The air is heavy and humid with rising steam, opened cans littering the island in the center of the kitchen, saucepans sputtering beneath their lids, and Tara is a blur among them, barely registering the sound of Dawn's backpack thudding to the ground.
"Visit with Willow sucked, huh?" Dawn says sympathetically.
"Huh?" Wisps of escaped hair from Tara's ponytail are plastered to her cheeks from the steam.
"Y'know, you always go on cooking binges when you're upset." Dawn reaches for Tara's face. "Hold still, you're wearing some parsley."
Tara closes her eyes as Dawn removes it from her eyebrow. "T-thank you."
"So I figure either we're having fourteen people over, or your visit with Willow did some major suckage." Dawn surveys the preparations. "Is this an almost-ready thing, or a will-be-another-hour, go-ahead-and-eat-some-pretzels thing?"
"It's a go-ahead-and-eat-some-pretzels thing," Tara smiles weakly, lifting the lid from a pot to stir it.
Dawn grabs the pretzel bag off the top of the fridge. "So, for the third time... how was Willow?"
"You were right the first time," Tara sighs. "It sucked."
"Sucked in that she was all black-eyed and scary, sucked in that she was mean to you, or sucked in that she went all thermonuclear over Spike again?"
"A-all three."
"Damn," Dawn sighs. "Wanna pretzel?"
"That's okay, Dawnie. But thanks."
"So... what's the big secret you guys are all hiding from me?"
Tara drops her spoon.
"Oh please, Tara. Giles calls, Spike drops everything and runs off to jolly old England, and nothing's going on? Spill."
"I-I was kind of hoping to do this during dinner..."
"Trying to lull me into complacency with carbohydrates? Not gonna work. Start talking."
"Giles has..." Tara breaks off, sighing. "Giles found someone in England who looks exactly like Buffy."
Dawn freezes, blinks... then forces casual humor into her voice. "What, like Parent Trap?"
"Actually, a-a lot like Parent Trap. She has, um, a British accent... and she doesn't know any of us. And... she's a Slayer. Giles tried to talk to her, and she knocked him out."
"And that's why Spike went over there?"
"Basically. Being a vampire, y'know, she'd come to him. So he was sort of the bait and the trap. It worked, too. They've caught her."
"So, does Giles know what's going on? Shape-shifting demon, glamour spell or something?"
"Actually, Dawnie..." Tara pokes the sauce unhappily. "Giles thinks... Giles thinks she is Buffy."
Dawn pales. "That's impossible."
"Well, you know that spell Willow did..."
"How could I forget," Dawn snarls.
"All I know is what Spike told me, Dawnie."
"He called today?"
"He did."
----------------------------------
The circle is complete, and Giles tucks the spout back into the box of kosher salt, surveying his work. Behind him, the rumple of cellophane; Spike is unwrapping another packet of cigarettes.
Giles wonders if Spike realizes that he's on his fifth pack today.
Moreover, Giles is really thinking about asking him for one.
He hears the metallic rasp of the zippo, and isn't really all that shocked when Spike passes him the cigarette he's lit.
He stares at it a moment, inhales. "Before we begin this... you're certain...?"
Spike meets Giles' gaze without raising his head, lips pursed. "She's human. And she's Buffy. Or her body is. I... I'd know."
"You're sure?"
"She's Buffy, all right? She bathes with plain soap now, Dettol by the smell of it, uses some kind of shampoo that smells like bloody road tar and deodorant that's all baby powdery. She's got three healin' wounds with mercurochrome on 'em, an' we should probably feed her soon, 'cause all she's had to eat today is a cuppa Typhoo and pot noodles."
"Good lord. I don't know whether to be impressed or utterly revolted."
"Yeah," Spike drawls, taking a drag. "I have that effect on people."
"I suppose we should proceed, then..."
Spike hauls the book into his lap, cigarette bouncing between his lips as he reads the words... and the crystal in Giles' hands begins to glow a soft, radiant pink that is reflected in the pupils of Buffy's eyes.
"What is your name?" Giles asks.
"Mairya."
"What is your quest?" Spike interjects.
Giles whirls. "Not funny, Spike."
Buffy is not fazed. "I kill vampires. I am the Vampire Slayer."
"Aw, c'mon, Giles, she just told us she's named after the bloody Angel of Death, I thought a little levity was needed. Tell us, Pet, what's your favorite color?"
"Spike, if the next words out of your mouth are 'what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow', I'll rip that little ring right off and feed you to her."
"My favorite color is red. I do not know the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow."
Giles shoots Spike a glare, turning back to Buffy. "And what was your name... before it was Mairya?"
"It has always been Mairya. When a Slayer is called, she forgets the life she knew before. This is the way of the Slayer. No liabilities."
Giles and Spike exchange shocked looks.
"And... who told you that?" Giles prods.
"The Council. They are my Watchers."
"Easy, Ripper," Spike says quietly, seeing the fury blossom on Giles' face. "I'm the impulsive, violent one, remember?"
"I think you'll find that, situation dependent, we have quite a bit more in common in that area than you'd suspect," Giles replies.
"Look," Spike sighs, "Mairya, right?"
"Correct."
"When were you called to be the Slayer?"
"The summer of 2001. I am not sure of the exact date."
Spike tips his head. "Why's that, Pet?"
"There were no means of marking time where I was."
"And that would be...?"
"Being trained. To be the Slayer. I was weak, and knowledgeless. They made me what I am."
"That right," Spike mutters, yellow flashing in his eyes... and it's Giles' turn to lay a restraining hand on his arm.
"Do you know who Buffy Summers is?" Giles asks.
"She was the Slayer before me. Disobedient. Willful. It got her killed. I won't be making the same mistakes."
Spike and Giles growl in stereo; for a moment, there is actually a family resemblance.
"And Faith?"
"The rogue slayer, a corruption of the line, spawned from Summers' disobedience."
"Why aren't you allowed to speak to me, Mairya?"
"You were instrumental in the corruption of the last Slayer. You encouraged her to acquire liabilities. You would seek to lead me down the same path."
Spike pushes himself off the desk, headed for the other room.
"Mairya... what's the first thing you remember?"
"I was lying on a table. It was cold. I was naked. The birth of all Slayers."
"That is not the way most Slayers come to be."
Buffy cocks her head. "They told me you would lie."
Spike returns with the framed photograph, thrusting it in front of Buffy's face. "Recognize any of these folks, then?"
She studies it dispassionately. "I recognize you both."
"Nobody else?" Spike taps Dawn's face. "What about her, pet? Bit o' family resemblance there, wouldn't you say?"
"I do not recall my family. It is not the way of the Slayer to do so."
"Her name is Dawn," Spike's rage shakes him from the inside, his voice quiet and deadly. "Her name is Dawn, and she cries herself to sleep at night because of you, missin' you, needin' you..."
"Spike..." Giles warns.
"She has nightmares. They never stop. Nightmares of watchin' you fall."
Giles takes him by the shoulder, leads him out of the room. "Spike. This isn't helping."
"Oh? And what do you suggest we do instead?"
"Get her home, amongst familiar surroundings, things that will jar her memory. Perhaps Tara can help in a more advanced magical sense. But it is certain the Council will be looking for her. We need to leave as soon as possible. I'll call and book tickets."
"What, we're gonna take her on the plane all tied up? Bit kinky to pass customs."
"No. We need her subdued, weakened, but conscious. Able to pass for ill, or possibly airsick."
"Gonna dose her up, then?"
"I lack the supplies. However... I believe that is a state you know how to induce."
Spike's face loses what little color it had. "Bloody hell, Rupes, you're not seriously suggestin'..."
"We're out of time and options. You spent a century as William the Bloody, Spike. Put that information to good use."
"You know that..."
"I'm aware. I'll see to the flights in the other room. Drain her."
"Rupes..." Spike's voice is strangled.
Giles turns in the doorway, a slight smile on his face. "I trust you, Spike."
----------------------------------
Tara unbuttons her shirt slowly, her fingers fumbling, utterly drained.
The shirt is wet with Dawn's tears, tears that Tara knows aren't over; she can hear Dawn in the next room, crying herself to sleep.
Tara has offered what generic comfort she can; the rest will have to come from Spike. Tara can soothe, but only Spike will truly understand; Tara liked Buffy well enough, considered her a friend, but... her feelings in no way compared.
And if Dawn knew what Tara was thinking now, she would hate her.
Of that, Tara was certain.
Clothing in the hamper, Tara steps into the tub, letting the heat of the water surround her... one of many goodbyes.
This isn't her bathtub. This isn't her home. She is not Dawn's real mother, she is not who Spike loves. For years, she has built a life; a strange life, an unplanned life, sometimes an incredibly painful life... but a life regardless, and not without joy.
One transatlantic phone call later, and Tara is a placeholder, a seat-warmer, the usurper of the spot Buffy rightly occupies.
Sitting in the spot that Buffy is coming home to claim, that everyone will be overjoyed to see her in.
And Tara will pack, and quietly slip away.
Because that is what she does.
Tonight, just tonight, she will let herself mourn. Tomorrow, she will be strong, will plaster on a wide smile, greet Buffy with open arms, will look for apartments, give Spike back his ring.
No more nights of hot chocolate and bad movies; no more giggling to herself at the sound of Spike singing in the shower, no more of Dawn's hideous food "inventions" that she and Spike suffer through with wide smiles, feigned fullness and shared plates of spicy buffalo wings after Dawn has gone to bed.
No more lazy Saturday mornings sprawled across the couch watching cartoons, her head on Spike's thigh, his fingers sliding through her hair while Dawn giggles helplessly at the screen; no more of Dawn's gazillion-calorie cookie dough milkshakes, no more early morning sunrises watched with Spike, observing his face as the colors painted it, a look of utmost wonder in his eyes.
No more of the sneak two-women attacks that had occurred at regular intervals once they'd learned that Spike was ticklish. No more rubbing bleach into Spike's hair as he bent, towel around his neck, over the kitchen sink; no more propping her feet on his lap, him painting her toenails with concentration so intense that his tongue stuck out between his teeth, like Miss Kitty Fantastico.
No more drying the dishes while Spike and Dawn bent together over Dawn's homework on the kitchen island, Spike teaching her some aspect of history in the gruesome, gory, perverse way that only he could.
She hadn't been building a life... she'd been playing house. Playing house with Buffy's toys, and playtime was over. It was time to go home.
Home to what, exactly? her mind whimpered.
Her real family, who hated her, who thought she was a freak, a demon? Her lover, a hateful shell of her former self, gutted and twisted by black magic?
Maybe Spike...
Oh, don't kid yourself, Tara.
Sure, Buffy hadn't wanted him before. She'd want him now, it was inevitable. Tara had sensed the chemistry from the first moment she'd seen them interact, and all Buffy's objections to him had burnt away in her absence.
He was a full-fledged Scooby now, earning the respect of even Xander. No one could doubt his white hatdom, not after everything he'd done, and he had a soul; Angel, without that pesky little happiness clause... and with the Gem, without that pesky sunlight and cross allergy. With the exception of baby-making, which Buffy had never seemed that keen on anyway, and his beverage of choice, Spike could give Buffy an utterly normal life.
And it was all because of Tara. It wouldn't hurt to wallow in that for a moment, would it?
She'd restored his soul, removed his chip, crafted the replacement Gem of Amarra that twinkled in his wedding ring. She'd been unable to do magic for almost a year afterwards, she'd been so drained, and what Spike still didn't know was, the matrix of the Gem was blood.
Human blood, freely given.
Her blood.
She'd owed him, though. The Gem had been her idea, something she'd researched, outside of the original deal Giles had struck with Spike; chip out for soul in.
She still remembers the night she gave it to him, remembers the walk down the basement stairs, the horrible bloody pulp he'd still been from what Willow had done to him, the way his eyes had been too swollen shut to look at her, the way he'd been too weak to even sit up.
Remembers sliding it onto his finger, how the lumpy purple mess of his face had melted back into its normal form, the gaping wounds knitting, his eyes meeting hers in astonishment, and they'd been so blue, so very blue and full of wonder, and his smile had been...
She didn't have words for that.
And Spike had saved them all a million times, stepping into Buffy's place even before Tara had come up with ways to protect him, driving back the demons, stopping the chaos. They'd all be dead if it weren't for him; there wasn't any doubting that.
So... it had been worth it. Very worth it. But just for tonight, she was allowed to sulk about it.
It wasn't as if she loved Spike or anything. No-no-no, and also no, with a side order of no. He'd grown on her, yeah... snuck up on her, turned into the best friend she'd ever had, the first person she craved when she was upset, a comfort to her.
If he were a woman... a woman that gorgeous, that funny, that exotic, intoxicating combination of depraved and sensitive and wild and tender and passionate and silly and violent and goofy and protective and crazed and wicked and smirky and sarcastic and constantly cranked up to eleven with a lust for life that was pretty weird on a dead guy... well then maybe she'd have had a little crush.
On him, not so much.
But Buffy would. She'd be insane, blind, an idiot, not to. What straight woman could possibly resist him? Buffy would claim her rightful place by Spike's side, and that was fine, that was right, because Tara belongs to Willow and always will.
She belongs to Willow.
She belongs to Willow.
Tara brushes aside the tears that stream down her cheeks, and wishes with all her being that Spike were home.
----------------------------------
"I trust you, Spike."
Spike stands, sucker-punched, gasping for air he doesn't really need, the weight of the Watcher's words filling him, warming him...
Utterly terrifying him.
His soul is screaming, telling him he doesn't deserve this, wants him to run into the other room, tell Giles the million and one reasons he shouldn't be allowed to do this.
His demon is bellowing in lust.
This is Buffy. Giles trusts him to do this to Buffy. Spike may be Giles' child on paper, but Buffy is his daughter in every way but blood.
Oh, God.
Blood.
The mere thought makes Spike close his eyes, cling desperately to self-control.
He walks back into the study. She glares at him defiantly, and he is struck at the reversal of their positions... tied to a chair in Giles' rented flat, all helpless attitude.
This can be pleasant, of course, much better than pleasant, if the recipient is willing... and he's dreamed of doing it to her, listening to her gasp and writhe in his arms as the pleasure of it surges through her, giving herself to him in the most fundamental way imaginable.
This is rather more like his old fantasies, the ones before the chip, before the love for her that was more debilitating than the chip ever was. In those fantasies, she screams, thrashes, curses him... then clings to him against her will, admitting his power over her, admitting the way she made him feel...
Eh, so Dru had a point, maybe he'd always had a bit of a thing for her.
But he doesn't want to hurt her, scare her, any more. Watching her die took something from him, took something that a century of pains couldn't. If he had Dru's thrall, he'd use it... but he doesn't. All he can do to make this better for her is to do it quickly.
Spike takes a deep breath, steadying himself.
Beneath the Dettol, the mercurochrome, that rancid shampoo... he can smell her, the essence of Buffy, a scent that calls to both man and demon... and beneath even that, the rich, coppery smell of sweet, fresh blood. Slayer blood.
He hasn't fed on a human in years.
He hasn't fed on a Slayer in a century.
This will be a test of willpower like none he's ever experienced.
She's wearing some kind of vinyl Catwoman getup that completely covers every pulse point. Probably a smart thing. But it means he's gonna have to... bloody hell.
Do it fast, Spike. Get the bad part over with.
He studies her one last time, gets his marks, makes his plans.
And his eyes turn amber.
She screams as he rushes her, the scream rising to a high-pitched shriek as his fangs slice neatly through the neck of the bodysuit, one efficient slash, his hands peeling it back from her shoulder.
And there it is, his blood boiling at the sight of it.
The scar from three other vampires, the mark they've left on her, the possession that bloody ponce Angelus left on her, with his teasing and his torture and his filthy hands on Dru, his filthy hands on her...
She will be marked by Angelus no more.
His demon howls in possession, and Spike sinks his fangs into the scar, feeling the tougher tissue pop beneath his teeth... and then it flows, the first trickle crossing his tongue and oh God it's so good, it's what he's needed, what he's been missing, and even his soul can't scream in the face of this much pure pleasure, this much pure life and the Slayerness of her and oh, everything, every color at once, every sensation at once...
And Buffy is moaning, her head now bending back of her own will, her body pressing towards his, struggling against her bonds for a completely different reason.
His fingers fumble down the chair arm, tugging at the ropes, releasing her wrist, and her hand rises to curl into his hair, pressing him harder against her, gasping.
"Spike," she breathes, and there is everything in the way she says his name that he's ever wanted to hear, and he knows it isn't real, no more real than the Bot, but he doesn't care, his throat working as he swallows sweet, rich, warm gulps of her, every part of his body seeming to fill, to glow, to pulse in time to her heart beat, like he had one of his own.
He frees her other hand and she winds it around his neck, sliding down the chair to be closer to him, and he lifts her up, still drinking, as she wraps her legs around him, grinding herself into him, and oh God it's too much, the blood and the lust and the her, where he's always wanted her, where he's never had her, and he lays her down on the desk, covering her with him as she arches beneath him, her hands fluttering over him, pulling him down, she's... oh, God, she's trying to unbutton his shirt...
Let her.
No.
Take her.
NO!
He grabs her hands from him, slamming them into the desk above her head, holding them down, and this just makes her moan louder, press herself against him more ferociously.
So he didn't lie to Xander.
Oh God don't think about that don't think about that don't think about the way she's rubbing herself against you, the way her breath is fire on your ear, don't let this turn into something else, you have a job to do, a purpose, and you have to stop soon, have to give up the heat and the life and the meaning to your existence, the purpose of your kind, her essence flowing in you, the throb of her life in your veins...
She stops her frantic arching, her moans growing quieter, and he hears her heart slow, feels her muscles relax. He claws into the bloodlust to retrieve his rational mind, quieting the demon roaring for release. He is counting her pulse; focusing on the cold weight of the numbers; she is very close now.
He has sworn to care for her, sworn to protect her, sworn for himself and for Dawn. He calls Dawn's face to mind, holds her there, his little Bit... he has to stop...
hehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostop...
Spike pushes at his wedding ring with his thumb, sending it off his finger, skittering across the desk. He raises his hand, grabbing the cross pendant that dangles between them, presses it to his flesh.
And it burns, pain slicing through his mind, demon receding, the pain bringing focus, bringing clarity.
And when Buffy's pulse is slow enough, he withdraws his fangs, running his tongue slowly over the wound to seal it... and pushes himself off of her. He is gasping, hyperventilating, his eyes rolled back, shaking uncontrollably, his chest smoking.
"Giles!" he bellows, tearing himself away, nearly flinging himself towards the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it before falling to the tile, curling in the fetal position.
----------------------------------
He took it off.
Tara bolts upright in the bathtub, sending bubbles sloshing everywhere.
She doesn't know how she knows; she can only guess there was more of her in the Gem than she'd suspected, and her heart hurts, literally hurts, like it had just been slashed.
This has never happened before. Which means he's never taken it off before. Has someone taken it from him, staked him, hurt him? Would she know if that happened?
Of course, he is with Buffy. And it is his wedding ring.
There are other reasons to take your wedding ring off.
And Tara waits, frozen in place, the water chilling around her.
----------------------------------
"Spike, I've gotten us on a flight in an hour. Are you all right?"
Spike groans.
"Are you hurt?"
"Rupes?" Spike calls weakly. "Ever had blue balls?"
"Ah... well... yes, certainly..."
"Multiply that by a million, mate."
"Well, I... I can empathize with that predicament, Spike, but we should get to the airport."
"I shouldn't be near her," Spike moans. "Should take a different flight..."
"That's not an option, Spike. You had the will to stop, you have the will for this."
"Bloody hell, Watcher. Don't know what you're bloody askin'."
"Spike?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm quite... I'm quite proud of you, you know."
Face pressed to the clammy cold of the bathroom floor, smoke still rising from his chest, Spike smiles.
----------------------------------
She is drying herself when he puts it back on.
She closes her eyes, says a little prayer of thanks to the Goddess. He is safe, then; alive.
"Twenty minutes, Spike?" she says aloud, wrapping the towel around her head. "Not very impressive, honey."
That was teasing in her voice, she tells herself. Amused sarcasm.
Not jealousy. She has no reason for jealousy.
And she's not wondering which finger he's replaced it on, either.
----------------------------------
Spike feels the eyes on him, turning his head away from the small oval window.
Clouds. Never gets tired of lookin' at 'em.
He raises an eyebrow. "Wotcher starin' at then, Rupes?"
"It's most remarkable," Giles says, peering at Spike's face. "You look younger. I hadn't even really noticed you'd been aging. I never really realized you could."
"Blood is the life," Spike sighs, draining a tiny liquor bottle. "We can survive on dead blood, animal blood, but it's not what we need, not really. Bit like humans in that respect. Can survive on empty calories, but they need vitamins and whatnot. How bad did I look before, eh? Not like I can check m'self out in a mirror, innit?"
"Spike... will you be all right?"
"You're asking me... can I go back on methadone after a big slug o' heroin?"
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose."
Spike casts a sidelong look at Buffy, who reclines, dazed, in her seat. "Might be a fine idea not to shake the needle in my face for a few days."
"Well, Buffy will be staying with me at first. I was a bit more worried about Tara."
"Bloody hell, Rupes, I'm not gonna bite her!"
"That wasn't exactly what I meant."
"What didya mean, then?"
Giles sighs, removing his glasses to polish them. "I merely meant..."
"Mom?" Buffy sighs in her sleep, her head jerking against the seat rest. "Mom, I'm really cold... I want Mr. Gordo..."
And the two men freeze, staring at each other, hope dawning.