the office furniture, breaking the glass. Flooding the room with deadly light. The kind that wasn't filtered.
Because he had to push the grief away, that pulled at the inner dark heart of violence at the core. Had to bind it with iron so it would settle silently to the bottom of his soul like a casket in the ocean.
And that was the surface of his being. Drowned, airless caskets of memory, lying cast about and random. Covering-- settling slowly with silt. Obscuring their features, piled in haphazard rows, where it was too deep for light to touch them-- where nobody new or saw or sensed the living bodies inside, writhing with unfettered rage, beating against the prison walls..
His mind was alive with the screaming voices, tearing at their bonds, choked with silence and straining through it, pulling at him. They woke him, sometimes, when he was sleeping. And half asleep, they could fill him with almost erotic pleasure at the array of them, the furious clustering masses of them. When he was still too gone into the other countries to know them for what they were. And when he woke, he pushed them down again with an intensity bordering on desperation. Best they drown.
Best for everyone.
And he stood alone, all this running through his mind. An image of perfect stillness and expressionless quiet in the sunlight.
---
Spike hit the ground, gagging in rasping breaths. He felt blood on his tongue from where he'd bitten it. His ribs were broken, and the bruises were burning on his face. It was all he could do to stay awake, as heaviness filled his mind and he tried to push up once more on the palms of his hands..
It was suddenly over him again, grabbed him by the shoulders, threw him across the brush once more. The branches of the bushes raked at his back as he landed once more, knocking his wind out.
And he forced himself to stand, grabbing at the trees, pulling himself up. They were dry. He needed to concentrate. He knew how this worked. He snapped off a dry branch, and fell into a familiar, defensive stance.
And in an instant it was on him again. It threw a fist forward and Spike dodged it lightly, ducking beneath the arm and leaping back on the balls of his feet. The muscle memory, if not the strength, remained. It sent a shooting pain through his chest, where the ribs were hanging loosely. He felt anger welling in him as he moved to strike back.
"I was trying," he gasped, striking the creature in the jaw with his best right hook. It sent a jolt of pain through his arm. The vampire smiled again, unmoved.
"You should try harder," it replied, calmly. It seized his arm and twisted it casually. It snapped. Spike screamed out at the sudden, sharp pain. He stumbled and fell. He held his makeshift stake close to his chest.
"I--" Spike said again, blue eyes shining.
The vampire leaned over him, grabbing him by the neck. He gagged against the firm grip. But he smiled, even caught in its throttling hands. It was young and arrogant. It hadn't seen the branch.
"You what?" it sneered, pulling Spike's face in front of its own. And with all that remained of his strength, drove the ragged point home.
As he fell onto the ground, chalky ash sprinkling over him, he gagged to catch his breath. And he spoke softly, to the ashes.
"I was trying--" he gasped out, "To think."
---
He buttoned the dark, patterned shirt, which fit him poorly, but provided some shelter from the elements. He's found the vampire's clothes, left in a careless pile by the shore. And it had little use for them, now.
His bruises were swelling, his arm throbbing. He hoped, vaguely, that he didn't have a concussion.
He pulled the collar up, trying to shield his neck form the cold, night air. As his fingers brushed across it, he paused. It had something dry and rough spattered across it.
He looked down. The shirt was covered in a dried spray of blood.
Somehow, looking at it-- the smell of it-- it made something snap in him. He sank onto the ground again. He felt like he might vomit, but his stomach was painfully empty.
And he remembered something. Words. From before, in her gentle, distant voice. The tired one she let through, sometimes, in those rare, special moments of openness with him.
"Everything here is bright, and hard, and violent... this is hell..."
This is hell.
And he felt a sudden compassion for her, her struggles, as he knelt in pain and horror in the dust of a ruined city.
---