Disclaimers: I'm poor, ergo, I am not Joss Whedon. So I don't own this.
Feedback: If you feel like it.
Author's Note: Alrighty, here's the next chappy in my 'masterpiece'. Oddly enough, I wrote this one before I wrote chapter eight. After reading over this chapter, I figured that it garnered a prologue, so to speak, and then I wrote 'Wake Me Up'. I'm already working on chapter ten, and trying to figure out how everything is going to go plot-wise. Thanks to everyone that is reading this story - one day I aspire to be a good enough author to get published.
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The alarm buzzed shrilly in her ear, signaling the start of the workweek. A muffled groan escaped her lips as she sat up and grabbed the clock, fumbling blindly for the sleep button. The bell continued to sound, however, and Buffy slammed the alarm against the floor, hard enough to break it despite the carpet that cushioned the blow. The grating noise having ceased, she slumped back into bed and yanked the comforter over her, attempting to block out the light that was pouring into the room at an alarming rate. Buffy clenched her eyes shut.
"Sweetie, it's time to get up!" Joyce's cheerful voice called to her from downstairs.
Buffy groaned, clutching the blankets tighter over her body. No more patrolling two nights in a row, she decided. Every part of her ached, even parts she didn't know existed. 'Damn Spike. Damn him for making me sore, damn him for tearing my new shirt, and damn him for making me want to come back for more.'
A tentative knock came from the other side of the door. When Buffy didn't respond, Joyce opened the door and peeked her head through.
"Glad to see that you're awake," she teased, "And so full of energy, too."
"Go 'way," Buffy mumbled from beneath the covers, "I'm tired and achy and I really don't want to have to do anything. Like, you know, walking, breathing, making vowel sounds."
Joyce pulled back the blankets covering her head, and Buffy moaned in protest, flinging an arm over her eyes to shield herself from the sun. "Mom," she whined, curling up into a fetal position, "what part of 'no living today' didn't you understand?"
"Well, I'm sorry," she replied, taking a seat on the bed, "But you have to get up now."
"Nothing you could say would make me get up out of bed right now."
"There are pancakes waiting for you downstairs, but I guess I'll just have to get rid of them," Joyce said, heading towards the door.
Buffy sat up, a smile on her face. "Did you say breakfast?"
"What part of 'pancakes' didn't you understand?" Joyce said, smiling as Buffy leapt out of bed and hurried to her closet to get dressed.
Buffy threw on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt before bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She walked into the kitchen calmly, then sat down at the dining room table. Buffy looked up, and her eyes went wide at what she saw.
On a plate in front of her sat a massive mound of pancakes, flawlessly golden and perfectly round. Her mother was at the kitchen counter, pouring some fresh-squeezed orange juice from a crystal decanter into two wine glasses. Buffy looked up at Joyce, confused.
"Mom?"
Her mother turned around, holding out the two glasses filled to the brim with juice. She set them down on the dining room table, then took out a lighter and lit two candles in the middle of it. Buffy looked around at the kitchen, and saw that the dishes that had once congested the sink had disappeared. More than that, her mother was wearing an evening gown. At breakfast. Very strange, indeed.
"Hello, Buffy. I hope you've worked up an appetite," her voice was filled with sunny cheer, "It was so sweet of you to make breakfast this morning."
Buffy shook her head. "But I thought you said -"
"This is all here because of you," she swept her arm in front of her like Vanna White, indicating the food on the table, "Now aren't you proud?"
"What's going on? I'm really -"
"Come on now, Buffy, chat time later. Right now you've got to get to school. Don't want to miss cheerleading tryouts."
Buffy looked down at her outfit. She was dressed in her old Sunnydale Razorbacks cheerleading uniform, complete with pom-poms and pigtails. 'Flashback to high school - Sunnydale style,' she thought, 'Am I the only one that sees the uber weird in this?'
"Look, mom, not that I'm not grateful or anything, but this is kinda getting a little Twilight Zone-y for me, so I'm just gonna head out, okay?"
"Oh, no, young lady, you're going to sit here and have your breakfast," Joyce reprimanded, "There were too many pancakes for your friends to eat, so you're just going to have to finish them off."
Buffy prodded the breakfast food with one fork, before cutting a piece off. Raising it up to her lips, she recoiled when she saw a maggot squirming inside the pancake - alive despite having been baked with the batter. She dropped the fork out of shock, a sharp clang resounding throughout the room as it fell to the floor. Glancing out at the food in front of her, she gasped at what she saw.
Everything was rotten. The pancakes were lumpy, malformed gray masses of dough, teeming with insect life. The juice was moldy and fetid - a clumpy, dusky-orange color. Crimson puddles of wax were cooling on the lacey tablecloth from long burnt-out candles.
Pushing back her chair, Buffy leapt to her feet and took a few steps backwards, away from the banquet of horrors. Her mom dropped the dishrag she had been holding onto the floor, and turned around.
Joyce's normally pretty face was a hideous mass of decaying flesh. One eye was weeping yellow fluid and the other was missing altogether; a flap of skin and muscle had been torn away to reveal ivory bone; her smile had been increased with the use of the knife - she had been cut ear to ear. She grinned, and the muscle of her cheeks was revealed along with rows of gleaming teeth. Joyce tilted her head as if in confusion.
"I knew this would happen. You make a mess of things then you never want to take care of it. Your friends tried, they really did," her voice was cold and bitter, "We tried to fix it for you, but there was too much. And now you have to eat your fill. You made it, Buffy. Now take care of it."
"Mom," she whispered, backing away from the advancing corpse, "Mom, what's wrong with you?"
"You made it, you stupid bitch," Joyce shrieked, her mouth twisted into a grimace, "You made it, and now you have to pay the price! I did."
With a sob, Buffy pushed past her mother and ran towards the front door, clawing at the doorknob with desperate urgency. She felt the lock release and with a great sense of relief, she ran out into the night.
And straight into Willow and Xander.
It wasn't so much the impact as it was surprise that sent Buffy reeling back onto the sodden earth of the cemetery. Xander kneeled down and offered her a hand, which Buffy graciously accepted, using the counterbalance to pull herself to her feet.
"Where are we?" she asked, dusting herself off.
"You don't remember?" Willow asked, her voice filled with extreme sadness, "We have unfinished business."
"Well I know that college loans can be a pain in the ass to repay, but . . ." she trailed off, taking in her friends' strange, all-black attire.
"What's with the new look," she wondered aloud, "Are you going to become mimes or something? 'Cause then I'll really have to rethink our whole friendship," she joked, nervously.
Xander looked over at her with somber eyes. "I don't know why you can't remember," he muttered, "You did do this, after all."
"Do what," she said, exasperated, "force you to dress like theater majors? Because, really, someone must've wiped my memory or something."
"We've almost arrived," Willow whispered, "When we get there you'll have to be quiet. No one can talk."
"We're going to Giles' place?" she joked. Willow and Xander stared back at her blankly. "Jeez, is this thing on?"
"We're here," Xander said, pulling her over to a crowd of people. Everyone was dressed in similar black, and many of them were crying or looked as if they were about to. Two open coffins sat next to an elderly minister, who was reading from the bible in hushed tones. Buffy's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"A funeral," she whispered, "We're going to a funeral? What is this - Depress the Hell Out of Buffy Day?"
"We're not finished," Xander replied, "We have to keep going."
Buffy stumbled after her friends as they made their way over to the coffins. "Gonna pay your respects?" she asked, swiping a hand through her hair, nervously. She glanced down into the plush interior of the two coffins, but noticed that they were empty. She looked up at Xander and Willow in surprise.
"No one's in there."
"No," Willow agreed, "Not yet."
Buffy watched in horror as her two friends got up into the coffins and laid down, crossing their hands over themselves in a traditional burial manner.
"You can't mean -"
"You did this," Xander muttered, "You did this, you know."
"We can't rest, Buffy," Willow said, "We'll never rest." She looked up at her with watery eyes. "Because of you."
"No," Buffy whispered, staring at her friends lying prone in their burial garb, "No, I didn't do this. I didn't do anything!"
Willow opened her mouth as if to say something, but the coffin lid slammed shut. A split second later, the coffin holding Xander closed as well.
Dull noises from inside the coffin met her ears, and Buffy's blood ran cold. Her friends were trying to get out, scratching at the heavy silk lining the boxes. Buffy scurried to one of the coffins, pulling at the lid, trying to force it open to no avail. She banged on the oak prison, but the wood seemed impossible to break, even with her Slayer strength. The minister stood by, watching her with a cool disinterest. Buffy turned to him, her eyes teary and pleading.
"You have to let them out," she cried, her voice quavering, "They're not dead! You have to help me open the coffins!"
"These people came to see a funeral," the minister turned from her, "And I'm not going to disappoint. They came to see a show, and that's what they're getting."
"But they're still alive," she shouted angrily, grabbing him by the shoulders and jerking him back around to face her, "You can't bury someone when they're not dead!"
"Haven't you learned anything by now, Buff?" The minister turned his face up to look at her. Buffy recoiled. "Because it doesn't look like it," he taunted her, grinning, "Old Rupert must be going soft on your training."
She stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth open and gaping. The elderly man's face had been replaced by one that was all but too familiar - the high, lumpy forehead of a demon, menacing amber eyes, dark hair that had been shellacked in place.
Angelus.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, absentmindedly twirling a rosary around his fingers, "I thought you liked surprises." Angelus looked down at the cross that was resting on his palm, and smiled. "Funny how this thing doesn't hurt," he mused.
"How are you here," she asked in a shaky voice, "Why are you doing this?"
"This," Angelus turned out towards the grieving funeral-goers, "This is just the beginning. Personally, I don't care if you like surprises or not. Cause either way, you're in for a big one, and nothing you can do will stop it. Stop -me-."
"You're wrong," she seethed, her hands clenching into fists, "I sent you to hell before, I can do it again."
"You can believe whatever you like," he said, his voice turning serious, "This isn't Acathla, little girl. It's something bigger."
Buffy turned around at the sound of the mourning funeral crowd shifting. She watched in horror as they got up from their seats, each one of the fifty some-odd people shifting into game face.
"And it's gonna be one hell of a ride."
Buffy watched helplessly as the swarm of vampires advanced on her with lightning speed. Unarmed and alone, she did the only thing that came naturally to her.
She fought back.
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"Ow. Ow! OW!"
Buffy kicked and thrashed, landing a bone-crushing punch to his jaw. Spike reeled backwards from the blow, making sure to stay a good distance from the sleepwalking girl.
"Buffy, love," he coaxed, edging away from her, "You have to wake up. You have to come out of it, pet. Now."
She came towards him once again, and he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Spike went over to the small refrigerator that sat in the corner and opened it. Scanning the contents, he was dismayed to find only blood and alcohol occupied its shelves. He glanced over his shoulder at the petite blonde who was presently kickboxing dead air, and picked up a large bottle of Jack Daniels.
Unscrewing the lid, he took one last cursory glance at the liquor before pouring a portion of it into a small, plastic cup. Taking aim, Spike held the cup out in front of him and towards Buffy, drawing back his arm and splashing it into her face. 'Hope this does the trick . . .'
Moments after the liquor hit her she spluttered, her eyes flying open. Spike grinned in relief, tossing the cup onto the crypt floor and setting the Jack Daniels on a table for later. "Nice to see you back in the world of the living," he teased, "Well, so to speak."
Buffy looked up at him, bewildered. "Spike?" she asked in a meek voice, "What are you doing here?"
"You're in my crypt," he explained, "We came back here after patrolling. You fell asleep after - "
Buffy's eyes grew wide, and she clutched onto Spike's arm in desperation. "Willow and Xander - where are they?"
Spike looked over at her terrified expression, and cocked an eyebrow in confusion.
"Sleeping, probably."
Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing became steadier as relief swept through her.
"Mom?"
"Probably at home, waiting for you or something. Buffy, what's -"
Buffy relaxed her grip, her eyes narrowing.
"Angelus," she murmured.
"Uh . . . not so sure about that one, pet," Spike replied, "Isn't he kinda banished in Angel and all that?"
"No. He's not. He's back." She looked over at Spike with a haunted, determined look.
"And if we don't stop him, everyone's going to die."
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To Be Continued . . .
A/N: Off topic here, but still regarding my stories: I am still working on my season 6 Buffy script, and I hope to get it done by the end of this month or beginning of next. Sadly to say, at least for all us Spuffy lovers, I am actually following the story line (takes place right after Life Serial), so there is no S/B romance. But there's lots of laughs (hopefully), action (hopefully) and good dialogue (hopefully). I'm estimating the final script to be around 50 - 60 pages, which is actual script length, so it should be interesting to read. It's the first time I've ever written anything script-style, so if some of the formatting is done incorrectly, I apologize. Anyhoo, keep an eye out for that late May - early June. Thanks!
Feedback: If you feel like it.
Author's Note: Alrighty, here's the next chappy in my 'masterpiece'. Oddly enough, I wrote this one before I wrote chapter eight. After reading over this chapter, I figured that it garnered a prologue, so to speak, and then I wrote 'Wake Me Up'. I'm already working on chapter ten, and trying to figure out how everything is going to go plot-wise. Thanks to everyone that is reading this story - one day I aspire to be a good enough author to get published.
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The alarm buzzed shrilly in her ear, signaling the start of the workweek. A muffled groan escaped her lips as she sat up and grabbed the clock, fumbling blindly for the sleep button. The bell continued to sound, however, and Buffy slammed the alarm against the floor, hard enough to break it despite the carpet that cushioned the blow. The grating noise having ceased, she slumped back into bed and yanked the comforter over her, attempting to block out the light that was pouring into the room at an alarming rate. Buffy clenched her eyes shut.
"Sweetie, it's time to get up!" Joyce's cheerful voice called to her from downstairs.
Buffy groaned, clutching the blankets tighter over her body. No more patrolling two nights in a row, she decided. Every part of her ached, even parts she didn't know existed. 'Damn Spike. Damn him for making me sore, damn him for tearing my new shirt, and damn him for making me want to come back for more.'
A tentative knock came from the other side of the door. When Buffy didn't respond, Joyce opened the door and peeked her head through.
"Glad to see that you're awake," she teased, "And so full of energy, too."
"Go 'way," Buffy mumbled from beneath the covers, "I'm tired and achy and I really don't want to have to do anything. Like, you know, walking, breathing, making vowel sounds."
Joyce pulled back the blankets covering her head, and Buffy moaned in protest, flinging an arm over her eyes to shield herself from the sun. "Mom," she whined, curling up into a fetal position, "what part of 'no living today' didn't you understand?"
"Well, I'm sorry," she replied, taking a seat on the bed, "But you have to get up now."
"Nothing you could say would make me get up out of bed right now."
"There are pancakes waiting for you downstairs, but I guess I'll just have to get rid of them," Joyce said, heading towards the door.
Buffy sat up, a smile on her face. "Did you say breakfast?"
"What part of 'pancakes' didn't you understand?" Joyce said, smiling as Buffy leapt out of bed and hurried to her closet to get dressed.
Buffy threw on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt before bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She walked into the kitchen calmly, then sat down at the dining room table. Buffy looked up, and her eyes went wide at what she saw.
On a plate in front of her sat a massive mound of pancakes, flawlessly golden and perfectly round. Her mother was at the kitchen counter, pouring some fresh-squeezed orange juice from a crystal decanter into two wine glasses. Buffy looked up at Joyce, confused.
"Mom?"
Her mother turned around, holding out the two glasses filled to the brim with juice. She set them down on the dining room table, then took out a lighter and lit two candles in the middle of it. Buffy looked around at the kitchen, and saw that the dishes that had once congested the sink had disappeared. More than that, her mother was wearing an evening gown. At breakfast. Very strange, indeed.
"Hello, Buffy. I hope you've worked up an appetite," her voice was filled with sunny cheer, "It was so sweet of you to make breakfast this morning."
Buffy shook her head. "But I thought you said -"
"This is all here because of you," she swept her arm in front of her like Vanna White, indicating the food on the table, "Now aren't you proud?"
"What's going on? I'm really -"
"Come on now, Buffy, chat time later. Right now you've got to get to school. Don't want to miss cheerleading tryouts."
Buffy looked down at her outfit. She was dressed in her old Sunnydale Razorbacks cheerleading uniform, complete with pom-poms and pigtails. 'Flashback to high school - Sunnydale style,' she thought, 'Am I the only one that sees the uber weird in this?'
"Look, mom, not that I'm not grateful or anything, but this is kinda getting a little Twilight Zone-y for me, so I'm just gonna head out, okay?"
"Oh, no, young lady, you're going to sit here and have your breakfast," Joyce reprimanded, "There were too many pancakes for your friends to eat, so you're just going to have to finish them off."
Buffy prodded the breakfast food with one fork, before cutting a piece off. Raising it up to her lips, she recoiled when she saw a maggot squirming inside the pancake - alive despite having been baked with the batter. She dropped the fork out of shock, a sharp clang resounding throughout the room as it fell to the floor. Glancing out at the food in front of her, she gasped at what she saw.
Everything was rotten. The pancakes were lumpy, malformed gray masses of dough, teeming with insect life. The juice was moldy and fetid - a clumpy, dusky-orange color. Crimson puddles of wax were cooling on the lacey tablecloth from long burnt-out candles.
Pushing back her chair, Buffy leapt to her feet and took a few steps backwards, away from the banquet of horrors. Her mom dropped the dishrag she had been holding onto the floor, and turned around.
Joyce's normally pretty face was a hideous mass of decaying flesh. One eye was weeping yellow fluid and the other was missing altogether; a flap of skin and muscle had been torn away to reveal ivory bone; her smile had been increased with the use of the knife - she had been cut ear to ear. She grinned, and the muscle of her cheeks was revealed along with rows of gleaming teeth. Joyce tilted her head as if in confusion.
"I knew this would happen. You make a mess of things then you never want to take care of it. Your friends tried, they really did," her voice was cold and bitter, "We tried to fix it for you, but there was too much. And now you have to eat your fill. You made it, Buffy. Now take care of it."
"Mom," she whispered, backing away from the advancing corpse, "Mom, what's wrong with you?"
"You made it, you stupid bitch," Joyce shrieked, her mouth twisted into a grimace, "You made it, and now you have to pay the price! I did."
With a sob, Buffy pushed past her mother and ran towards the front door, clawing at the doorknob with desperate urgency. She felt the lock release and with a great sense of relief, she ran out into the night.
And straight into Willow and Xander.
It wasn't so much the impact as it was surprise that sent Buffy reeling back onto the sodden earth of the cemetery. Xander kneeled down and offered her a hand, which Buffy graciously accepted, using the counterbalance to pull herself to her feet.
"Where are we?" she asked, dusting herself off.
"You don't remember?" Willow asked, her voice filled with extreme sadness, "We have unfinished business."
"Well I know that college loans can be a pain in the ass to repay, but . . ." she trailed off, taking in her friends' strange, all-black attire.
"What's with the new look," she wondered aloud, "Are you going to become mimes or something? 'Cause then I'll really have to rethink our whole friendship," she joked, nervously.
Xander looked over at her with somber eyes. "I don't know why you can't remember," he muttered, "You did do this, after all."
"Do what," she said, exasperated, "force you to dress like theater majors? Because, really, someone must've wiped my memory or something."
"We've almost arrived," Willow whispered, "When we get there you'll have to be quiet. No one can talk."
"We're going to Giles' place?" she joked. Willow and Xander stared back at her blankly. "Jeez, is this thing on?"
"We're here," Xander said, pulling her over to a crowd of people. Everyone was dressed in similar black, and many of them were crying or looked as if they were about to. Two open coffins sat next to an elderly minister, who was reading from the bible in hushed tones. Buffy's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"A funeral," she whispered, "We're going to a funeral? What is this - Depress the Hell Out of Buffy Day?"
"We're not finished," Xander replied, "We have to keep going."
Buffy stumbled after her friends as they made their way over to the coffins. "Gonna pay your respects?" she asked, swiping a hand through her hair, nervously. She glanced down into the plush interior of the two coffins, but noticed that they were empty. She looked up at Xander and Willow in surprise.
"No one's in there."
"No," Willow agreed, "Not yet."
Buffy watched in horror as her two friends got up into the coffins and laid down, crossing their hands over themselves in a traditional burial manner.
"You can't mean -"
"You did this," Xander muttered, "You did this, you know."
"We can't rest, Buffy," Willow said, "We'll never rest." She looked up at her with watery eyes. "Because of you."
"No," Buffy whispered, staring at her friends lying prone in their burial garb, "No, I didn't do this. I didn't do anything!"
Willow opened her mouth as if to say something, but the coffin lid slammed shut. A split second later, the coffin holding Xander closed as well.
Dull noises from inside the coffin met her ears, and Buffy's blood ran cold. Her friends were trying to get out, scratching at the heavy silk lining the boxes. Buffy scurried to one of the coffins, pulling at the lid, trying to force it open to no avail. She banged on the oak prison, but the wood seemed impossible to break, even with her Slayer strength. The minister stood by, watching her with a cool disinterest. Buffy turned to him, her eyes teary and pleading.
"You have to let them out," she cried, her voice quavering, "They're not dead! You have to help me open the coffins!"
"These people came to see a funeral," the minister turned from her, "And I'm not going to disappoint. They came to see a show, and that's what they're getting."
"But they're still alive," she shouted angrily, grabbing him by the shoulders and jerking him back around to face her, "You can't bury someone when they're not dead!"
"Haven't you learned anything by now, Buff?" The minister turned his face up to look at her. Buffy recoiled. "Because it doesn't look like it," he taunted her, grinning, "Old Rupert must be going soft on your training."
She stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth open and gaping. The elderly man's face had been replaced by one that was all but too familiar - the high, lumpy forehead of a demon, menacing amber eyes, dark hair that had been shellacked in place.
Angelus.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, absentmindedly twirling a rosary around his fingers, "I thought you liked surprises." Angelus looked down at the cross that was resting on his palm, and smiled. "Funny how this thing doesn't hurt," he mused.
"How are you here," she asked in a shaky voice, "Why are you doing this?"
"This," Angelus turned out towards the grieving funeral-goers, "This is just the beginning. Personally, I don't care if you like surprises or not. Cause either way, you're in for a big one, and nothing you can do will stop it. Stop -me-."
"You're wrong," she seethed, her hands clenching into fists, "I sent you to hell before, I can do it again."
"You can believe whatever you like," he said, his voice turning serious, "This isn't Acathla, little girl. It's something bigger."
Buffy turned around at the sound of the mourning funeral crowd shifting. She watched in horror as they got up from their seats, each one of the fifty some-odd people shifting into game face.
"And it's gonna be one hell of a ride."
Buffy watched helplessly as the swarm of vampires advanced on her with lightning speed. Unarmed and alone, she did the only thing that came naturally to her.
She fought back.
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"Ow. Ow! OW!"
Buffy kicked and thrashed, landing a bone-crushing punch to his jaw. Spike reeled backwards from the blow, making sure to stay a good distance from the sleepwalking girl.
"Buffy, love," he coaxed, edging away from her, "You have to wake up. You have to come out of it, pet. Now."
She came towards him once again, and he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Spike went over to the small refrigerator that sat in the corner and opened it. Scanning the contents, he was dismayed to find only blood and alcohol occupied its shelves. He glanced over his shoulder at the petite blonde who was presently kickboxing dead air, and picked up a large bottle of Jack Daniels.
Unscrewing the lid, he took one last cursory glance at the liquor before pouring a portion of it into a small, plastic cup. Taking aim, Spike held the cup out in front of him and towards Buffy, drawing back his arm and splashing it into her face. 'Hope this does the trick . . .'
Moments after the liquor hit her she spluttered, her eyes flying open. Spike grinned in relief, tossing the cup onto the crypt floor and setting the Jack Daniels on a table for later. "Nice to see you back in the world of the living," he teased, "Well, so to speak."
Buffy looked up at him, bewildered. "Spike?" she asked in a meek voice, "What are you doing here?"
"You're in my crypt," he explained, "We came back here after patrolling. You fell asleep after - "
Buffy's eyes grew wide, and she clutched onto Spike's arm in desperation. "Willow and Xander - where are they?"
Spike looked over at her terrified expression, and cocked an eyebrow in confusion.
"Sleeping, probably."
Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing became steadier as relief swept through her.
"Mom?"
"Probably at home, waiting for you or something. Buffy, what's -"
Buffy relaxed her grip, her eyes narrowing.
"Angelus," she murmured.
"Uh . . . not so sure about that one, pet," Spike replied, "Isn't he kinda banished in Angel and all that?"
"No. He's not. He's back." She looked over at Spike with a haunted, determined look.
"And if we don't stop him, everyone's going to die."
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
To Be Continued . . .
A/N: Off topic here, but still regarding my stories: I am still working on my season 6 Buffy script, and I hope to get it done by the end of this month or beginning of next. Sadly to say, at least for all us Spuffy lovers, I am actually following the story line (takes place right after Life Serial), so there is no S/B romance. But there's lots of laughs (hopefully), action (hopefully) and good dialogue (hopefully). I'm estimating the final script to be around 50 - 60 pages, which is actual script length, so it should be interesting to read. It's the first time I've ever written anything script-style, so if some of the formatting is done incorrectly, I apologize. Anyhoo, keep an eye out for that late May - early June. Thanks!
