Chapter 4
When Buffy came out of the room Faith was in, she saw Giles pulling out his extra pair of glasses. Anya knelt on the floor, picking up what looked like pieces of glass. She looked up at the Slayer and began complaining.
"Your boyfriend's lost his marbles. He just hit Giles!"
Buffy just looked at them.
"I'm talking about Angel!"
Buffy put her hands on her hips, the scythe sticking out at a weird angle. She frowned, then asked, "Did he say anything?"
She waved a hand, eerily reminiscent of Cordelia Chase. "Something about torture, Spike, and coming back to rip out his spleen."
Buffy dropped her hands. "Good. You deserved it." She headed downstairs, only to find Xander and Andrew hovering over Robin, repairing a cut that had opened under his jaw.
"I thought you were leaving?" she asked Xander.
"I'm on my way out the door now," he replied, pressing the tape into place on Robin's skin.
She looked at the situation. "Let me guess: Angel?"
"Are you sure he's not evil?" Xander asked sarcastically.
"Yes. He would've killed Robin if that was the case, and at the very least broken Giles' ribcage. And Spike would've tried to stop him. Besides," she scolded, "whatever he said, he was right. The soul that is inside Angel didn't kill Jenny Calendar. The soul that's inside Spike isn't the monster that killed your mother or tried to rape me." She gave Xander a pointed look, and he finally glanced away, nodding.
"You were right," he said quietly. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. It's just … the lay of the land, you know?"
"I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to be so hard on you guys, it's just … this fight. This enemy."
Robin was quietly seething, but Buffy left, headed for the basement, before it became an issue.
Down in the basement, both vampires were fast asleep. Buffy smiled, and knelt beside Angel. She pressed a kiss to his brow, then scooted over to Spike's cot. She adjusted his blanket and softly kissed his cheek.
"I saw that," Angel whispered behind her.
She turned, smiling at him, to see his eyes half-closed.
"I saw what you did," she said quietly.
He turned his head away and faked a snore. She chuckled silently and reached for his hand. His eyes opened fully as he squeezed her hand back. "You're not staying down here, are you?"
"Faith's got Willow's room, which means Willow's got my room," she explained.
"Is it dark outside, or light?"
"It's dark, for now."
He started to sit up. "We could go to the mansion."
She put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him down. "No. It's too dangerous out there."
He pointed at Spike. "It's a bit dangerous in here." She started to berate him when he continued, "He composes poetry in his sleep. Awful stuff."
They shared a grin, and she said, "Give me your blanket."
"Wha-? Aw, man," he whined softly as he lifted partially off the floor and gave her his blanket.
"Thank you," she said sweetly. Then she patted her thigh, inviting him to use her lap as a pillow. He shot up and turned himself around.
He settled in, putting his left arm under her left leg and his right arm over it. She lifted and flapped out the blanket, pulling it over both of them, then she rested her head on the edge of the cot. She took Spike's right hand in both of hers, and closed her eyes, falling asleep in the silence of the basement.
Spike woke briefly during the night, only to find Buffy's head nestled in his arms. He wondered where the ponce had gotten off to, but then dismissed it. He didn't care where Angel was. Buffy was here, with him.
He kept vigil, watching her, stroking her hair, infinitely gentle. He leaned down and pressed his lips against her forehead.
May you find some comfort …
Morning broke, the fearful phantoms solid and real. But the tenderness was there, too, as Buffy opened her eyes and gazed at Spike's sleeping face. Sometime during the morning he must have woken. He'd contorted his body on the cot so he could hold both of her hands in his and turned his head to look at her face.
He looked peaceful in sleep, a boy again. She gazed at him, a woman born, a lover, a mother, a sister. Someone powerfully connected to William, who might, soon, have to watch his true love die.
She pulled back the blanket and looked down at Angel. He was like a stone in her lap, he'd fallen into such a deep sleep. With him she could be a girl again. He brought out the passionate Buffy and the carefree Buffy, a feat no one since had been able to accomplish. But also with him, she could be The Slayer.
A Champion.
He understood the sacrifices necessary. He'd made a lot of them. Unlike Spike, he would accept her death, grieve for his lost love, and continue on with his mission of redemption.
She was so proud of him. In four years, he'd managed to find a piece of the world all to himself. He made the journey through life steadily, though not technically. He'd made friends, he'd lost them. He'd felt the sting of betrayal and the sweetness of new love. He'd had heartache and despair and nearly been lost in the darkness he was forced to live in.
And yet, here he was. Fighting the good fight, simple because it needed to be fought and there were too few willing to stand on that front line.
She loved him so much.
Quietly, gently, she slipped out from under him, replacing his bag under his head. She stretched, then got a pen and some paper and wrote three notes: one to them both, and one to each individually.
Who is't? Oh, it is my lady, it is my love…
Spike drowsed, smiling, and reached for Buffy.
But she wasn't there.
He heard a noise, and opened his eyes to see Angel zipping the fly on a pair of black jeans. He pulled on a light blue shirt, and turned to see Spike wake up as he did the buttons on his dress shirt.
"She left in the afternoon. There's a note."
Soberly, Spike took it and began to read:
William,
I appreciate everything you've ever done for me. You're a good man, one of the best I've known. You were there for me when no one else was, and I'll never forget it.
You get me, Spike, and not many do.
Please understand. I have to do this next step alone. It isn't you; as you can see I left Angel behind, too.
As for the choice … I'm afraid I can't explain it in words. I don't have the soul of a poet, like you. I think, at the end, my heart always belonged to Angel, and always will. Even when he broke it, I loved him.
But you are a good friend in your own way. I can never thank you enough, or begin to repay you.
Buffy
Spike folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. There was another open note on the table, and he glanced at it, pulling off his shirt.
To my two Vampires:
Remember.
Live on.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Sunnydale, California, May 11, 2003
He snorted as he pulled on a fresh shirt. He'd remember, all right. He looked up, his eyes following Angel as the elder vampire grabbed a few stakes and rushed out. Spike finished changing and hurried to catch up.
Buffy's words swam through Angel's head as he walked briskly down Revello Drive. Five words she'd left him, in addition to the three short words that graced the note to both of them. But that was okay.
He'd been in this business long enough to learn exactly what needed to be said.
"I love you," she'd written, and "I'm sorry." Five words that encapsulated everything. If she had said them verbally, he might have been able to leave it at that.
He just needed one last thing, in order to be sure she could handle this fight without him.
And so, he headed in the direction Willow had told him to find the location of those pagan burial grounds. He was due one last talk with Buffy.
A cemetery.
A Slayer.
A scythe.
Panama.
Buffy walked through the clean, well-kept graveyard, past the many headstones she knew so well. Then, she got to the place where those who had died in less than good graces had been stashed – down among the weeds and thistles. The gravestones here were tilted, sparse – forgotten.
She looked around, and finally spotted a tomb, Egyptian-looking in design.
She tried to find a way to open the door, then finally gave up and pushed it down, sending up a plume of dust that swirled and eddied like a ghost before it dissipated.
She entered cautiously, amazed at the thick layers of dust coating the walls, thinking vaguely of mummy movies and wondering what weird context Andrew would put this in.
"I'd forgotten," a voice echoed in the dark.
Buffy whirled around, her scythe at the ready.
An old woman sat on a throne of … dust, her clothes so old and faded they appeared to be made of dust as well. Her face was sepia, her eyes: ancient.
"I'd forgotten how young you would be," she said. "It comes from the waiting. The mind plays tricks."
Buffy walked toward her, and the woman gestured at the scythe. "I see you found our weapon."
"Who are you?" Buffy asked cautiously, half-expecting her to turn into the First.
"One of many." The woman closed her eyes, opened them, looked far off through time. So much, so very much, but distant memory. "Well, time was. Now I'm alone in the world." She ticked her gaze toward Buffy. "I'd gamble you know what that's like."
She stood, approached Buffy – who stiffened and went on the defensive.
"Don't worry," the woman said. "You hit me, I'd just about crack in half. But then…" She scrutinized the scythe, keeping a respectful distance. "You have been doing some killing lately. And you're going to do a lot more. No wonder you're so anxious."
"So, who are you?" Buffy demanded impatiently. "Some kind of ghost?"
"Nope." The woman smiled faintly. "I'm as real as you are. Just … well, put it this way: I look good for my age." She said again, "I've been waiting.
She held out her hand, and waited. Buffy felt compelled to hand her the scythe. The woman hefted it appreciatively, and examined it.
"You pulled it out of the rock. I was one of those who put it there, and don't think that was easy." She smiled more fully. "What is it?" Buffy pushed. "Weapon," the woman replied, as if it should be obvious. "A scythe. We forged it in secrecy for one like you who…"
She stopped and smiled at Buffy, still holding the scythe. She looked like a Tarot card, wonderful and old and mystical.
"I'm sorry," she said. "What's your name?"
"Buffy."
The woman insisted, "No, really."
Buffy shrugged.
"Buffy." The woman tested her name out on her tongue. The she proceeded. "We kept it hidden from the Shadow Men, who-"
Buffy nodded sharply and lifted her chin. "Yeah. Met them. Didn't care for 'em."
The woman looked at Buffy with new respect, and handed the scythe back to her.
"Yes," the woman said. "Then you know. And they became the Watchers, and the Watchers watched the Slayers." She raised her brows and said proudly, "But we were watching them."
"Oh!" Buffy blurted, surprised. "So you're like … what are you?"
"Guardians," the woman supplied. "Women who want to help and protect you. This" she gestured to the scythe "was forged, centuries ago, by us. Halfway around the world."
Buffy glanced around. "Hence, the Luxor casino theme."
"Forged there, it was put to use right here," the woman continued. "Only once, to kill the last pure demon that walked upon the earth. The rest were already driven under.
"And then there were men here, and then there were monks. And the first men died and were sent away, and then there was a town."
She looked at Buffy. "And now there is you. And the scythe remained hidden."
Buffy took that in as best she could, although she was really only interested in the bottom line: "Does this mean I can win?"
The woman shrugged. "That's really up to you. "This" she reached out, running a finger along her flat side of the scythe "is a powerful weapon."
"Yes," Buffy said.
"But you already have weapons," the woman continued.
"Oh." Not what Buffy was expecting to hear.
"Use it wisely," the woman said, "and perhaps you can beat back the rising dark. One way or the other, it can only mean an end is truly near."
Then, just as she finished speaking, two hands reached in from the darkness behind her, and with blinding speed, snapped her neck.
She fell to the ground, dead.
Caleb stepped forward, over the body. He said pleasantly, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch that last part on account of her neck snapping and all. Did she say the end is 'near' … or 'here'?"
High desert, high moon, and Xander was fahrin' fahrin' auf der Autobahn when Dawnie made moanie noises.
Xander said, "Dawn, you awake?"
She squinted around, took in their black surroundings, looked at him. "What the hell happened?"
"Um … thought you might say that." He grimaced.
She grimaced back, angrily. "Actually, I meant to say, 'what the hell happened?'"
"It was chloroform." He felt just sick about it.
"Color forms? What?"
"Chloroform. Are you still loopy?"
"Sorry about that," she said, dry as toast. "Someone knocked me out with chloroform. Xander! Talk to me! Where are we going?"
"Away," he said simply. Then he handed her a sealed envelope.
She opened it.
Dearest Dawn,
Don't be angry with Xander. He did what I told him to do. This isn't the place for either of you right now. Please know that I love you and that everything I do is for you. I promised you once to show you this beautiful world, and I'm going to do everything I can to make that
ZZZZZZZZZot!
Xander went rigid behind the wheel and slumped.
Dawn put down her stun gun, which she had slipped from her weapons bag while reading Buffy's note, and put her foot on the brake.
The note, she tossed into the back seat.
Then she pulled over, got out, dragged Xander over to her side of the car, walked around, slid in, hung a U, and went home.
As Buffy processed that Caleb was in the tomb with her, and that he had just killed the old Guardian, he grabbed the scythe and tried to yank it away from her, as simple as he had broken the woman's neck.
Buffy recovered, shaking off her astonishment, and whacked him in the side of the head with the handle end, moved to the other side and whacked him again, and went for a third time, three-times-fast.
Reeling, he let got of the scythe, and Buffy leaped back.
He rushed her, punching a column so hard that it dusted like a vampire. "You're not slipping out of this fight, girl," he said exultantly. "Don't you see? You can't stop me. I can just keep coming back for more." He grinned. "Like being reborn."
She lunged at him with the scythe; he ducked. She pressed her advantage, swinging and thrusting. He dodged each parry with amused ease.
Then he smiled broadly and stood upright, presenting her with a target. She swung hard at his neck; without looking, he shot a hand up and caught the blade in mid-swing, stopping it cold.
With the other hand, he punched Buffy so hard she went flying across the tomb and smacked the far wall, sending up dust as she fell to the ground … dropping the scythe.
They both raced for it, and Caleb got to it first.
But he couldn't keep it – she kicked the scythe from his hand and caught it in the same motion. Then she spun, clipping him behind the knees with the weapon's shaft and lifting him off his feet. He went crashing to the dusty floor.
Now, she thought, as she spun the scythe, stake-end first, and thrust it straight to Caleb's throat.
He caught it an inch before his face, twisting the scythe hard, sideways, sending Buffy flipping over. It was her turn for a smackdown.
Caleb seized the moment and jumped to his feet. Buffy staggered to hers, and he punched her in the face. She staggered back, and Caleb began to pummel her like a punching bag, each blow nearly enough to take her head clean off.
It hurt; each blow took something out of her. Although she tried to defend herself with the scythe, she wasn't making it.
"I gave you ample warning," he reminded her. "I told you not to interfere. And you chose not to heed. But you know what?"
His last word was punctuated by a blow so hard that it hurled Buffy right through a stone column. Dust plumed everywhere, and she sank into it, began to sink into herself…
"I was kinda hoping it would go this way," he finished, smirking. Then, with a grand gesture, he arced the scythe up over her head, and –
"Hey," said a male voice.
It was a voice Buffy knew.
A voice she loved.
The owner of that voice rammed his fist into Caleb's face and sent him spinning across the tomb. Dazed, he dropped the scythe, and it clattered to the ground.
Buffy squinted up. Not a dream, although she shouldn't have been surprised.
Angel.
He loomed over her, hand held out. She took it, and he lifted her to her feet.
"I was never much for preachers," he told her.
"Angel," she started, almost sounding exasperated. Exasperated, because she thought the note had been enough to satisfy his need to protect her all the time. Almost, because he had just saved her life. "You look timely."
Then Caleb got to his feet, and Angel moved in for the kill. But Buffy placed a restraining hand on Angel's arm. He glanced at her with an understanding expression.
"This one of those things you have to finish yourself?" he asked.
She nodded. "Really kind of is."
Livid, Caleb advanced as Buffy plucked the scythe up and stood her ground. He rushed her, raining down a series of lightning-fast blows on her.
She blocked each and every one of them with the shaft of the scythe.
Angel leaned up against a wall, enjoying the show. "You're so gonna lose," he called to Caleb. "She does this thing where…"
She dodged Caleb with a blurry-fast move.
"Ooh, yeah." Angel's pleasure was almost sensual. "I've missed watching this."
She swung the blade end of the scythe at her enemy. As before, he caught it again. But this time he shoved it back at her. She twisted out of the way, the stake end barely missing her as it imbedded in the wall behind her.
The Slayer pulled it free, then lowered it down and in one brutal motion, ripped it straight up – gutting Caleb from below.
She retracted the blade, and Caleb fell to the floor, raising dust, looking very dead.
"See?" Buffy said to Angel. Then she took a step back, exhausted and unsteady. "Under control."
She walked into him, and as he steadied her, he said, "You always are."
As worn down as she could be, she gathered herself inside his embrace, hugging him, letting go of the scythe and putting both arms around him. They stood together for a long, quiet moment. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight, so tight she felt as if her ribs were going to break.
Buffy hadn't had this in a long time. Being so close to another person that it felt like she would be absorbed into his skin if he so much as tightened his arms again – that was what it meant to be with Angel, and it had been so long…
He and Buffy looked at each other, separating a little, Angel finding her right hand with his left. "I love you."
"I love you," she returned. He pulled her closer and kissed her. His lips were soft and moist, gently yielding to pressure. He was a very good kisser, using the time to give and take, and pausing to make her more comfortable.
Slowly, her hands come around his shoulders, and she deepened the kiss. Her mouth opened and she flicked her tongue along his upper lip. His lips parted, and her tongue dove in.
Like a sparring match, their muscled organs danced, pushing in, then retreating. Buffy moaned soundlessly, breathing heavily through her nose. Angel's arms tightened, his hands pressing flat against her back.
And as they kissed, Spike watched from the shadows, resigned.
And a voice – Buffy's own – said from behind him, "That bitch."