Oz rejoined the others in the library. "She's gone."
"Gone where?"
"Home, I hope. Larry saw her leave."
"But..." Willow fumbled for words as Oz hugged her. "You think Snyder really did it? Kicked her out? Why wouldn't she at least stop by and tell us..." They'd been sitting in the library since lunchtime, waiting for Buffy to show up again, but now classes were over and everyone was clearing out.
"She's not thinking straight. You saw her earlier." Xander and Willow had spent the last few hours playing cards; it kept them occupied and somehow seemed safe – they had spent a large part of their lives up until Buffy arrived in each other's bedrooms, focusing on 52 pieces of paper rather than anything outside. Back then, the worst thing that could happen was that Xander's parents would get drunker than usual or that Cordelia would say something hurtful. Now here she was, hovering just outside of their quiet bubble of friendship, making sure Xander knew that she was there. No snarky remarks, no jealousy whenever the two old friends needed to hold hands – Queen C was taking a back seat today, and though no one said anything about it, the way Xander squeezed her hand as Willow went to Oz spoke volumes. "It's... she lost someone very..." Xander didn't quite know how to say it.
Cordelia knew. "She lost her father." No one argued with her.
"So I guess we should... she's gonna need time," Willow nodded distractedly. "We should probably, y'know, take care of patrolling or something..."
Cordelia and Oz exchanged a look; neither of them was any match for Angelus if he decided to show up – especially in their current state. Both of them put their arms around their respective honeys and steered them towards the door.
"Come on. Let's get you guys home first. We'll talk about it all tomorrow."
Buffy's head hit the pillow like a 16 ton weight, but she couldn't sleep. She had hoped her mother would be at the gallery, but no luck; she barely got in the door before she had found herself in a big mom-hug.
"Buffy? Oh honey, I've been so worried..."
She had hugged her back, wishing that could make everything go away again. But of course, mom-hugs just don't work as well once you hit a certain age. And then, inevitably, there had been the questions. Where had she been all night, why did she look like she'd aged about five years, why did her clothes reek of smoke and soot... these were all questions Joyce had asked before, two years earlier, and they both knew it. And then the questions about Jenny, what had happened, and who had... of course, Joyce had heard the rumors too.
"Mom, please believe me, he didn't kill her. You've met Giles. Di- does he seem like a killer to you?"
"I... I really don't know, sweetheart. And neither do you. Mr Giles seems like a nice enough man, but... you never know what people are capable of."
What was she going to say? That the vampires got him, that she had seen his dead body, that she had set fire to it herself? She almost did. She came THAT close to breaking down and telling her mom everything. It would have been so easy, letting it all out, shifting responsibility – the last time she had tried that, her dad had shipped her off to a clinic; right now, that didn't feel like such a bad idea.
But eventually, Joyce had let her go upstairs. The
previous night's row
("You had sex with a boy you didn't
even see fit to tell me you were dating!"
"I made a
mistake."
"Yeah, well, don't just say that to shut me
up, because I think you really did."
"I KNOW that!")
and
shock, and then the night she'd spent up waiting for Buffy to come
home, had drained her almost as much as it obviously had her
daughter, and she couldn't bear to push anymore. Questions could wait
until tomorrow.
Buffy went into her room, drawing the blind to keep out the afternoon sun, stumbled out of her clothes and collapsed onto bed. But she was too tired to sleep, too tired to cry, and just lay there for hours staring at the ceiling, feeling numb. As the sun set outside, she finally drifted off into some sort of rest.
"See you tomorrow morning, Willie. Don't wait up, you need your beauty sleep." Angelus smirked as he put his arm around Drusilla and led her out into the night, making sure Spike saw him squeeze her ass – and her letting him. Spike, like most nights when Dru wasn't feeling motherly, was left behind in his wheelchair.
When the church collapsed on him, Spike's body had been completely ruined; his innards squashed, his spine snapped in half, his pelvis shattered, his legs splintered like firewood. A human who had been through that and survived somehow would have spent what remained of his life as a vegetable.
Spike had been trapped in this chair for months. At first, Dru was with him and helped him – it was humiliating, but at least he had her. Then HE turned up again, and suddenly he could smell him on her, was forced to see him claim her. He'd spent a hundred years washing away the knowledge that Angelus had Dru first, washing it away in streams of blood... only to end up right back where he started. Cuckolded, helpless, mocked. Angelus had always known his sore spot lay in the part of him that wasn't demon; called him William, made damn sure that he understood that there were vampires and Vampires. He may have been turned, but he was not the real thing, would never be; not animal enough. Not evil enough. Just a kid who had stumbled on powers he didn't have the imagination to use for anything truly foul. No matter how many people he killed, he was never bad enough for Angelus – nor, apparently, for Drusilla. Angelus had made that so clear he'd started to believe it himself. And forgotten.
Spike wasn't human. He was a vampire. And vampires heal.
Even if it takes time. The first month, when he had no feeling at all below his ribcage, hadn't been as bad as the following, when his body slowly started piecing itself together again. He could feel the nerve endings stretching and twining (and every one brought a new shock of pain from some reconnected part of his body), the muscles rebuilding, new guts forming, bone fragments fusing with each other and slowly drifting through his body to the right place. It had hurt like hell. Still did. But less every day.
Tentatively, Spike lifted one foot off the footrest. A bolt of pain shot straight up his back and made him snarl, going into vampface without thinking about it. He lifted the other one, same result. Slowly, clenching his teeth against the pain, he leaned forward and shifted his weight onto his feet for the first time in months, not quite standing but at least squatting, his arse off the seat, his hands on the armrests supporting some but not all of him. The pain was almost unbearable but he could take that, even revel in it; if everything hurt, that meant everything worked again. He wiggled his toes, flexed his knees, felt his cock stir ever so slightly, heard his brand new stomach rumble.
Then he flopped back into the chair, exhaling and morphing back into human face. He wasn't ready yet. But it wouldn't be long now.
Someone would pay.
Author's note: Sorry about the delay, writer's block is a bitch. But hopefully I've gotten most of the setup out of the way now and we'll get going on the actual story.