For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 1.
Anyone who leaves a review gets a cookie shaped in the character of their choice, but they only get chocolate if they use proper punctuation.
*Athames are ritual knives, not usually or always used for sacrifices or violence, mainly just for symbolism.
Buffy abruptly threw her head back violently, her eyes shooting open. Spike, beside her, saw with mixed horror and awe the galaxies of light pooling in them. The universe was in her eyes, and she was going to drown, going to disappear into that endless, silken abyss. He clutched at her helplessly, feeling the nervous animal tension and age-old agony in the delicate bones of her back, the gentle curve of her neck. Invisible claws, or maybe an athame* gashed deep furrows across her stomach, back, chest, and down her upper arms. Rivulets of rich red bloods flowed freely in torrents down her body. Her body was wracked with spasms before her eyes faded to their normal hazel, a hazel which was like looking into a pool of water with a firm dirt bottom that was overshadowed with a canopy of fertile greenery. She collapsed, half gasping, half sobbing, into Spike's waiting arms. Across from her, Willow's eyelids fluttered, hints of amethyst power remaining for a moment. She coughed and weakly leaned back into Xander, crouched behind her. Both girls' eyes had fallen closed again.
The surrounding people flew towards the injured witch and Slayer. Angel hovered helplessly between them, his gaze flickering to the figure on the bed once in a while. "Willow? Buffy? What happened?" He whispered urgently. He didn't know why he was whispering. Maybe to spare their heads; were they aching? He couldn't tell; speak to me, he intoned under his breath. He wanted to do something, wanted to surround Buffy in his arms and tell her it was okay, nobody wanted anything form her, stay here with him, stay here!
Then Buffy drew in a great hiccupping breath of perfumed sunlit air, and opened her eyes. She'd barely taken anything in before she turned and dove into Spike's embrace, her entire petite body shaking with gasping sobs, huge gulps of air and tears and the scent of Spike. Her normally flawless face was ravaged with not exactly grief, but... Spike decided it was more like longing, and frustration, and loneliness. How she could be lonely surrounded by people and countless youthful girls for the past four months, he didn't know, but it was there. He tried to edge himself into Buffy's mindset, and realized there was good reason, very good reason, but he couldn't grasp it, he hadn't been there. But Faith had, and she was crouched beside him, stroking Buffy's hair, tenderly brushing her tears away and whispering not comforting nonsense like he was, but grounding words of understanding. She looked up at him, her long dark lashes framing her serious eyes, eyes which sometimes seemed so distant, and sometimes filled her face. Dawn was at her shoulder, her long dark hair swinging like a pendulum as she bent over her sister. "Give her a minute." Faith whispered hoarsely to him.
The Wolfram and Hart gang were all hovering with concern between the injured women, not exactly reluctant to get close, but unsure of their welcome. Willow coughed, propping herself up on a shaky arm, and tried to speak. All that came out was an itchy sound like a box with screws sticking out of it being dragged along concrete or cement. She cleared her throat, and tried again. Dawn headed around the other side of the bed, thinking somewhat bitterly, that with all the hunky ex-lovers and fellow Slayers around, an unreal younger sister wouldn't be much wanted, and Willow could do with someone trying to shut her up before she hurt her throat seriously- Xander was trying to help her sit up, brushing her hair out of her face, ineptly but with obvious love for his best friend. He muttered, "Now it would come in real useful if you had one of your handy-dandy healing potions, or Slayer healing, Will."
Speaking of Slayers, Dawn wondered where Ayri was as she wadded up the sleeve of her sweater and firmly held it over Willow's mouth to abort her attempts at speech. The poor girl was standing by the door, silent and withdrawn. In fact, the only person she really seemed comfortable with was Buffy, the sweet girl who had rescued her, and given her all her possessions, and taught her English- granted, with great help from the translator that they hired. Dawn did, however notice the curious glances which the black dude, what's his name, Gurn or something, kept throwing the African girl from the corner of his eye. Maybe he felt some sort of skin kinship with her... But no, that was stupid, and sort of prejudiced, bonding over skin colour. But so many people did, over superficial things. So many people made friends with other people because they also wore glasses and were nervous about the bright light in their eyes, or because they both had frizzy hair and met in the shampoo aisle in the pharmacy or supermarket. It didn't mean they would be friends, but it was a conversation starter, something they had in common, as much as if they both like Lord of the Rings, or both played badminton. Maybe she could properly introduce them later... But Ayri didn't seem curious about him, or anyone else, she was just watching her blonde heroine with dark worried eyes, like the colour the sky was when the last rays of the sun met the oncoming night, a kind of bronze-brown colour.
All of this had gone through Dawn's mind in the quickest of seconds in the way moral thoughts do when needed in relation to the present, and she was drawn back to the present by Xander gently removing her hand from Willow's mouth. "Dawnie, she needs to breathe," explained the dark-hair boy- not a boy, Dawn told herself a man. How easy it would be to drift back to the good ol' days, of Snoopy dances, and weekly demons, and warm cups of special Mom cocoa.
It was then that Cordelia sat up with her old megawatt smile, and greeted them brightly with, "Well, FINALLY! Jeez, you guys really do fall to bits without me, don't you? All this crap with Jasmine, and doubts over Wolfram and Hart, which I am gunna sort the hell out, and how long did it take you to call in someone competent like Willow? BTW, thanks for eventually realizing Wes. Do you know how incredibly, mind-shatteringly dull it was up there? It was like watching reruns of Passions all day." She paused for breath.
Spike's head came up so quickly he got backlash. "HEY! I'll have you know that Passions is a bloody good show! Take that back!" he demanded indignantly.
She snorted from under Angel's hug, which she returned enthusiastically enough, but with obvious desire to get back to her verbal sparring with Spike. "A show about a doll? How lame is that?" She smirked. "And look at the big bad. The worst bit is, you liked this before you're miraculous conversion to good," she glared darkly at him to convey her distrust of this, "because of Buffy." She looked around. "Speak of the saint, where is she?"
Her eyes opened slightly wider at the sight of Buffy drenched in blood, and opened hugely at the sight of her sobbing in Spike's arms as he constantly whispered comforts to her. In all the time she'd known Buffy, in all the time she'd fought beside her, and apart from her, she had never, ever seen her cry; not about Angelus, not about Jenny Calendar, not even when Angel left her. She instantly pulled her gently from the white-blond vampire's arms and hugged her tightly to her. Buffy pushed her face into Cordelia's shoulder, and with a couple of deep breaths, managed to stop crying. She stayed with her head resting on the brunette's shoulder for several minutes before heaving another sigh and smoothing out her hair and clothes. She turned around, her face as neutral as if nothing had happened. Cordelia kept her hand over the other girl's; she knew she was embarrassed, especially since this was her first impression on the ex-AIs, but she had needed to get that out. She wondered if the girl had had a proper cry since she came back at all, if she'd ever just let rip and bawled. She guessed Buffy'd probably just leaked a few tears when she couldn't prevent them escaping.
The rest of the room felt abashed, especially Spike. Buffy hadn't wanted fussing over, she wanted tangible, solid, human- humane, Spike amended- humane comfort. Real, corporeal comfort. Not whispered, sweet, words. He felt like such a fool, but with a kind of strange defiance as well. He'd tried. To hide his confusion and embarrassment, he looked to Willow, who was also getting to her feet, escorted by Xander. Buffy, he noticed with pleasure ((damn it! Could he not go a minute without thinking of her)) had immediately held out her free arm for her little sister when she had regained her composure, and tightly curled her arm around her.
"Hey," a voice interrupted sheepishly with a small cough, "Uh, I hate to break up the powwow, but there are a couple of rather grimy things you guys need to know." The room turned as one towards the newcomer- whose sudden appearance from thing air (literally), Giles noted with dry amusement, had failed to shock any one of them- startle, yes, but not jump in a "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" kind of way they would have during the first few years in Sunnydale High.
Skip waved in an embarrassed kind of way, especially amusing considering the horns and giant axe.
Anyone who leaves a review gets a cookie shaped in the character of their choice, but they only get chocolate if they use proper punctuation.
*Athames are ritual knives, not usually or always used for sacrifices or violence, mainly just for symbolism.
Buffy abruptly threw her head back violently, her eyes shooting open. Spike, beside her, saw with mixed horror and awe the galaxies of light pooling in them. The universe was in her eyes, and she was going to drown, going to disappear into that endless, silken abyss. He clutched at her helplessly, feeling the nervous animal tension and age-old agony in the delicate bones of her back, the gentle curve of her neck. Invisible claws, or maybe an athame* gashed deep furrows across her stomach, back, chest, and down her upper arms. Rivulets of rich red bloods flowed freely in torrents down her body. Her body was wracked with spasms before her eyes faded to their normal hazel, a hazel which was like looking into a pool of water with a firm dirt bottom that was overshadowed with a canopy of fertile greenery. She collapsed, half gasping, half sobbing, into Spike's waiting arms. Across from her, Willow's eyelids fluttered, hints of amethyst power remaining for a moment. She coughed and weakly leaned back into Xander, crouched behind her. Both girls' eyes had fallen closed again.
The surrounding people flew towards the injured witch and Slayer. Angel hovered helplessly between them, his gaze flickering to the figure on the bed once in a while. "Willow? Buffy? What happened?" He whispered urgently. He didn't know why he was whispering. Maybe to spare their heads; were they aching? He couldn't tell; speak to me, he intoned under his breath. He wanted to do something, wanted to surround Buffy in his arms and tell her it was okay, nobody wanted anything form her, stay here with him, stay here!
Then Buffy drew in a great hiccupping breath of perfumed sunlit air, and opened her eyes. She'd barely taken anything in before she turned and dove into Spike's embrace, her entire petite body shaking with gasping sobs, huge gulps of air and tears and the scent of Spike. Her normally flawless face was ravaged with not exactly grief, but... Spike decided it was more like longing, and frustration, and loneliness. How she could be lonely surrounded by people and countless youthful girls for the past four months, he didn't know, but it was there. He tried to edge himself into Buffy's mindset, and realized there was good reason, very good reason, but he couldn't grasp it, he hadn't been there. But Faith had, and she was crouched beside him, stroking Buffy's hair, tenderly brushing her tears away and whispering not comforting nonsense like he was, but grounding words of understanding. She looked up at him, her long dark lashes framing her serious eyes, eyes which sometimes seemed so distant, and sometimes filled her face. Dawn was at her shoulder, her long dark hair swinging like a pendulum as she bent over her sister. "Give her a minute." Faith whispered hoarsely to him.
The Wolfram and Hart gang were all hovering with concern between the injured women, not exactly reluctant to get close, but unsure of their welcome. Willow coughed, propping herself up on a shaky arm, and tried to speak. All that came out was an itchy sound like a box with screws sticking out of it being dragged along concrete or cement. She cleared her throat, and tried again. Dawn headed around the other side of the bed, thinking somewhat bitterly, that with all the hunky ex-lovers and fellow Slayers around, an unreal younger sister wouldn't be much wanted, and Willow could do with someone trying to shut her up before she hurt her throat seriously- Xander was trying to help her sit up, brushing her hair out of her face, ineptly but with obvious love for his best friend. He muttered, "Now it would come in real useful if you had one of your handy-dandy healing potions, or Slayer healing, Will."
Speaking of Slayers, Dawn wondered where Ayri was as she wadded up the sleeve of her sweater and firmly held it over Willow's mouth to abort her attempts at speech. The poor girl was standing by the door, silent and withdrawn. In fact, the only person she really seemed comfortable with was Buffy, the sweet girl who had rescued her, and given her all her possessions, and taught her English- granted, with great help from the translator that they hired. Dawn did, however notice the curious glances which the black dude, what's his name, Gurn or something, kept throwing the African girl from the corner of his eye. Maybe he felt some sort of skin kinship with her... But no, that was stupid, and sort of prejudiced, bonding over skin colour. But so many people did, over superficial things. So many people made friends with other people because they also wore glasses and were nervous about the bright light in their eyes, or because they both had frizzy hair and met in the shampoo aisle in the pharmacy or supermarket. It didn't mean they would be friends, but it was a conversation starter, something they had in common, as much as if they both like Lord of the Rings, or both played badminton. Maybe she could properly introduce them later... But Ayri didn't seem curious about him, or anyone else, she was just watching her blonde heroine with dark worried eyes, like the colour the sky was when the last rays of the sun met the oncoming night, a kind of bronze-brown colour.
All of this had gone through Dawn's mind in the quickest of seconds in the way moral thoughts do when needed in relation to the present, and she was drawn back to the present by Xander gently removing her hand from Willow's mouth. "Dawnie, she needs to breathe," explained the dark-hair boy- not a boy, Dawn told herself a man. How easy it would be to drift back to the good ol' days, of Snoopy dances, and weekly demons, and warm cups of special Mom cocoa.
It was then that Cordelia sat up with her old megawatt smile, and greeted them brightly with, "Well, FINALLY! Jeez, you guys really do fall to bits without me, don't you? All this crap with Jasmine, and doubts over Wolfram and Hart, which I am gunna sort the hell out, and how long did it take you to call in someone competent like Willow? BTW, thanks for eventually realizing Wes. Do you know how incredibly, mind-shatteringly dull it was up there? It was like watching reruns of Passions all day." She paused for breath.
Spike's head came up so quickly he got backlash. "HEY! I'll have you know that Passions is a bloody good show! Take that back!" he demanded indignantly.
She snorted from under Angel's hug, which she returned enthusiastically enough, but with obvious desire to get back to her verbal sparring with Spike. "A show about a doll? How lame is that?" She smirked. "And look at the big bad. The worst bit is, you liked this before you're miraculous conversion to good," she glared darkly at him to convey her distrust of this, "because of Buffy." She looked around. "Speak of the saint, where is she?"
Her eyes opened slightly wider at the sight of Buffy drenched in blood, and opened hugely at the sight of her sobbing in Spike's arms as he constantly whispered comforts to her. In all the time she'd known Buffy, in all the time she'd fought beside her, and apart from her, she had never, ever seen her cry; not about Angelus, not about Jenny Calendar, not even when Angel left her. She instantly pulled her gently from the white-blond vampire's arms and hugged her tightly to her. Buffy pushed her face into Cordelia's shoulder, and with a couple of deep breaths, managed to stop crying. She stayed with her head resting on the brunette's shoulder for several minutes before heaving another sigh and smoothing out her hair and clothes. She turned around, her face as neutral as if nothing had happened. Cordelia kept her hand over the other girl's; she knew she was embarrassed, especially since this was her first impression on the ex-AIs, but she had needed to get that out. She wondered if the girl had had a proper cry since she came back at all, if she'd ever just let rip and bawled. She guessed Buffy'd probably just leaked a few tears when she couldn't prevent them escaping.
The rest of the room felt abashed, especially Spike. Buffy hadn't wanted fussing over, she wanted tangible, solid, human- humane, Spike amended- humane comfort. Real, corporeal comfort. Not whispered, sweet, words. He felt like such a fool, but with a kind of strange defiance as well. He'd tried. To hide his confusion and embarrassment, he looked to Willow, who was also getting to her feet, escorted by Xander. Buffy, he noticed with pleasure ((damn it! Could he not go a minute without thinking of her)) had immediately held out her free arm for her little sister when she had regained her composure, and tightly curled her arm around her.
"Hey," a voice interrupted sheepishly with a small cough, "Uh, I hate to break up the powwow, but there are a couple of rather grimy things you guys need to know." The room turned as one towards the newcomer- whose sudden appearance from thing air (literally), Giles noted with dry amusement, had failed to shock any one of them- startle, yes, but not jump in a "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" kind of way they would have during the first few years in Sunnydale High.
Skip waved in an embarrassed kind of way, especially amusing considering the horns and giant axe.