CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

All Hallows

"Do you want to know what real fear is, Buff?" Willow asked. The two of them huddled in a deep shadow, well away from the sun, and Willow's face was pale and her expression haunted. "I'm talking about bone-chilling dread like nothing you've ever faced?"

Buffy pulled back the canopy of the stroller and smiled at the sight within.

"Sure," she replied.

"Real fear, Buff," Willow continued, "is the day after you give birth, when the nurses wheel you down to the edge of the parking lot, and they hand you your baby, pat you and your husband on the shoulder, and say 'good luck.'" Willow shivered at the memory. "And then they leave, they just up and leave, and you've got this seven-pound bundle in your arms, and you realize that if you make any kind of mistake, that baby's life is over."

Buffy tried to keep from giggling. "Sounds terrifying, Will, but I'm sure Elizabeth Joy Osbourne is going to be just fine."

"Sometimes," Willow responded as though she hadn't heard Buffy, "I just poke her … at night when she's lying still … just to make sure she's still breathing." Willow pulled the canopy down and rolled the stroller out of the shadow of the bakery she and Buffy had just visited.

At Willow's comment, Buffy couldn't help but begin to laugh.

Willow immediately shot her an aggrieved look. "This isn't funny."

"You're right, Will, I'm sorry," Buffy said as she stifled her chortles. "I can't imagine what it's like. Literally, I can't imagine."

She'd thought on and off about children, on occasion, but never for more than a few minutes, and never with any real motivation. There had been slayer mothers over the years, and even a few of the slayers activated by Willow had tried to lead normal lives and raise a family. If any such story had ended in anything besides tragedy, the tale hadn't reached Buffy's ears. Besides, Angel, or his son for that matter, apparently couldn't have children, at least not with humans.

Stop thinking about Angel.

"Since you find my current woes so humorous, let's switch the topic back to you, Buff," Willow said in a prim, crisp tone just short of acidic.

Buffy immediately sensed what Willow would want to chat about. "Please don't," she said as she looked over and held up a plaintive hand. "Just … don't."

Willow barged ahead anyway, "How much longer are you going to make Angel suffer? He made a terrible mistake, the kind we all wish we could take back when we're too stupid or selfish to know better, but you two can't be done … not after everything."

Buffy groaned. "I'm not playing a game with him, Will, and no, we're not together. Period. Maybe that'll be permanent, maybe it won't, but at the moment, it's definitely of an indefinite duration. Besides, we're a little more than a week from election day and I have other things on my mind."

"The last time I saw Angel he looked half-dead," Willow informed her.

"Good," Buffy said before she thought better of it. After a moment, she couldn't help but continue, "He should feel bad."

"And I get that," Willow assured her. "But when will enough be enough?"

"Honestly, I don't know if I can ever trust Angel again," Buffy continued. "It wasn't just that he did it, it's how and where. I mean, how can I ever let someone back into my life who betrayed me like that, who tried to force me …"

Buffy realized what she was saying and looked up to find Willow staring at her with an expression of profound sadness.

"I understand betrayal, Buff."

Buffy reached out and rubbed Willow's arm. "Hey, I'm sorry, what's between me and Angel, it's between me and Angel. Don't try to read anything else into it."

"No, you're right," Willow replied. "It's easy to offer up the excuse that we live difficult, stressful lives, and at one point or another most of us have done terrible things to each other, but Buffy, you're allowed to set your own limits. You don't have to forgive Angel if you don't want to." She smiled, and Willow's eyes twinkled with mischief. "You don't want to hear about some of the dreadful punishments I had to talk Giles out of."

Can we please talk about something else?

"Let's chat about something happier, like baby stuff," Buffy suggested. "How's Oz doing?"

"I have a feeling he fell asleep the second we walked out the door," Willow said. "He's been feeding Ellie when she wakes during the night." Willow stuck out her tongue and made a vomiting noise. "You ever want to feel like the least sexy creature on the planet, just try rigging yourself up to a breast pump machine. Now I know how dairy cows feel."

"At least your daughter is getting the freshest, most nutritious food available," Buffy reassured her. "Which is a good thing, right?"

"True, but it means I have to keep staying away from magic," Willow grumbled. "Though I'm starting to freeze milk in bulk so I can maybe stretch my mystical limbs now and then."

Freeze milk in bulk?

"You and Oz are still homebound for Halloween, I imagine?"

Willow nodded. "Ellie's still a few days shy of a month old and we're tired. We're so, so very tired." She sighed. "I feel old."

"You'll bounce back."

Willow's eyes widened at a recollection. "At least I can live vicariously through my friends. You're still going to that swanky costume party tonight, right?"

"Yup," Buffy confirmed. "Serious contenders … that's what they're calling me now, by the way … for the position of mayor are expected to attend."

"What are you going as? Sexy nurse? Sexy pilot? Sexy maid?"

I already own that last costume …

"Will, I'm a forty year old woman."

Willow held up a finger as if to remind Buffy of something. "A single forty year old woman, and one who still looks damn good, if I do say so myself." She glanced Buffy over and a sly smile curled on her face. "And I do."

"Will!" Buffy protested as she felt her face turning red.

"Unless you've changed your mind about Angel," Willow continued.

Ugh. Angel again …

"This is a civic function, basically," Buffy said with a sigh, "so no, I won't be wearing anything scandalously fun … it's not like I'm in the mood, anyhow. I'll be dressed as a doctor … scrubs, stethoscope, the whole nine yards. I figure Moonridge needs a lot of healing and this sends the right message."

"A sexy doctor?" Willow asked as she crinkled her forehead in an expression of doubt.

"No, just a regular doctor."

Willow's forehead wrinkles deepened in further thought. "And you're going stag? Really? I'm supposed to be living vicariously through you, and it sounds like you're not having any fun at all."

"Fun isn't on the menu until I win the election," Buffy said. "Giles is dropping me off, so at least I won't be showing up by myself, and I doubt I'll be staying long. A party is the last thing on my mind."

"If you need company you could always call Spike. I'm sure he'd love the thought of showing up to a ball with a Buffy draped on each arm."

I'll get you for that.

Buffy opened her mouth to reply, but Elizabeth chose that exact moment to wake and begin crying.

. . . . . . . . .

"What are you two doing here?" Angel asked as he sat up, bleary eyed and unshaven, from where he'd been lying on the couch. He glanced at his watch, then returned his gaze to Spike and the younger Buffy. "Don't tell me I forgot something I was supposed to do. Did I?" He rubbed at his eyes.

"I'm sure you have," Spike informed him, "but that ain't why we're here."

"Why, exactly, are you here?" Angel asked.

"Show him," Spike said with a nod towards Buffy.

Buffy reached into the pocket of her coat, pulled out an envelope that seemed to be gilded along the edges, and laid it on the coffee table in front of Angel. "What do you think of that?" she asked.

Angel picked up the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper. "Looks like an invite to the costume party at City Hall tonight," he announced. He stared more closely at the gold lettering. "And you got a plus one … congratulations, Spike." He glanced at Buffy. "What are you going as?"

"Cop," Buffy said eagerly, then she gestured towards Spike. "Spike's dressing up as a vampire." She smirked and held a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "The irony is unbelievable."

Spike stared, stone-faced, at the wall.

Wait a moment, Spike's dressing up for Halloween?

Angel blinked a few times in shock, then stared, slack-jawed, at Spike. "She convinced you to not only go out for Halloween, a holiday I know you loath, but wear a costume? A vampire costume?"

Spike shrugged. "What can I say? It'll make Buffy happy, and she was very persuasive."

I think I'm going to vomit.

Angel resisted the urge to lay back down on the couch. "Congratulations on the invite, I guess. If you're wondering if I'm going, I'm pretty sure that Buffy would greatly prefer that I not."

"Oh, you're going," Spike said.

"Why?" Angel asked as he laid the envelope and ticket back on the coffee table. "We're about a week from the election, and if Wilkins was going to start ignoring the truce he'd have done so long before now."

"It isn't Wilkins I'm concerned about," Spike informed him. He pointed down at the coffee table. "Take another look."

Angel obliged the request and looked over the envelope and ticket again. Heavy, cream paper, raised gold lettering, looked expensive … and the name on the ticket happened to match the fake identity Spike had been using in Moonridge over the past year."

What am I missing here? I'm way too hungover, and it's way too early, for riddles.

"I give up," he finally announced. "What do you want me to see?"

"Not see," Spike said in an obnoxiously mysterious tone.

"Smell," Buffy added.

Angel hesitantly raised the envelope to his nose and sniffed at it. The scent instantly brought back a flood of memories, some good, most of them violent and horrific.

Oleander.

"Drusilla," he said.

Spike nodded. "Yup. Somehow, probably in a tragic and cruel fashion, she managed to get me that invite, and I'm pretty sure she'll be there … waiting … likely with some girl dressed as little Bo Peep tied up and dangling over a fire."

"Who else is coming?" Angel asked.

Spike and Buffy glanced at each other. "This is personal, like," Spike said. "Buffy and I … well, we've got no secrets, and even though I'd prefer otherwise, you've got a right to see things through with Drusilla, but if it's all the same to you, I prefer no one else." Spike leaned to the side and checked the hallways of Angel's office. "That includes flame-boy, your partner."

"Xander promised Dawn he'd spend the day with her watching scary movies," Angel informed Spike. He recalled something and glanced up at the younger Buffy. "Thanks for heading over and patching things up with Dawn, by the way, I know she really appreciated it."

"Don't mention it," Buffy replied with a smile. "I'm just glad we finally got a chance to talk."

Angel turned back towards Spike. "Anything short of an all-out war or an apocalypse, the three of us should be able to handle it."

"Well, it is Dru," Spike reminded him.

A thought occurred to Angel. An unpleasant thought, but one he might as well voice. "Buffy, the other Buffy, will be there. Do you know if … if …"

"If she's bringing anyone?" the younger Buffy asked. "If you actually think she might, you don't know her … us … as well as I thought you did."

"I don't necessarily mean a date," Angel tried to explain as he felt a flush rising to his cheeks, "but anyone, really?"

"I'm sure Giles wasn't serious about those threats," Buffy replied. "Probably. In any event, Giles is just dropping Buffy off, he and Olivia have their own plans for the night." She grimaced. "They're old. It's creepy."

"This means you're in, yes?" Spike asked. "If you prefer, we can leave you to your brooding."

"Yes, but I don't brood!"

"That settles it then," Spike said as he rubbed his hands together. "One way or another, we'll find out why Dru's been sneaking about Moonridge all year."

Angel pointed at the ticket. "It's only plus one. Am I fighting my way in or sneaking through a window?"

"Neither," Buffy, who had a suspiciously wide smile on her face, replied. "Spike and I had a better idea."

. . . . . . . . .

"Believe it or not, Buffy, I'm not here because of you, and not everything I do is about us," Angel finally snapped.

Buffy blinked a few times in surprise and cleared her throat before she continued. "Fine, I jumped to conclusions … sorry." She looked Angel up and down. "You have to admit, when I watched you walk through that door a minute ago to a party you definitely weren't invited to, wearing a costume, it was easy to leap to the conclusion that you might just be here looking for me."

"It isn't a costume," Angel said heatedly, his face drawn tight in irritation, as he glanced down at the tuxedo he was wearing … complete with silver serving tray, towel draped over his arm, and a nametag. "It's a disguise."

"A disguise for what?"

Angel sighed deeply before he replied. "I didn't have a ticket, and Spike and the other Buffy figured this would be the easiest way to get me inside."

"And why are they here?"

Angel narrowed his eyes, and a muscle at the corner of his jaw began to twitch, as he stared at her. "You know what, don't worry about it. Like I said, this isn't about you and me, and you've got enough to worry about." He looked over her costume. "Doctor? I like it. This town is sick, and …"

"I'll help heal it as mayor," she interrupted him, "yeah, I was kind of proud of the theming."

"Well, I'm sure you have folks to mingle with," Angel said as he set his tray down on a nearby table and removed his nametag.

"Angel, why are you here?" she asked again.

Without a word, he turned and walked away. Buffy stared, mouth open in surprise, as Angel stalked off.

I need a drink.

She glanced around the lobby of City Hall in search of an actual waiter who might be bearing those glasses of champagne she saw sparkling in the hands of other guests. The lights of the cavernous lobby had been dimmed, and the stairs leading to the upper floors along with the entire ground level were filled with mingling politicians, guests, and the influential citizenry of Moonridge. The polished marble of the floor, walls, and stairs gleamed in the soft glow of the lights, the partygoers and their costumes dazzled in a bewildering array of shapes, colors, and forms, and Buffy found herself exhausted after not even a half an hour of shaking hands, smiling, and thanking people for praising her debate performance.

Seriously … I need a drink.

She decided to wait in line at the bar … a task in happier times she would have left to Angel … and had just begun to sidle towards the queue of thirsty citizens when she ran into Spike and her younger self.

What the hell are they wearing?

Spike had on a long black cape with a high collar, a black vest adorned with gold buttons, a white puffy undershirt, black pants, and … she could scarcely believe what she was seeing … a white powdered face complete with bristling faux fangs.

"You can't be serious," she informed him. "A vampire? Of all things, you … YOU … Spike, are going as an old school, cereal box stereotype, vampire?"

Spike shrugged, and he seemed remarkably unconcerned about her shock. "Thought I'd get in the spirit of Halloween, if it's all the same to you."

"I think the irony is hysterical," a high-pitched, horribly familiar voice, added. Buffy tried to hide her distaste as she watched her 'daughter' wrap an arm around Spike's waist. "Sure, the whole vampire motif is a bit dark given our collective pasts, but hey, it's Halloween. Who cares about a little dark, right?"

Buffy, agog, glanced up and down at her younger self's costume. She had on a slinky, black, low cut polyester dress with police decals sewn on the sleeves … the dress didn't even reach to mid-thigh … and a badge was pinned to the glossy, vinyl lapel. Upon her head perched a brimmed cap bearing yet another badge decal, and below the dress, fishnet stockings adorning her legs were tucked into shiny black boots. Buffy groaned internally when she saw handcuffs dangling from the gleaming, silver-buckled black leather belt wrapped around her waist. The only part of the outfit she didn't find horrifying was the stake, in lieu of a police baton, that was tucked into her belt on the opposite side of the cuffs.

I looked like that once … dammit.

"You're supposed to be helping me keep up a certain image," Buffy reminded the obnoxiously teenage version of herself as she gestured towards the scandalous cop costume. "How does that get-up qualify as presenting a respectable family image to the voters?" She could almost feel the lecherous stares of decidedly-much-too-old men peering over their drinks at her former body.

"I'm your eighteen-year old daughter," teen Buffy reminded her older self as she smirked. "I'm supposed to be the black sheep embarrassment to the family."

"I think she looks amazing," Spike added.

"You would!" Buffy retorted. She rubbed her eyes for a moment. "Are those real handcuffs?" She immediately thought better of the question. "You know what, forget I asked." She suddenly felt decidedly frumpy in her baggy scrubs, hospital nametag, and stethoscope, and making matters worse was that she'd tied her hair back in a simple ponytail, while the teenage version's golden locks flowed in a glowing, shoulder-length cascade.

Her desire to find a drink intensified further when Spike and the younger Buffy laughed at her embarrassment.

"Angel gave me the runaround, so why don't you tell me what you're doing here?" Buffy asked as she settled into the line for the bar.

Teen Buffy and Spike glanced at each other.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Angel gave you the runaround?" Spike asked. "Really?"

"Yup," Buffy confirmed as she crossed her arms. "So how about you tell me?"

Spike opened his mouth to reply, then his eyes widened as he sniffed at the air. His nostrils flared as he glanced about.

"I have to go," he announced as Buffy watched him in rapt curiosity. He patted Buffy … the younger Buffy … on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on things down here?"

Concern glimmered in teen Buffy's eyes as she replied, "You sure you don't want back-up?"

Buffy found herself fighting down nausea at the spectacle she was being forced to watch.

Spike shook his head. "I'm just going to look around." He glanced over at Buffy. "Keep an eye on your older half. Just in case."

The younger Buffy stared at him skeptically, but finally nodded.

After Spike had vanished, Buffy watched in trepidation as the youthful version of herself drew near.

"So, if I promise not overdo it, you think you might grab me a vodka soda?" teen Buffy asked. "Or, heck, a glass of champagne would hit the spot."

Buffy, bug-eyed, stared at her younger self and searched for the right words.

"Absolutely not," she finally spluttered.

"You're as bad as Giles."

Buffy then experienced the joy of watching herself, circa twenty-two years ago, fix her with a disappointed, pouting look.

I hope Angel brought his coat, because she needs something to cover up that outfit.

. . . . . . . . .

Spike wove his way through the throngs of costumed guests as he followed the faint, almost imperceptible smell of oleander through the lobby. Soft sounds of music … Bach, if he wasn't mistaken … wafted through the air as he began to climb the steps. When he reached the second floor of City Hall, except for a ring of partygoers leaning on the railing and staring down at the guests below, the corridors looked deserted.

The smell was stronger here, but Spike sensed he needed to climb further. Ignoring the stairs of curious onlookers, he moved a metal stanchion with a red velvet cordon out of the way and climbed to the next floor. The smell was more noticeable, still, and he knew he was close.

Drusilla is here.

Briefly he thought about finding Angel. Not for protection, he wasn't worried about any lackeys Dru might have rounded up, but because it felt fitting. Most of the vamps they had known in the beginning … Darla, the Master, so many others … were long dead. Dru was the only one left.

I don't have time to search for Angel … I can't let Dru slip away.

He put Angel out of his thoughts and proceeded down the nearest hallway. The doors lining the corridor were closed, and when he tested a few doorknobs, he confirmed they were locked. With each step he took, the aroma grew more intense, his heart beat faster, and his ears grew ever more alert to the slightest sound. When he rounded a corner, he found a thick, oak door set in the marble that had been left open. Within, yellow lights glimmered along the stone walls and steps curled upwards.

That's got to be the way.

He tossed his cape and fake fangs away, then walked through the door and nearly died of shock when a cage full of yellow songbirds nestled in the corner tweeted in surprise at his appearance.

Dru always did like caged birds.

He continued up the steps, ever upwards, until at last he reached a ladder that led to a metal walkway ringing the interior of City Hall's enormous domed roof. Without hesitation, he climbed the ladder and pulled himself onto the walkway. Gripping the railing tightly, he leaned over and stared down at the party below. The figures seemed curiously unreal, illusory even, in the soft light.

Spike turned his gaze from the sight and continued along the walkway until he reached a thick slab of stone that protruded from curved stone of the dome. For a second he thought he'd reached a dead end, then he realized that there was a hollow along the wall that he could squeeze through. He turned sideways, pressed himself against the stone, and slid through the passage until he emerged on the other side.

Dru.

Even though she was wearing a shroud, hood, and a mask of lacquered ivory that gleamed with carnelian highlights, Spike recognized her immediately. The smell of oleander hung heavy in the air along with a rotting, fetid aroma.

She smells like death.

"Knew you would find me," Drusilla whispered. Her voice was weak and wavering, so thin and brittle Spike thought it likely to snap. "I can wear this mask and walk among them, below," she gestured downwards at the ball, "and they don't see. They don't see what I have become."

"You've been in town a long time without saying hello, Dru," Spike said in a conversational tone he hoped sounded pleasant enough. "A bloke might think, given what we once shared, that you were being quite rude."

"Once shared?" Drusilla keened. "Oh, Spike, we were like one soul in two bodies, once, but no more. So long ago …"

Spike ignored her and continued. "You've never been one to hide. Unless it was hide n' seek, you always liked that bloody game."

"Not hiding, just …"

Spike darted forward, took note of Drusilla's halted, slow reaction to his approach, yanked away her mask, and flung it to the floor.

Oh, Dru …

Drusilla's face was pocked, ragged, and the flesh lay distended in decaying strands. Along the edge of one side of her jaw, dull white could be seen where her skin had melted away from the bone beneath. The mental image that came unbidden to Spike's mind was of a wax figure that had been set too close to the flames.

"What happened to you?" Spike asked as he tried to keep the horror from his voice.

Dru held up a hand to her face. Where her fingernail rubbed near her eye, the skin tore away and black blood seeped out. "Caught with my hand in the cookie jar, my beloved," Dru informed him with a sigh. "I thought I had found easy prey, but I was wrong, so very wrong."

"You got caught?" he asked. "Somewhere you weren't supposed to be, probably killing somebody you really weren't supposed to kill?"

Dru nodded, and the black blood from the wound on her face dribbled on the walkway, likely to drip onto the party below. "Caught, and then … hurt. The man … the terrible, terrible man … I tried to steal from, he put something in me that would kill me, and then he cast a spell on it, to make my dying last."

"You're dying?"

"Inch by inch," Dru confirmed

"Is there a cure?"

Drusilla smiled, which exposed more of the hideous bone along her jaw. Several of her teeth were missing and a few of those that remained were black and broken. "Only the blood of a slayer," she murmured, a faint gleam of hope in her eyes. "Slayers everywhere, but they're too strong … too strong for me." Dru, with trembling hands, removed her gloves. The nails had fall away to reveal the mottled black-green quick beneath, and her fingers were wizened sticks. "I don't know when last I fed on a living person, my love. A year, at least. Living on rats and scraps, I have been."

"You could have come to me sooner," Spike said. "I would never have let you suffer like this."

He didn't flinch as Dru walked over and reached out to hold his hands. He gripped hers in return, and he felt her skin crumble and fall away beneath his fingers. Dru began to cry, which was a hideous sight as the tears glistened on her ruined flesh.

"I did not know what you would do, I had so many questions … so many questions," Dru said. "I needed to know if you'd even have a spare thought for your poor little beloved who has missed you."

"You're the one who left me, Dru, remember?" Spike said. That wasn't quite accurate, but close enough. "Yet, you came here to find me, because you knew I would help you."

Dru pulled back one of her hands and held it theatrically to her forehead. "Snakes twistin' in my noggin'. Round and round, won't give me no peace, no peace at all, not without my Spike." She removed the hand and her feral eyes twinkled out of the desiccated sockets. "Or is it William now? Or Willy? Willy, the weak. Willy the … living."

She moved to kiss him, and he turned his head so that her dry lips pecked against his cheek.

When she pulled away, he turned his head back just in time to witness Dru running her tongue over her lips.

"It's true then," she said. "I knew you were alive, and now I can taste it for myself." She shuddered. "You live. You live, and I can't stand you like this, so warm, so bright. What happened to my cold, dark spirit?"

"My heart started beating again."

"I can fix that," Dru promised him as she leaned in close and pressed her face against his chest. Spike closed his eyes, felt her nearness, and remembered what it had been like to hold her for so many years. Unbidden, the memories of all the things … the terrible, horrible things … they had done together, and laughed while doing so, rose in his mind.

He reached out and held her close.

Dru continued, "I can give you back what you have lost, bring you back to the night and the shadows where you belong."

Spike said nothing as he held her close.

"We can do it right this moment, if you wish."

"But that won't heal you," Spike reminded her. "You need a slayer."

Dru's fingers were claws clutching at his back as she pulled him closer. "I do, beloved. And you … you have one that stays with you more nights than not … surely you can share?" Dru's voice grew plaintive, desperate. "We can make her one of us or leave her human. Whatever you think will be more fun, beloved."

Spike considered for a moment, then he grabbed Dru's shoulders and gently pushed her away so that he could stare into her eyes.

"Dru, whatever you need, I will do it," he told her. "What we had, it was real, and it was for decades. We'll conk that slayer on the head, you can drink your fill, and you'll be healed."

Dru reached up to wipe away a torrent of tears as she nodded. "I thought you would have no care at all for my pain, that you had forgotten what you were. Silly, silly me! I should have known that your heart, whether it beats or not," she tapped at his chest, "is wicked." She reached up and stroked his neck. "Shall I fix you first? Shall I take away the chains of your soul that strangle you so tightly and return to you the freedom we once shared?"

Spike nodded. "We'll find a quiet room, and you can fix me tonight." He pulled her close until she was nestled again in his arms. "Dru, will you hold me until the turn happens? I … I want you to be looking at me when I awaken from this living nightmare."

Dru nodded eagerly against chest. "I will hold you for every second, beloved. In blood you shall die and be reborn, and we'll drink our fill of it when you awake."

"You should never have left, Dru, we belong together."

"Finally, you see that," her voice was a soft keen in the air of the dome, filled with old pain, both given and received. "We can fix each other. I can taste your slayer's blood now, feel it curling within my innards, restoring me, and then we will be like we were before."

Spike closed his eyes as he replied, "Once we're together again, I don't care how many slayers this world has now, nobody can stand against us." He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I've missed you, Dru. Truly."

"Let's go, beloved," Dru whispered. "I know a room we can use. I'll light candles, and end your life, and wait for you to return."

Spike stepped back and put his hands on her shoulders again. "Dru, anything you want, I'll be there for you. Forever. You know that. You're my only love, my true love, and I may have lost my way, but I found you again, and very soon, it'll be just like it was before.

Dru sighed in happiness as she closed her eyes and leaned her ruined face towards his, her fangs gleaming a dull yellow in the light as she parted her lips for a kiss.

Spike stepped close, reached behind his back, and retrieved the slender stake he'd tucked into the waistband of his pants. With a delicate, precise thrust, he pierced her lower chest and angled the wood upwards, beneath the ribs, and into her heart. Drusilla's eyes and mouth opened wide in shock, just for a moment, and then she was gone.

Dust wafted through the air of the dome and glittered as it drifted downwards. For a few moments, Spike watched Dru's remains descend towards the revelries below, then he wiped his eyes dry with the sleeve of his coat, snapped the stake in half and tossed it upon the catwalk, and retreated the way he had come.

. . . . . . . . .

"Where the hell have you been?" Angel asked. "I've been down here dodging drink orders while you vanish?"

Something in Spike's eyes must have given Angel pause, for he stopped and stared more closely. "Have you been crying?"

"Are you bloody crazy?" Spike asked. "Of course not."

Angel stepped closer. "You found Dru, didn't you?"

Not trusting words, Spike simply nodded.

Angel bit his lower lip and looked away as he nodded. "Is it over?"

"It's over," Spike confirmed.

"How .,. how was she?" Angel asked.

Spike didn't feel like talking about it, but Angel had a right to know. "Something had been done to her, something awful. It's why she was hiding. In the end, it was a mercy."

"A mercy?"

Spike nodded.

"Mercy isn't like you, Spike," Angel pointed out.

Spike ignored him and began looking around for Buffy. He found Buffy, both of them, near the bar, hemmed in by a gaggle of gray-haired gentleman who were ogling far too intensely for his liking.

"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to try to enjoy what's left of this bloody party," Spike said.

Angel followed, and after they'd extracted the Buffys from the corner they'd been corralled into, the four of them found a quiet spot.

"Whatever you came here to do, I take it that it's done?" Buffy asked as she folded her arms across her scrubs. "Should I be afraid a horde of demons is going to burst out of a closet at any moment?"

"It's perfectly safe," Spike said, then he thought better of it. "I mean, this town isn't safe in the slightest, particularly for any of us, but you know what I mean. It's not extra dangerous."

Buffy rolled her eyes as she replied, "Well, gee. I feel much better now." She rubbed her temples for a moment. "You know what, I've said my hellos and shaken the hands that needed shaking. You three, have fun."

Without a backwards glance, she strode away.

Angel glanced at Spike and the younger Buffy. "I think I'm going to head home as well."

"Don't you mean the office?" Spike asked.

It took all of Angel's willpower not to smash his fist into Spike's face.

"Have fun," he said through gritted teeth as he turned away.

. . . . . . . . .

Buffy had just reached the bottom of the steps just outside City Hall when a voice she had hoped to never hear again resounded in front of her.

"Buffy Summers, leaving so soon? I hope it has nothing to do with my arrival."

Richard Wilkins, flanked by Joshua and several other henchdemons who could pass for human, stood in front of her. She had no path of escape and other than a few folks milling near the parking lot there were no witnesses.

If he wants to kill me, now might be the time.

"Hi, Dick," she replied. "Don't worry, it's just a coincidence that I'm on the way out as you're on your way in." She gestured at the party. "Please, have at it." She glanced over his costume. Wilkins had on flowing gray robes secured with a wide, brown leather belt, an eyepatch over one eye, and what appeared to be a fake, but realistic-appearing, crow perched on his shoulder. A crown-like helm bristling with pewter spikes lay on his brow, and in his hand, he gripped a tall, gnarled walking stick.

"What are you, some sort of pirate?" Buffy asked. "Last time I checked, buccaneers had parrots, not crows."

Wilkins smiled at her, and she could feel the distilled patronization of his glare drip onto the concrete beneath her feet.

I hate him so much.

"It's not a crow, it's a raven, Ms. Summers."

"What's the difference?"

Wilkins pursed his lips as he considered the question. "Come to think of it, I'm not sure, but it's definitely a raven." He drew himself up taller. "If you had spent your formative years learning world history, instead of stalking through graveyards at night, you might recognize that I am not garbed as anything so crude as a swashbuckler of the high seas, but as a deity, Odin, to be precise."

Odin … wait a second, didn't Willow mention Odin when she was talking about the
Valknut and the Stavkirke?

Buffy tried to keep her face expressionless as she pretended to ponder Wilkins's comments. Finally, she replied, "You know, sorry, Odin doesn't sound familiar. Who is he again?" She pointed at Wilkins's face. "And how'd you lose the eye? Avatar of the First Evil?"

"Odin was a Norse god, he was the father of many gods of the Norse pantheon, actually," Wilkins patiently explained, "and he didn't lose his eye in battle, he sacrificed half the light of the world for the right to step beneath the roots of the world tree, Yggdrasil, and drink the water of Mimisbrunnr."

Water!

Buffy tried to appear as ditzy and as … blonde … as possible as she feigned nonchalant disinterest. "And what's so special about this mythbrunhilda?"

"Mimisbrunnr," Willkins said with a note of impatience in his manner. "It's a well whose water contains the wisdom of the ages." He glanced at his watch. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Ms. Summers, this history lesson is at an end."

He began to step past her, Joshua striding tall and bitter at his side, then he paused for a moment to glance at her. "You didn't really think I'd kill you here, on the steps of City Hall, when we're nearly at election day, did you?" When she didn't reply, he clapped her on the shoulder, a gesture of physical contact that caused her to cringe, then he laughed heartily as he climbed the steps towards the party.

Buffy immediately began typing a message to Willow containing everything Wilkins had said, as best she could remember, and she didn't care that her spelling was likely awful.

. . . . . . . . .

"Was it creepy?" Dawn asked Xander as she snuggled closer and pulled the blanket to her shoulders.

Xander nodded in reply. "It was the creepiest carpentry job of my entire life, and I've had some creepy jobs," he said with a shudder.

Dawn patted his hand. "Well, I'm glad you did it. Buffy shouldn't have to go to sleep, look up, and constantly be reminded of … of what happened."
Xander's eyes were serious as he turned towards her. "I don't think repairing the headboard of Buffy's bed is going to make her forget what Angel did."

Dawn made a 'hmph' sound as she reached for the remote control. "It's a start."

Xander chuckled. "I suppose it is."

"Thanks again for doing it," Dawn replied as she rubbed his arm. "I know Buffy appreciates the help."

"Not a problem," Xander said as he watched Dawn scroll through movie selections. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Forget scary, how about something funny?"

Xander rubbed at his chin. "I could use a laugh … pick anything you want."

Dawn leaned in closer against him and half-shut her eyes as she spoke. "Xander, I'm sorry that since … since I remembered the truth, I've been so …" she struggled to find the right word, "distant."

Xander looked at her in surprise. "Distant? Other than the debate, I don't think you've left the house for more than an hour at a time." When he realized what he'd said, his words stumbled over each other as he continued, "not that there's anything wrong with that, I can't imagine what you've gone through."

She leaned in closer against him. "Not that kind of distant … you know what I'm saying."

Xander did know what she was talking about. Though they'd fallen asleep on the couch a few times next to each other, Dawn had been staying in the guest room most nights, and when they did share a bed, Xander had quickly realized that the slightest touch while Dawn was sleeping would cause her to wake in a cold fright as false memories coiled around her soul.

"Oh," he said. "Dawn, trust me, I'm just happy you're safe, you're out of that house, and you're here." He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "You just worry about feeling better."

Dawn nodded and held Xander close.

. . . . . . . . .

"What are you supposed to be?" a tall, dark-haired man, dressed as a jailhouse prisoner, with a crooked smile and a handsome enough face asked Faith as she drained another shot.

Faith's jeans and white t-shirt didn't represent an attempt at a costume, but she was pretty sure the stranger already knew that. She swiveled on her stool to stare at the man.

Tall. Looks like he works out. He'll do.

"I'm dressed as something terribly dangerous, and way more than you can handle," she informed him as she reached out, plucked his beer from his hand and raised the glass to her lips.

The man's smile intensified as he watched her slowly, with precise movements of her lips and throat, proceed to drain the entire beer and then set the empty glass on the bar.

"I don't know, I can handle a lot," the man said as he stepped forward, close enough that their hips were nearly touching. He extended an arm and ran his hand along the bare skin of her waist.

Oh, he'll definitely do.

"Can I buy you another round?" he asked.

"Naw," Faith replied. "I'm not thirsty anymore. Not for beer, anyway." She leaned back against the bar and let the fabric of her shirt pull tight across her chest. "You live around here?"

. . . . . . . . .

"Aren't you at least going to read me my rights?" Buffy protested with a giggle as Spike pushed open the front door to his apartment. A surge of excitement coursed through her body as she twisted her wrists within the cuffs securing her arms behind her back. The officer's cap had been lost hours earlier, and she'd also managed to drop her stake on the floor of Spike's car at some point during the process of Spike handcuffing her, helping her into the passenger's seat, and then buckling a seatbelt around her body.

He had then proceeded to not be a perfect gentleman during the subsequent drive.

"In a moment," Spike replied as he tightened his grip on Buffy's elbows and frog-marched her into the apartment.

She clenched her hands into fists, strained against the metal of the cuffs, and felt a growing heat deep within her core as Spike shut the door behind them.

With rough movements, he turned her around and pushed her forward until her chest and forehead were pressed against the wall.

"You have the right," Spike said as he reached down and not-so-gently grabbed her inner thighs, beneath the very short dress, "to spread your legs."

She obliged him by widening her stance.

"They're spread," she whispered in a hoarse, rasping voice.

"You have the right," Spike growled in her ear, "to stay right here while I conduct a very thorough search."

He pressed her firmly against the wall with one hand while he knelt and ran his other hand along the fishnet stockings, past the stays, to the edge of her dress, then beneath the fabric, then further until he'd reached the slick wetness between her legs.

"You have the right to try to remain silent while I do this."

She bit her lower lip, half-closed her eyes, and moaned softly while Spike tickled and teased sensitive grooves and folds.

"Someone seems to have forgotten their panties," Spike admonished her. "In addition to impersonating an officer, which I believe was the original charge, I'm afraid we'll have to add indecent exposure to your rap sheet."

I'm pretty sure my panties are still in your pocket …

Spike's hands grew more exploratory, and Buffy moved her hips against his fingers, moaned in a much lower register, and strained against the cuffs. The feel of the unyielding restraints immobilizing her arms seemed to heighten the delightful sensations being generated between her legs.

When Spike stood, Buffy almost voiced a protest at the removal of his touch. He grabbed her shoulder, whirled her around, and traced a stern finger down the scar bisecting her lip. His blue eyes pierced her soul as he stared down at her.

"Finally, you have the right to be kissed, by me," he murmured.

He bent down and hungrily, feverishly kissed her. It went on a long time, and Buffy decided she needed to be holding Spike, now.

It wasn't nearly as easy as she thought it would be, and she was also pretty sure that the metal edge of one of the cuffs bit hard enough to draw blood, but she flexed, pulled, and the chain of the shackles split apart. Shards of metal bounced off the walls and floor as Buffy threw her hands around Spike and yanked him close.

"Hey!" Spike protested as he leaned back and glanced about. "I'm going to be stepping on little jagged bits of chain for weeks."

"Sorry," Buffy said as she pursed her lips in a pout. "I guess police issue isn't strong enough."

Spike held her by the waist and kissed her again, then he reached down, grasped her wrists, and lifted her hands.

"Maybe I should get stronger ones?"

"I might like that," she said as she jiggled the broken, but still locked, cuffs. "Although," she raised her voice into a high-pitched parody of a ditzy high schooler, "that would mean that the dread vampire Spike would have a helpless young slayer in his clutches!"

The resulting look in Spike's eyes, along with the insistent way he pressed against himself against her body in response to her comment, was incredibly revealing.

Wow. If I ever need to turn on my boyfriend, all I have to do is roleplay anything close to what I just said.

Spike reached into the pocket of his vest with one hand and raised one of her cuffed wrists with the other. "I've got the key right here, let me get those off."

Buffy shook her head. "Leave 'em."

Spike turned her hand over and flinched at the sight of blood.

"Buffy!" he protested. "You cut yourself!"

"I thought you liked the sight, and taste, of blood," she asked as she playfully ran her tongue along her wrist.

Spike frowned, and she quickly lowered her arm.

That wasn't a good frown.

"Not anymore," he said as he leaned down and tried to kiss her.

Buffy placed a hand against his chest to keep him at bay, then she leaned against the wall and stared up with half-lidded eyes. "What would you like a taste of, then?"

. . . . . . . . .

Later, as they cuddled beneath the new, downy comforter Buffy had insisted Spike buy, he pulled her close and his voice was serious when he spoke.

"Buffy, I know it's only been three months …"

"Not even quite that, officially," she interrupted him. "Though I've known you a lot longer than three months."

"Let me finish," he chided her. "Your line of work, it's bloody dangerous. I don't want another day to go by without my telling you …"

She interrupted him again, and this time she held a finger up to his lips. "Stop," she said, firmly but not unkindly.

"What?" Spike asked. "You didn't even know what I was going to say."

"I have a hunch," she murmured as she luxuriated in the feel of Spike's skin against hers. She ran a finger along the muscles of his side and enjoyed the feel of him shivering at her touch. "And I don't want to hear it tonight."

"Why?"

"For one thing, I'm eighteen, and what we have, it's been great … more than great … but I'm not sure I'm ready to hear it yet, and secondly, I definitely don't want to hear it for the first time when you're all broody cause you staked your vampire ex-lover." She rubbed his arm. "Do you remember when you told me you were going to try something new and take it slow? Maybe stick to that."

Spike pulled away and sat bolt upright.

Buffy patted the mattress. "It's okay, I get it. Come back here."

"I have not been broody!"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "At the party, you alternated between being unable to keep your hands off me and looking like you wanted to go somewhere quiet and cry."

"That is not true!" Spike protested as he pulled the comforter up to his neck.

Buffy closed her eyes and smiled. "Whatever you say, Mr. Wiped-Away-Sniffles-When-He-Thought-I-Wasn't-Looking."

Two can play the nickname game.

"Whatever," Spike said as he lay back down.

Buffy resumed stroking his side, and Spike's quivers resulted in her quivering in response.

"Just because I don't want to talk, doesn't mean that I want to go to sleep," she informed him as she traced her fingers down the curve of his hip, towards his crotch.

Spike, broody or not, was more than happy to oblige her.