***
Midnight thrummed in his veins. He's lost it for a while during his Sunnydale years; the days had been too dark, or maybe the nights had been brighter... Either way, it had all blended together into a dusky time when midnight lost its meaning. The dead of night had nothing on the thrill, the tremor that coursed through him when Buffy was near.
So it was a little confusing, when the energy caused him to shock awake, to have his eyes fly open and see the sleeping forms of Buffy and Dawn coiled tight next to him.
He lay still for a moment, just watching them breathe. Dawn, ever the awkward sleeper, had managed to maneuver herself into a diagonal position, her toes nudging Spike's shins and her head resting just beneath Buffy's chin. He smiled slowly. Buffy's hand had curved slightly, palm cupped protectively above Dawn's head, but now holding Spike's fingers tight-laced between her own. He held his breath, savoring the sight.
But there were things to do, and the charge in his body wouldn't let him forget. Quietly, he slipped off the bed, trying not to move his hand from Buffy's; it was a contact too sweet to waste. Dawn made a small noise as her feet were momentarily exposed to the chill air; Spike covered them again, and she settled.
"Going somewhere?"
Oh, her eyes were open now; deeply green, over-bright from sleep, but steady. And, as usual, demanding.
"Out for a bit," he murmured. His instinct was to keep her hand, to press her fingers lightly between his own – but he drew back, self-conscious, and she didn't seem to notice the absence of his touch.
"To take the night air, or something more..." She raised an eyebrow sarcastically. "Athletic?" But only her voice was slow – the rest of her was moving swiftly, sliding out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Dawn.
"I can take care of this, Buffy – it's not any of your concern." He tried to make his voice hard, final. Then he remembered how well Buffy took to that tone.
"Oh, that's going to work," she snorted. Her eyes glittered briefly. "I know what you have to do, but last time she got hurt. And there's no way that she's more your concern than mine, Spike."
A voice drifted out from the bedclothes. "'She' is awake – just so you guys don't think I'm being sneaky." Buffy made a face and gestured towards the bed, though he didn't quite know what her pointed look was meant to imply.
"Right, Dawn, thanks." Oh, well, this was a right cock-up. He scowled, scrubbing his hands through his hair, trying to think of something to say. It had been such a simple task in his head, and now...
"Now, are we going to take care of it, or are we going to chat? 'Cause I kinda want Dawn to go back to sleep, and if we start chatting, she's just going to join in, and then no one can shut her up..."
"HEY!"
Too late for subterfuge, it seemed. Spike dropped his hands and shrugged. "And you suggest?"
She flashed him a brief smile. "We get Dawn onto the futon in the training room," she mused, ignoring the muffled protest from the bed, "I gear up, and then we head into town. Sound good to you?"
The night was young, the moon was bright, and she was coming with him. "Good as any."
"Then let's go."
Books littered the floor of his flat, lying open in a complicated system that would make sense to no one but him. It was a usual state for his flat. Some things had changed, though. Out of sheer necessity, he'd purchased a hands-free set for his mobile at the local Carphone Warehouse, and though it was currently chafing his ear he had to admit that it had its uses. Now, for instance, as he made his hundredth phone call of the night and was still able to fix a cup of tea.
He cast an eye over the book stacks blearily, slightly disdainfully, before looking back to the view from his flat kitchen. Neat stone houses jutted up against the brightening sky, their neat little walled gardens set out behind; he found himself focusing on a lacy top on a washline as it snapped in the early morning breeze. A light rain was misting, promising to turn into a downpour any moment now, and then the shirt would be sodden again.
He missed tumble dryers.
"And you're certain they've enough experience?" Giles repeated, rubbing at his eyes.
"Rupert, they're trained. I know you've managed to get your hands on the roster somehow, which is something to be discussed later," the man replied, a hint of warning in his tone, "But as you're already aware of the team, you might as well use them. Young, yes, but trained. Besides, they're the only ones available on such short notice without alerting the Council."
"Theodore, you do realize how important this is, don't you? You do realize that her sister is the only family Buffy has in her life right now..." Giles could feel the tension of the past six hours rasping in his voice. He sighed.
"And you realize, Rupert, that this is your best chance?"
He did, honestly, somewhere. He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, but he knew. Every book he looked through, every phone call he made – all roads led to this certain point, and he didn't have the time to fuss.
"I realize you're worried," Theodore continued, "But I must remind you – I'm not entirely certain that the Council aren't already aware of developments."
"Theo - "
"No, you MUST listen, as you don't seem to understand! Though she may be a Slayer, she hasn't been 'their' Slayer for a bloody long time! And thus, she has behaved erratically, usually on behalf of the Key she calls her sister..."
Giles stopped him cold. "Who IS her sister, Deane. That is not in question."
But Theo wasn't silenced. "For you? No. And obviously not for her either. But Rupert, she was willing to trade the world for her sister's life. It's not a thing the Council would be precisely comfortable with on a regular basis, and you must take their attitude into consideration." The man's voice turned urgent, thick.
"Rupert, they haven't sent a wetworks team to Sunnydale precisely because they can't afford to alienate the Slayer. But if the fates align just so and the Key happens to disappear because of it? I can't see Travers getting too worked up about it. For the sake of perspective, Rupert, keep that in mind."
Giles drained his mug grimly. "All right. Send them in."
"Smelly."
Dawn scuffed her heel against the floor of the training room petulantly, then immediately regretted the action as her ankle crackled. She cast a jaundiced eye around her; technically, she realized that Buffy wanted her down here because it was the safest room in the house, and she couldn't really object to the reasoning. Reinforced windows and door, enough weapons to keep anyone safe for a good long time, the entire place warded, bewitched, whatever...
That really didn't take away from the fact that the two main uses for this room were sweating and doing laundry.
"Smells like feet, Buffy," she muttered irritably. "Not PineSol, not air freshener, it smells. Like. FEET." The sound of her voice echoed through the space, which oddly set her more at ease.
At least Buffy and Spike had had the good sense to bring all of the blankets down with them when she sent them for the portable phone and the gummi bears. She swathed herself in her comforter, burying her face in the fabric, and then breaking into a huge grin as she recognized the vampire's distinctive smell. Spike had stayed, and then Buffy had come in, and everything might just end up not-horribly. She edged further onto the futon, smiling foolishly.
She wasn't particularly surprised when the phone rang in her hand. She even had an answer ready: "Sal's Pizza, we locked the door and promise not to open it until you get home so stop worrying so much!"
Of course, the response she got was a little more unexpected.
"Giles!"
The streetlamp outside the window winked on, suddenly casting silhouettes against the blinds, softened and hazy pictures. Head propped against his hand, Xander watched the familiar shapes dance in the breeze, the boughs crossing and uncrossing fitfully. His mind idly associated them with images, as though looking for meaning in clouds on a sunny day: crossbow; the dogswood tree by Meadowlark Cemetery; the crease in Giles' forehead; a tentacle-vine. He smirked a little where he lay. "Just can't leave the job behind," he muttered ruefully.
His voice sounded loud in the room, and he winced a little. Next to him on the bed, Willow shifted closer to him, her eyes still shut tight in sleep. He pulled the quilt up further, carefully covering her tightly-clenched fists, trying to ease the blanket between the sharp point of her chin and her shoulders. His throat tightened; even in sleep, her entire being recoiled from the world. Then again, most of her world had rejected her; this was no simple paranoia.
He'd woken abruptly, though not unexpectedly; this far out in the country, the silence could be deafening, and he often jerked awake with his heart pounding. Something about utter silence unnerved him, and every night he spent in Willow's apartment promised this sort of interrupted sleep. Sometimes he welcomed consciousness, when memory forced dreams from him.
The dreams in this room were never good. Especially not for her.
She whimpered, a slight, small sound that barely escaped her throat, her face taking on a plaintive cast. God, if it could be this bad in her sleep.... Xander scooted further under the covers, and she responded immediately by curving against him, her forehead burrowed against his shoulder as though she could crawl inside, and he wished again that he could be her shelter forever.
He welcomed the small heat of her and hesitantly arranged his arms: one reaching up towards the headboard, the other hovering above his chest. She responded instantly, fitting herself to him like a jigsaw, her eyes still clamped tightly closed. He drew his arm down, a firm pressure that crossed her back and ended at her waist, a gentle play of palm and fingers brought lightly against the natural curve of her hip. And then, finally, she relaxed, melted; her breaths evened and the tension left her limbs, a ragdoll against his cautious pose.
He knew the pattern of her seizures now. He traced a finger along the fine lines that had so recently, so prematurely formed at the corners of her eyes, his gaze lingered on her chapped and bitten lips. She'd be waking up soon, and then she'd shut all of it away again; Willow didn't believe she deserved sympathy or pity, and wouldn't respond to it if offered. He pulled her closer, felt the beat of her heart against her chest, let the feeling linger.
Here, in this otherworldly twilight, she craved his touch and love and acceptance. And here, he was finally free to give it to her.
TBC
