Please see chapter 1 for the disclaimers that apply to this entire work. This chapter incorporates dialogue and events respectfully borrowed from S4:E22, Restless and also S5:E7, Fool for Love. Trigger warning for reference to someone having overdosed offscreen prior to the start of this story.


Chapter 5: Buffy Summers Seizes the Day

Ever since she'd met Dracula, she'd been distracted, wondering who she was. No, that wasn't right: it was ever since the dream where the First Slayer had spoken to her through Tara's voice.

I am destruction. Absolute... alone.

The original Slayer's assertion echoed every night. She countered it by remembering that she had friends and family. She had homework and boy problems and dancing just like everyone her age. But every night, she was overtaken by the urge to hunt as though she were a scarred, solitary lioness in the Serengeti.

At least she could still find pleasure in acrobatics and in finding clever quips to keep herself entertained. To keep the "human" element of her nightly mission intact.

She backhanded the vampire in front of her, a rock-metal band reject, and asked, "You smell this bad when you were alive?" Side-stepping a burgeoning family of pigs that had decided to root in the cemetery, she mechanically kicked the vampire into a headstone. It was a rote move, like going through the motions. Looking at the vamp on the ground, she added, "'Cause if it's a post-mortem thing, then boy, is my face red."

He rallied and dove toward her. Flipping him over the headstone, to the indignant squeal of more pigs, she whipped out her stake. "But just so you know, the fast-growing field of personal grooming has come a long way since you became a vampire." A chorus of grunting "oink, oink, oink" arose around her as though in agreement. "And let me be the first to say that when pigs agree that your grooming tips are out of date, you should listen."

Buffy somersaulted over the headstone, stake raised and poised to strike. It was like a tableau played out night-by-night over centuries; older than time. But then the vampire saw an opportunity and seized her arm as she landed. Spinning her around, he plunged Buffy's stake into her own stomach.

Her eyes widened in shock as she looked down at a sight that was utterly impossible and yet true. Her stake was pincushioned into her, with blood already starting to dampen her sweater. That was going to stain, her brain idly supplied, tiptoeing around the fact that her entire body had just ignited in pain kindled from the middle.

She felt the vampire circling back toward her as her mind finally caught up with her eyes. With a grim awareness of what she needed to do next, she gripped the protruding end of her stake and pulled it out. She gasped as the pain rocketed through her and blackness momentarily ringed her vision. Her sweater was now dripping in red.

At that moment, she felt an unaccustomed panic as she realized she was alone with a vampire who'd already half killed her. And who was like a shark, tasting her Slayer blood with all his senses and readying himself for the kill. She was too weak to fight him.

Staggering to her feet, she turned away and gave into her basic human instinct to run away. From headstone to memorial she stumbled away, looking over her shoulder the way she'd seen so many people do before she'd jumped in to rescue them. This time, though….

The vampire leapt in front of her. She stopped with a surprised gasp, looking around for an escape route.

The '80s rocker-turned-bloodsucker stalked closer. "You're going? But you were having so much fun a minute ago,"

She brought up her stake, only to have it easily slapped out of her grasp. This time, her mind dulled by pain, she couldn't see any escape. Doubling over, she held her stomach as though she could stop the blood. Meanwhile she could see the vampire pick up her stake and approach with a predatory grin.

She hadn't felt this helpless since the Cruciamentum, or this out of options since the Master had dropped her to drown in a brackish puddle. She wasn't ready to die. And yet, here she was.

The vampire raised the stake for the killing blow. Then, as though the world had tilted on its axis, the vampire was abruptly tackled from the side and knocked from Buffy's view. But it still didn't make sense. Because she was sure that the force of nature that had clobbered her attacker was Spike. Where had he come from? And why was he here?

If he was here to interrupt her hunt, where was Riley, the notorious Dudley Do-right of vampire hunting?

She was too groggy to figure it out. All she knew is that she was actually grateful that it was Spike, who truly could hold his own when she was incapaciated. She didn't have to feel guilty for letting her human, fragile friends down. As the black around her vision began to expand, she held up her hands in front of her. They were slick with her blood.

She slid to the ground with her back against a headstone. A moist, oinking snuffle along her forehead was unexpectedly comforting, like her mom with a cool washcloth to chase away a fever.

She heard Spike yell out "Stay with me Slayer. Buffy, I'm here." It was as though he was calling from a tin can. And then "Bollocks!" Followed almost immediately by Buffy Fade to Black.

-ooOOoo-

Buffy realized she had no idea how much time had elapsed since she'd passed out at the graveyard. But, as she looked around her Watcher's livingroom, her heart cheered with pom-poms at being surrounded by his dark mission furniture and mid-century bric-a-brac. And books, so many books.

Her vision had finally stopped swimming as her Slayer metabolism kicked into high gear. She looked down, watching her sometimes father-figure diligently stitch up the numbed edges of her still raw wound. "I can't believe I passed out," she murmured.

"Spot of luck I guess that Spike happened upon you in time," he said. "If you weren't a Slayer, with this amount of blood loss you wouldn't have lasted more than ten or so minutes without field triage." He didn't look up from his stitching.

"You said it wasn't that bad." She pouted.

"I said I've seen worse. There's a difference." His voice was acerbic behind an expressionless face.

"Well, at least no major organs got kababbed," she replied.

His lips pressed together, giving her a clue that maybe there had been a bit of kababbage, after all. Yay for Slayer healing and Giles' stitch-wichery, which combined to keep her alive and out of Sunnydale General.

But, hmm, since her Watcher was of the guy variety, did that make it stitch-warlockery? She peeked at his serious expression and decided it was a question that clearly could wait. Maybe Willow knew. Whether she did or not, the redhead definitely wouldn't give her the glasses-cleaning look of "dear Lord" that asking right now would be her exciting bonus gift for asking.

She listened to the room, silent except for the stitch-whatever-y in front of her and the ticking of Giles' wall clock. And that was weird, she realized, since she could feel the distinctive tickle of Spike's presence even though he wasn't in her line of sight. He was never quiet, so what was that about? She started to look for him and, ouchie! She so wasn't ready to twist around yet. So she just raised her voice a bit and said, "Thanks for bringing me here, Spike."

After a pause, he replied, "Well, I figured Mum and the Little Bit might not be ready to see you all wounded-like. And would likely lose time not knowing what to do and then rushing you to hospital. But, I knew the Watcher likely had a whole field hospital in a cabinet somewhere." He shrugged. "Anyways, not something I have in my crypt, at the mo'."

"At the mo'? And when does a vampire ever need first aid supplies for a human? Fun to keep them alive longer, perhaps." Giles grumbled under his breath, one eyebrow rising above his glasses. Needle still in hand, he inspected his handiwork. Buffy was sure Spike had heard.

He'd worked his way around the room and had stopped by the table where Giles had recently been studying. Now in sight, the blond vampire's nettled expression confirmed her suspicion. That's right: she hadn't yet had the discussion with Giles about changing their approach to Spike. The whole "hey, let's try being polite" thing. Something had changed in the vampire, had unlocked some better behaviors, so it was time for Team White Hat to try some different things as well.

Suiting action to thought, she reached out to her mentor's forearm. "Giles. For one, I'm glad Spike didn't leave me there. And that he brought me here, to you." She kept her eyes level with his. There was so much history between them that she could read the judgmental stubbornness behind his glasses, along with his concern. She could see the slight wetness of his eyelashes that told her of deep emotions he was bottling behind his British stiff upper lip-ness.

She could also tell, by the overlay of chagrin, when he'd finally understood her message.

"Yes. Well." he harrumphed. "I confess that I am glad for those things as well." He broke eye contact to gaze toward Spike. "And I regret my churlishness at not acknowledging that you chose to help my Slayer." He then looked down, dropped his needle in a stainless steel bowl, and reached for a large trauma bandage. Buffy felt herself smile, knowing how crazy her life was by the fact that this moment brought back a nostalgic memory of the first time she'd seen Giles pull one of those out of his Watcher-y doctor bag. They'd both been younger.

Knowing that his words were as close to an apology as her stubborn Watcher would be able to handle at the moment, she raised a shy half-smile toward Spike. His eyes, though, were focused on Giles. Others who didn't know the vampire as well as Buffy might see the concentration of a predator, but she saw a man confronting a puzzle that possibly was a trap. She sighed; there was a lot of time and trust to make up between those two.

"One other thing," she said. Having caught both Spike's and Giles' assessing looks, she added, "My mom has enough to worry about, and Spike's right that she's not prepared to see me wounded like this. So, do me a favor, both of you? Don't tell my mom or Dawn about this." Seeing a frown on Giles' face, she said, "I just don't want them to worry."

Spike nodded. "Got it, Slayer."

"All right," Giles agreed. He began wrapping a long fabric bandage around her middle as he asked, "So, tell me a bit about what you faced tonight. Was it that super-powered demon you ran into last night? The one associated with the Sphaera Dagonum?" Misunderstanding her tense expression, his lips tilted in amusement. "You know, the 'glowy ball' that we've agreed is clearly mystical because it's so shiny?"

That was the moment Buffy discovered that taking a deep breath preparatory to a deep sigh was also a very ouchy movement.

"No, it wasn't the fashionista demon from last night. it was a vampire," she murmured.

"Dear Lord," he exclaimed while continuing to wrap her in beige bandaging. "How many were there?" He flicked his eyes toward the vampire in the room, then returned his attention to his Slayer. "Do we have to worry about vampires, erm, banding up again as they did… last year?" She smiled at the fact that he'd avoided— for once— a reminder about the Initiative's Adam, which always devolved into a round of Spike blame-a-rama.

She smiled ruefully at her Watcher, who was doing his best for her. He'd clipped her bandage closed, smoothed it, and was now helping her to pull down the replacement sweatshirt she kept here for just such occasions.

"It wasn't an army, or a super-powered vamp. It was just the regular kind. Vampirus normalus stinkyus. Probably from some local garage band stuck on '80s Van Halen covers." She sat up straight, the way she'd always approached moments in Principal Snyder's office. Face the tongue-lashing head-on Buffy. It won't get better if you stall. "He just... beat me."

"That ever happen before?" Spike slid in a question while Giles had paused in confusion.

She gently freed the hem of her sweatshirt from Giles' fingers and finished pulling it down. "Not since I was first called."

"Well, I suppose there's been a lot to distract you recently, what with your mother. And the revelation about your sister," Giles offered, although his kind words didn't match the rapid logic-i-fying that was obviously going on behind his glasses.

"Yeah, but since when is that a new thing? I get here and boom! There's already a 'Harvest' to worry about. There's the Master. The Anointed One. Then Angelus," she said, jaw tightening as she dared Spike to say something. Wisely and still unnaturally, he remained silent while still watching her closely.

"I guess what I'm trying to say," she looked back at Giles, "is that I'm as confused as you. I'm in the best physical shape of my life and the big-hair-band dude shouldn't have been a problem. If you're asking how it happened, I don't….." She sighed. "Like you said Giles, I guess it's lucky Spike was there."

"Well I guess it's also lucky I don't follow orders, ain't it?" The blond vampire tilted his head up, pursing his lips in provocative amusement.

"What do you mean?" she asked, while musing that Spike mixed so many expressions together it was like he experienced all emotions together at the same time. Right now she suspected he was challenging her Watcher.

Spike's eyebrow flared up. "That part where, like your honey bunny, I'm not supposed to be anywhere in the vicinity of you while you're getting your hunt on? Yeah, well that didn't really take. But, if you're curious, the scent of Slayer's blood travels at least a half mile downwind." He rested his haunches on Giles' table and idly began fingering the papers and books he found there. As the Watcher started to rise, Spike's cheeks sucked in as though he were inhaling a virtual cigarette.

Yup, challenging Giles.

Once again she reached out her hand, encouraging him to say put next to her.

"It's patrol, not hunt." Giles corrected. In a snippy tone, he added, "That's the human, civilized term."

Buffy's hand tightened on the older man's arm. "No, Giles. He's right. It's like I told you a couple weeks ago. When I go out these days, it's different. It feels like a hunt." She pulled her hand back and whispered, "Like I'm channeling Sineya."

You think you know ... what's to come ... what you are. You haven't even begun.

The memory of Tara's knowing voice echoed in her head while Sineya's wild eyes bored holes through her self-confidence. She shook her head to clear the words. "Have you found anything about what we discussed?"

"No, I'm still looking into it, along with everything else." His eyes turned pale and steely as he shifted his attention to the vampire on his desk. "And I'll thank you to stop faffing about with my work." This time he stood before Buffy could stop him.

Spike's long fingers drew back suddenly from one of the books. "Got a spell on this one, Watcher.

"That's the Horologion that was at the Crawford Street mansion." Pulling the book toward himself on the table, Giles added with a sniff, "Perhaps it simply doesn't like Aurelians."

"Responds to my electric personality, more like." Pulling some of Giles' translation work toward himself, Spike began reading out loud. "One becomes many. Many become one, blah de blah. Opposites cleave together for what is a gateway if not transition and more blah de blah."

"Oh bloody hell, give that here," Giles reached over for his papers. Spike picked them up and swifted them out of the Watcher's reach while continuing his dramatic reading. He turned his duster-clad back to Giles, who rounded the table to get closer to the vampire holding his translations. Spike, lean and preternaturally nimble, managed to scoot out of his way while continuing to recite Giles' written phrases.

While the two men continued their one-upmanship, which had an uncanny similarity to times when Dawn snatched Buffy's diary to read to the room, Buffy marshalled her energy to stand. A bit wobbly on her feet at first, she steadied quickly. Toddling over to the table, she peeked around Giles. It was the usual mix of books, older books, even more older books, and notes aplenty. What was different, this time, was that Spike was actually reading. She gave him credit; she had a hard time with her Watcher's handwriting but he apparently had no problem.

"Oi. Rupes, with a bit more grunting this part here could be downright hardcore. Not bad for such a tweedy codger."

"You ignorant, minging twat. That's clearly a metaphysical joining of complementary forces."

Trying to disguise her snickering, Buffy wished she could record their routine for viewing next time she wanted to dodge a research evening. Then, drawn without conscious thought, she reached for the ancient tome that Giles had left the table in his quest to retrieve his notes.

"Owie," she said, pulling back her hand. The spark she'd felt from the book had been much stronger this time. "Giles," she tapped her mentor's back to interrupt his erudite snit, she said, "This Whore's Jeans book does an uncanny whammy on more than just Aurelians."

While Giles was still puzzling out her words, Spike had rounded the table to her side, where he'd placed his free hand unobtrusively on her back. "You felt a shock too, yeah?"

"Yeah," she looked up at Spike and then shifted her gaze to Giles. "It sparked when I picked it up at the mansion. Willow didn't feel a thing, so I thought it was just because I was maybe the first to touch it for decades. But Spike felt it this time, and me too."

"That, erm, spark would have been something appropriate to mention when you first delivered the book." Giles had reverted to full stuffy form, with a mandatory cleaning of the glasses to complete the experience.

Spike glanced sideways at her, raising his eyebrows, and she immediately knew what he was suggesting. So, she reached for the book again just as Spike did. And, oh my. That was a very different type of spark, igniting nerves from her center outward. They pulled their hands back, in tandem, leaving their fingers loosely tangled. With a shiver that had nothing to do with feeling cold, she looked at Spike. His gaze smoldered with a feeling that matched hers, mixed with surprise. His lips, soft and parted, practically exhaled passion into the air between them.

Her lips remembered the luxurious feel of his from their fake engagement. She began to twist toward him when, with a gasp, she pulled her fingers from his while bending forward to counter the pulling on her wound.

He leaned over. "You all right, Pet?" Spike murmured.

She nodded while sinking into the chair that Giles had pulled out for her.

"Yeah. Just forgot about my stylish mummy bindings." She gestured at her midsection with a wry smile that said nothing of the pain she was feeling again. "So what's with that book, anyway? She waved toward the table, deflecting attention away from her.

"I'm at a loss to say, at the present moment, what might be causing its response to… well to each of you, but not me or Willow. Perhaps it responds to the supernatural, not the magickal, though that is mere conjecture."

She looked sideways at Spike. "Translation is: No clue."

"Got that figured." The vampire's heavy lidded eyes and high-cheeked smirk was like a public opportunity to throw caution to the wind and try twisting, once more, to meet his lips. And meet his... other things.

She was almost willing to try, except for the whole 'standing up' and then twisting thing. That was a big, honking nope.

"But, speaking of translations," Spike said while surrendering his purloined notes to Giles. "This last bit about the essence of the divine and the human being locked at their source don't sound right. At least, it's not lined up with what comes before it."

"You're an expert on Middle Persian prophecy text now, are you?" Giles glowered while shuffling his notes into a preferred order. Or maybe he was just making sure to touch every page again, now that they'd been manhandled by the undead.

"Don't be a total git, Watcher. I'm reading from your bloody translations, aren't I?" Spike practically rolled his eyes. "The point is, I've read my fair share of old moldy texts, cryptic prophecies, and other barmy twaddle. That part sounds wrong, like a misdirection or maybe a bad translation. If it's Middle Persian, look for a similar Syriac text like Gospel of Mani or summat."

Giles paused mid paper-fluffle and stared at the lean, blond vampire. "You know Syriac? The Manichaean texts?" For a change, his question actually had a hint of curiosity. His eyes had that squint that meant he was studying the person in front of him.

Obviously uncomfortable with Giles being civil, Spike pulled back from the table. "Had a minion once. Explained it," he replied while pulling his duster closed. "But that's nummy research for you lot. For me, I got unfinished business."

He turned to Buffy. "That vampire. The bloody Alice Cooper knock-off. You ever seen him before?"

"No, he was new. Just like the pig farm that's taken over Parkdale Cemetery. And why are there pigs, now, roaming the town? Why can't there be a herd of shoe stores?" She peered at him, picking out amusement from his otherwise fierce eyes.

He nodded, then strode to the front door. "I'm out. Need to school a vampire about a girl." His voice dropped an octave as he spoke. His eyes were ice blue daggers, reminding her of the predator she'd first encountered several years ago, just before St. Vigeous Day. He had been younger then, just like Giles and her, although his age didn't show on his face.

"He might've already talked about his, erm, achievement from earlier this evening. It might be prudent to find out how far his boasting has spread." Giles started to reach for his wallet, obviously preparing to bargain for Spike's extra assistance.

"Keep your dosh in your pants, Watcher." The slight blond lifted his chin, looking far larger than his physical size. "I already plan to find out if the git's a market gossip, who he talked to, and end them as well." Lips pressed together, he locked eyes with Buffy for a moment. At her nod, he turned to slip out of Giles' door in a focused, hair-trigger swirl of duster.

"Well, that was dramatic," Giles broke the silence. "Though one thinks it would've been better if he'd dealt with your attacker in the moment."

She shook her head. She wished she had the energy for this conversation, but Giles was going to have to deal with Fed-Up Buffy. "Giles, 'in the moment' he decided to save my life instead of getting his grrr on. So cut him some slack." She took a breath. "When you go all snobby sarcastic-guy on him, he goes all London thug-guy on you. But when he's with me, he's helping. He's changing. We should reward that."

"He's a vampire, Buffy. They have no moral core." He glared at her. "And, may I remind you of how he allied with Adam against us not so long ago?"

"Well, good news that the 'vampire' part explains the cold hands and the blood drinkage. I'm more interested in the 'moral core' part." She matched Giles glare-for-glare. "I have only one word for you: Cruciamentum. I'm not sure what that says about the moral core of humans. But I do know that the fact that you and I are here, together, says a lot about the human value of forgiveness and trying again."

Hand still hovering around her wound, she watched his face. Stubborn anger dispelled unwillingly into something more thoughtful. He looked away, removing his glasses for a completely unnecessary cleaning while he pursed his lips in thought.

"You have a point," he finally admitted while making a fussy show of putting his glasses back on. "Spike lately has shown honor of a sort, and seems to now help you without recompense. I also now suspect that he has a better education than he lets on. In any case, I shall endeavor to look beyond my prejudices to see the good in his actions. When it's there, of course."

He sat down across from her, his pale blue eyes like twin peace offerings magnified by his lenses. "And, my dear, may I say that I'm quite proud of you. In this case, your wisdom and kindness of spirit has far outmatched mine."

"Thanks. I've had a good teacher." She smiled in a bloom of restored faith in the man in front of her. His words rang of promises that he would try to keep.

He put his hands on the table, back to being a part-time librarian and full-time Watcher. "So, getting back to earlier this evening," he said in a gentle tone. "I'm concerned that a perfectly average vampire, on his own, was able to best you."

"Boy howdy, me too." She nibbled her lip before admitting, "I wonder if the way I've been feeling about being a Slayer has anything to do with tonight. How I got injured. Almost died." Voice soft, she added, "I worry that maybe the Slayer inside me has a self-destruct-when-feral switch. Do you have any books that talk about Slayers' last fights?"

-ooOOoo-

Enveloped in the dark warmth of the Bronze, Buffy didn't feel as awkward asking Spike what she needed to know. She and Giles had both gone through numerous Watcher Diaries and associated texts looking for more information about other Slayers' final days, with no luck. But here was someone who had seen such moments, up close and personal, two different times.

"You know, Slayer, there are quite a few American beers that are highly underrated." Spike broke the silence while plonking a now empty mug of beer on the table. "This unfortunately is not one of them."

She exhaled a brief laugh. "Sorry. I had no idea what to buy. Beer and Buffy are two words that should never be used in the same sentence. I just got a mug of what I heard the table over there order." She tilted her head to the four-top nearest the corner where she and Spike were seated. Sipping on her soda water, she added, "Feel free to get what you want."

He nodded, turning sinuously in his seat. His hand was raised in an elegant call for less than thirty seconds before a leggy, brunette waitress swanned over to the table. She completely bypassed other tables where hands were raised for her attention.

"What can I get you tonight?" she asked in a breathy voice while her eyes hungrily lapped up every visible inch of the vampire.

"Vanessa, good to see you," Spike half purred while Buffy wondered if he was reading a name tag somewhere. "I'll have my usual, plus a plate of those spicy buffalo wings." He made the wings sound like foreplay.

"Extra spicy and do not hold the hot sauce," the waitress added as though describing nude poses, at which point Buffy knew that Spike hadn't needed to read the waitress' name tag.

"You got it, love. And for the lady…." He turned to Buffy. "You want another of whatever that is?" He pointed at her glass.

Shaking herself from thoughts of the actual nude poses of Spike that were stored in the Crawford Street Mansion, just waiting for… important research, she looked at the less-than-impressed Vanessa-the-waitress. "Yes please. Another soda water with lime." She smiled the age-old Queen Bee grin of "too late, girlfriend."

Visibly deflating as she wrote the order on her pad, Vanessa then turned back to the bar.

"Right. So now that's done, want to tell me why we're here? Your note in my crypt left a lot to the imagination." He smirked at what he might be imagining, although she could see the caution in his eyes.

"Okay, so this is going to sound weird," she began, calling on the spirit of Talky Buffy.

His brow rose. "This afternoon a family of camels— the desert kind, not the tobacco kind— tried to move into my crypt. So, 'weird' is set to a low bar at the mo'."

She laughed at the image of Spike battling back a family of grumpy camels. How did he know that she needed that?

Yeah, he was Spike. Of course he did.

She took a sip of her water, then said, "I need your input, your knowledge of Slayers." She looked down. "And I kinda didn't want to be interrupted or censored by anyone else being around."

"Your need's on account of your kabab mishap last night, yeah?" he asked, too perceptive as always. "And, by the way, Hell has a new rockstar wannabe with a whole nest of pals, so that's sorted."

She inhaled and then caught his eyes with hers. His head was tilted as he watched her.

"Thanks. And you're basically right." She wet her lips before adding, "I've picked Giles' brain and I've read so many Watcher diaries that I feel like a Watcher fangirl. He also let me read a couple letters from former Watchers that he received after getting the big 'Publisher's Clearing House' notice that he was the winner of a Slayer sweepstakes in Sunnydale."

She took another sip of water. "But none of them ever talk about how their Slayers died. What happened so that she lost her last fight." She inhaled. Then she sighed, seeing that the muscles of Spike's jaw were now like steel ropes under his skin. His head was held high. He was primed for insult.

She reached over the table to put her hand on his arm. "But you were there for two Slayers. I need to know what they were like at the end."

"Right. You want to learn all about how I bested the Slayers and you want to learn fast. Right, then. We fought. I won. The end." His lips pressed together in an exclamation point. He pulled his arm from under her hand and sat back. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his lighter, which he proceeded to flick like a warning beacon.

"Spike, I'm not trying to trick you. Or to stomp on you because of your Slayer of Slayers mantle. Honest. It's just... the other only source I have are those diaries. And they're all like 'Slayer called... blah, blah... great protector... blah, blah... scary battles... blah, blah... oops! She's dead'."

She spread her arms wide in a wound-insensitive gesture that elicited a slight wince. Ignoring the twinge of pain and the shift in Spike's eyes, she said, "But, here I am. A Slayer. I need details but I can't ask anyone who came before me. But I can ask you.

Spike pocketed his lighter just as they were interrupted by the arrival of drinks and buffalo wings.

"Thank you, Tricia," Spike caressed with both voice and smile. Buffy was dryly amused that it wasn't the spurned Vanessa, this time. And that of course Spike knew this waitress' name too. If he were this politely seductive with her friends, she wondered if he might already be in the inner circle of Scooby-land.

Spike took a deep sip of beer. "It's not like I can give you a quick demo or a description you can map out and memorize." His eyes focused on her.

"I get that. But… well, you probably fought other Slayers, or fought those two Slayers more than once. So, what did you notice that was different at the times when you won?"

His lips pursed as he reached for the chicken wings. Plucking one from the plate, he heartily dunked it in a pot of red sauce and took a bite that stripped most of the meat from the bone. His eyes closed momentarily in pleasure. Then he discarded the remainder of the wing and reached for another one.

Buffy made a mental note to someday ask why Spike enjoyed food so much when Angel shunned it entirely. Someday… when she was in a mood for a snarky, temper-tantrum vampire pissing contest.

Temporarily sated, he sat forward.

"First thing I'll say about my experience with Slayers," he began, "is that each one is a warrior, full stop. You all have whatever Slayer mojo is passed through the line. Extra speed, extra strength, fast healing, and so on. Don't need a vamp telling you what you already know from inside."

He paused for a swig of beer and a couple more wings. He pushed the plate her way. "Try one. You probably want the light sauce. Or, if you fancy, you can try the red one, but it's spicy."

And when did the word "spicy" become so sensually laden? Oh yeah, the first time Spike said it. Get a grip, Buffy. And stop thinking about what you might grip if you weren't in public! She stifled the urge to squirm in place.

Hopefully misreading her hesitation, he added, "No blood in the red pot. Just hot sauce."

Surely he knew her well enough by now to know exactly what would happen next. She reached out, snared a wing, and grazed it along the top of the red sauce. And then bit down, nibbling her way around the wing in seconds. It was glorious. It was overwhelming. It was... "Hot, hot, hot. Oh my God," she exclaimed, feeling as though puffs of fire smoke were coming out of her ears like in cartoons.

Through her tear-rimmed eyes, she saw Spike's grin. His tongue leisurely traveled along the edges of his human upper teeth. His eyes glinted with mischief and pleasure.

As her mouth quieted, she reached for her soda water and took a gulp. Then, after a few calming breaths, she reached forward for another wing. Once again she tapped it in the red bowl and then took a bite. This time, with her mouth prepped for dragonfire, she had no problem with the wing. After another sip of water, she sat back and said, "Okay. I don't know what to say, but that's actually good."

Spike's smile widened into genuine enjoyment. It was an expression she'd only seen during Willow's Will be Done spell. It made him look charming and young, perhaps like the man he'd been before meeting Drusilla over a hundred years ago.

He reached out for another wing. "Knew you had it in you, Slayer."

She snorted. "I'm a miracle of everyday achievement and eat-age of impossible food."

He chuckled. "And a master at avoiding the English language, despite having an actual Englishman speaking Queen's Received Standard at you every bloody day."

Ignoring her snide expression, he continued. "But back to Slayers. To most vampires, the Slayer is the subject of cold sweat and frightened whispers. But I never hid. Hell, I sought them out. And you're right that I fought several Slayers. But I'm not dust, which means I let go the ones what weren't at the top of their game. The just-called, the by-the-book fighters like that Jamaican bird you had here for a while. No glory in fighting if it's not at risk of your life."

At her frown, he shrugged, "When I ran into that Slayer in China… she was a bloody revelation. She was trained by Watchers, yeah, but knew martial arts, too. Fighting her took everything I had, and more. No better challenge, that." He smiled fondly while pointing with pride to his scarred eyebrow. "She left her mark so I'd never forget her."

"That was Xin Rong?"

"That her name? Sorry but I never knew." He pushed the demolished plate of wings aside and shifted in his chair. His leg had begun bouncing in place in his body language for let's change the topic. But, she wasn't about to do that.

"How did you never bother to find out her name?" Her eyes glinted with this visceral reminder that Spike was a vampire, not a human who cared about such things.

"Brash and young, I was. Didn't think to ask her before we got into it. 'Sides, I didn't speak Mandarin, did I?" His leg was tapping. "Come on, been sitting too long. The far pool table's open." He stood, tossing down some money while picking up his beer.

"You have money, now?" She picked up her own glass and followed him.

"Sometimes do," he answered tersely. He took a sip from his mug, put it down on a side table. She kept quiet while he economically went through the steps of racking balls, picking and chalking a cue stick, and breaking the first shot.

He signaled to her while saying. "Thing is, most vampires don't know a Slayer's name. It's like how nobody knows the name of the bogeyman, 'cept maybe Watchers. And, after the fact, it's not like I could walk up to the Watcher's Council and ask the name of the bird what died in China in such-a-such year." He locked eyes with Buffy. "Don't mean I didn't respect her."

"Hmm," she hummed while making her own shot.

"I did try to find her name once when holed up with Rupes. When he let me out of bondage, that is. And now I know it." He waved over another waitress and ordered a beer with a shot of whiskey, with more water for Buffy.

Returning his attention to Buffy, he said, "That Slayer, Xin Rong, she was the one what taught me to never lose focus in a battle, not for a second. She also taught me the Slayer's 'Lesson the First'."

"What's that?"

He glanced around and then quickly whipped his hand around her neck. It wasn't a real collar; his hand was loose. Even so, she instinctively grabbed her pool cue and brought it up as a weapon.

His face shifted and yellow eyes met hers. "Lesson the First: a Slayer must always reach for her weapon. But I've already got mine." He removed his hand from her neck while his human visage returned. He seemed to be checking that she was all right before turning to line up a shot on the table.

Focused there, he said, "You learned that lesson somewhere along the line; it's one of the many reasons you've chalked up so many years already." He stood; his lips pulled in a not-quite-happy smile. "When I first met you, it was something you didn't know."

He finished his run and gestured for her to shoot. "Don't get me wrong. I loved the balls you had, all brash and young while you threw down your weapon to challenge me. And it was fun to fight you mano-a-mano in your school. But it was a rookie mistake. The type other Slayers have made before I let them go."

"And yet, you didn't let me go." She arched her brows knowingly.

"Didn't I, then?" He said from across the table. "You really think Mum with an axe was enough to chase away a vampire with over a hundred and twenty years of fighting under the belt?"

She stopped, blinking, seeing him in a new light. She'd always known in a Sineya-level, instinctual way that Spike was a deeply dangerous foe. Had she really been so green that she hadn't questioned her easy escape in their first fight? Apparently, yes.

She lined up her next shot, but missed.

Spike stepped to the table. "Eight in the far corner," he murmured, pointing lazily with his cue stick.

And, of course he sunk the shot. After the ball plunked in the pocket, he turned to her. "Nikki Wood taught me to know a Slayer's name. She was the Slayer in New York. I fought her a few times before…." His eyes darted away from Buffy's. "Well. In any case, I have nothing but respect and honor for her." He paused to settle his duster, gazing back at her cautiously while he brushed its lapels. "I know the name of every one after her, but I never met most of them."

He tilted his head back and drank his whiskey shot, then chased it with the last of his beer. "You remind me of Nikki in how you fight. No holds barred. Thinking on your feet. Using whatever technique or weapon you have." His lips rose in a tentative smile. "These days, I miss that I can't fight you. Even to spar."

"Uh huh." She looked heavenward at his glib flattery. Well, ceiling-ward. And were those monkeys perched on that speaker in the corner? Why were there monkeys in the Bronze? Were they into alt-rock and ballads? Free pretzels from the bar?

"Right. I'll be honest then," Spike filled her silence. "I do miss other things that a Slayer wouldn't approve. But having to put everything I have into fighting with you, that's in the top ten."

She graced him with an amused smile. "Okay," she rested her pool cue against the wall. "I get that the two Slayers you're known for, Xin Rong and Nikki Wood, were tipity-top notch. And, with a well-timed ego boost-a-matic, you say I can consider myself near their level." She pursed her lips. "I need to know why they died at the top of their game. So I don't join them."

He stopped in place the way only a vampire could; no movement, no blinking, no breathing. Then he relaxed into a reel of movement. "No question you're at their level." Cue stick still in hand, he said, "Come on. Game's over. Let's go outside."

Once again, she followed the restless vampire to somewhere new that was also a few yards away. But of course, it was somewhere old as well: the alley of the Bronze, where she'd first met Spike.

"You were over there," she pointed, "when I first saw you," she felt compelled to confess.

His eyes took on a faraway look. "I saw you before that, dancing inside with your chums like the very flame of life, burning and unquenchable." His deep chuckle followed. "You were sunlight, itself, though it took a while until I understood that."

"Wow, you must have been a poet in a former life," she said. "You know, before the whole thug-punk thing. Or maybe the whole Victorian vampire thing."

He glared at her from over the bridge of his proud nose, a flicker of yellow bleeding through the blue of his eyes. "Not bloody likely," he said, lip raised in a sneer.

"Whatever," she replied in a casual tone, even though she knew she'd hit solid gold. William the Bloody, who changed his own name to Spike, could interpret prophecies, use SAT words on a whim, and wax poetic when he felt so moved. As an expert at misdirection, she knew she'd spotted a big, juicy, look-the-other-way distraction.

Maybe she'd casually chat about her upcoming poetry homework assignment in a day or so.

Spike had started waving his pool cue in the air, circling and blocking the way she'd seen him do when they'd first fought. He looked good doing it, and knew it. He probably also knew that the fighter in her was taking notes on his form. Yup, distraction.

"So, I hate to interrupt your manly feelings with weapons," she said. "But, Slayers. Why were you able to beat Xin Rong and Nikki Wood?"

He spun his pool cue to a stop. "First, I have a question for you. What were you thinking about while you were fighting Alice Cooper in Fangs?"

She sighed, sitting on a stack of wooden crates. "I was thinking about the fight, but my head wasn't in it. Probably it's like Giles said. Mom; Dawn; that demon in party dress who whammo-ed both of us like piñatas. I don't even know how we'll fight her."

"Fair enough," Spke said, resting his cue stick against the frame of the Bronze's back door before coming closer. He leaned on the wall near her. "But like you told your Watcher, there's always been distractions. What's different now? Or at least, last night."

I live in the action of death, the blood cry, the penetrating wound.

"It's Sineya," she said. "The first Slayer. Now you know her name, too." She smiled gently. "She's one feral, Rasta-mama beeyotch. And she's moved into my head, bringing her her cryptic one-liners and her bones-and-sinew furniture."

"Beeyotch?" He snorted. "You know you can swear around me. If you need a bad language jar to make it right, I'm sure I can find something to collect your hard earned change." When she finished chuckling, he continued, "What do you mean that she's in your head? You've been reading up on her, or summat?"

"No." She looked at her fingers, makers of Sineya's action of death. "Something happened when Willow, Xander, Giles, and I did our mind-meldy thing to defeat Adam. Somehow Sineya appeared. Like a free-range spirit guide full of deep, killy-kill-kill energy. She haunted all of us that night in our dreams. After that, she's just with me. I hear her words."

No... friends. Just the kill.

"I am not alone," she asserted. "But Sineya was. I think she stripped away her humanity and became nothing but a killer." She gazed into the distance. "I worry that I'm becoming her. That my urge to hunt is the Slayer in me becoming Sineya. Or maybe that, to survive, I'd have to become her. I don't know, but that's what I think is distracting me. Plus Mom, Dawn, college, scary demon lady, and the whole shebang."

Spike gazed at her. If she had to guess, she'd say there was awe mixed in his usual preternatural curiosity.

"Well, You're not alone, Slayer. You've got family and friends, which I'll remind you were the bane of my existence and the destruction of my every evil plan." His lips pursed in humor, but moments later it was his turn to look at his fingernails. "If you need, I'll be there to back you up, too. Just say the word."

"Thanks Spike," she said, truly touched by his explicit offer of support. It was just like she'd told Giles: when they were alone, he actually was trying to help her. "I wonder, though: does having family and friends along for the Slayer experience make me weak? A mediocre Slayer who needs help to keep from getting whacked by hygiene challenged rock-and-roll vampires?"

"It makes you different. Not weak." He speared her gaze with his. "Your chums can't keep up with you as a Slayer; you have to protect them. So they're not what makes you the best Slayer I've seen. That's all you."

He shifted. "From what I can tell, they help you like a clan. Not wired the same, so I don't understand it from the inside, but I can see it. It's like how you helped Tara with her rat-pack family when you didn't have to. They give you a reason to fight; they keep you connected; they help you see things that you wouldn't otherwise do."

"Huh," she replied. Talky Buffy had apparently left the conversation.

"So, for what it's worth, here's what I think." He took a deep, unnecessary breath. "I don't know about Sineya, but just because she was the original slayer don't mean she's right. I never got the sense that Xin Rong or especially Nikki was in touch with this Sineya the way you describe. So, you're not trending on some downward slide they were on."

"So how were you able to kill them?"

"Lesson the second: ask the right question, which I think I think you're trying to do. The question is 'Why'd they lose?' and that takes me back to your family and friends." He pushed away from the wall and started pacing.

"Think about it: how many vampires and other nasties do you reckon you've done for?"

"Hundreds. Not enough."

He nodded. "Right. And they just keep coming. You can kill a hundred, a thousand, a thousand thousand and the enemies of Hell besides and there's still more. After a while, fighting that, fighting alone, wears on a human, especially one that's so deeply infused with good the way you Slayers are."

She was watching him carefully. Back and forth, back and forth it was like a tennis match being played by one person.

"The Slayers I've seen before you had reached that point. Too many fights, too many years, again and again. Even Nikki, who maybe even had a child, had lost that 'extra' that would've kept her pushing night after night. Oh, they fought brilliantly, don't get me wrong. They were each more than good enough to have killed me if I'd misstepped even a tiny bit. But when they needed the final, extra fire to burn bright, it guttered instead."

He stopped pacing and turned to look at her. "That's why I asked what you were thinking about during that fight. I was trying to see if you were near that point, but you're not. You may be momentarily overwhelmed but I think you've been there before. I don't think you're living with a death wish."

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "Way I see it, you've got something in you that's like the demon we vampires have to deal with."

Seeing her start to rise, he held out his hand for a pause.

"Wait, hear me out. Lots of vampires just follow their demon whether it's toward mayhem or toward the end of a stake. It's loud and can overwhelm, but we have the choice to not follow. I think it's like how humans can choose to not follow through on an idea 'cause it's lethal or evil."

He peeked to make sure she was paying attention. "In your case, you have the voice of an ancient Slayer shouting her wisdom at you, based on her life. It's distracting, but you have to figure out when to listen. And when to shove her advice 'cause it's pure poppycock. Probably you'll figure that out day-by-day."

"Huh," she cleverly repeated her earlier comment. She leaned back. "That makes an odd amount of sense. Day-by-day, It's like "seize the moment," which is kinda how I get it done, anyway." She smiled remembering one of her first conversations with Willow, so sweet and young, featuring that advice.

Before she could say anything else a matched quartet of short, scabby demons rounded the corner of the alley at full, sandal clattering speed.

"Oh no, they mustn't see us," one of the demons gasped, betraying that it had failed Remedial Stealth 101. Another one added, "There was only supposed to be one for us to kidnap. Kill them both" A demon in the back shouted, or maybe it squealed, "Our mission has failed. We're going to die!"

"Well, that last bit can be arranged," Spike said with a smile. He tossed his pool cue to Buffy while bringing his demon to the fore. Racing toward where the demons were gathered, he was neck-and-neck with Buffy. Surprisingly, the demons put up a good fight. They were like flappy, sword wielding versions of PIgpen from Peanuts, assuming that Peanuts took place in a dimension with horrible skin diseases, tiny monk-like outfits, and vicious sword skills.

At some time during the fight, Buffy discovered that the squealing she'd heard was actually a small, wriggling pig that one of the demons was holding in its arms. It was far cuter than the demon, Buffy decided, as she freed PIglet and dispatched the evil, pig stealing demon.

Within a few moments, they all were gone. PIglet was trotting toward pig mama, who'd appeared with glaring eyes in the far end of the alley.

"Hey, let's go inside, where we can celebrate that apparently we make a good fighting team." Buffy said.

He glanced sideways at her, a speculative look in his eyes. Then he shrugged. "Sounds good. But if we order more, either you're paying or I'm putting it on my tab." He patted his duster. "I'm low on the folding green in my pocket."

She paused. "Okay, so you obviously have other ways to get money. Why do you sometimes ask Giles for cash?"

He opened the Bronze door. "Partly so he remembers he don't own me, he just rents my time. But mostly it's 'cause I like seeing his face when I do. He looks like he just drank clabbered milk but is too posh to just spit it out."

She gigged, knowing exactly which look he meant.

"What can I say? I've always been bad," he intoned dramatically in a low, baritone voice as they scooted through the back door in time to avoid Mrs. Pig's surprisingly quick, uddering charge their way.

In the narrow hallway leading back into the Bronze, she reached out behind her for Spike's hand. It felt surprisingly right. Perhaps this was part of 'seize the day' also. Rounding the corner, she saw that the gang was there at a table: Willow, Tara, Xander and Anya. She felt Spike start to pull back his hand, but she kept hold of it.

"I'm not ashamed of you, Spike. Like them, you're my friend." Maybe more, she thought, but that wasn't something she could decide in one evening.

She looked over and there was that look of awe again. She decided she rather liked being the person who could cause that expression to appear on his so very handsome face. Seeing that the waitress Vanessa had spotted them, she smiled with all the cheerleader satisfaction she possessed.

.

-ooOOoo-

.

Back at his apartment, Giles pulled off his glasses. Dammit, the bloody vampire had been right again. Reading through the Manichean Gospel had given him the key he needed.

Knowing that Ethan was free, as Buffy had dutifully reported the other evening, he was sure the Chaos Mage had unleashed something unnatural. Reading between the lines, he even had a suspicion of what spell the bastard had used.

And now he had a way to find and throttle his former friend. The passage Spike had found wasn't talking about how the divine and human were locked at their respective sources. Instead, it asserted that their energies could traverse worlds while yet being traceable back to their origin. The spell he'd built would find the proper gate to traverse, by itself.

Giles closed his spellbooks and locked his front door. Yet again, he thought with an annoyed squint. And then, he began laying out the items needed for the spell-within-spell casting that would be required to shut this madness down.

.

-ooOOoo-

.

Not too long after that, somewhere still not findable by garden variety locator spells….

Ethan's eyes snapped to the far corner of his workshop where an ice-blue disturbance had suddenly fisted itself, mid-air, into the room. It widened and grew until it was large enough to frame a tweed-clad figure who stood like a butch Venus amid a man-sized shell of cobalt waves.

Well now, how very unexpected and wholly inconvenient. The mage quickly reached out to all of his wards and determined that they were intact. Likewise his physical motion detectors were working, yet had not been triggered.

While still verifying the integrity of his humble fortress, he said, "Ripper, darling. You remembered me after all this time alone. How utterly lovely."

Rupert Giles, with a forceful, scathing tone never used amongst the youngsters in his orbit, replied, "Your hand in recent events was unmistakable. And careless even for you. With what you unleashed, you could have undone this dimension."

"Always so dramatic and judgmental, old chap. And truly you wound me." Ethan lifted his chin while asserting, "I was not careless at all. Unlike you, I see the hand of Janus in the world's beginnings and ends, locks and gates, and twins separated only by flesh. To reset the hand of the deity upon such things is not a disservice. Chaos, an instrument of Janus, is a law of nature, like bloody gravity."

A low chuckle rolled from his chest. "Beyond that, perhaps it tickled my fancy to see how long it would take you to figure out that it was me."

"And to what do I owe such a singular dishonor?"

"Old times, broken loyalties. stolen lovers… Really, take your pick," Ethan sneered. "Oh and yes, lest we forget," he paused as his eyes narrowed, "you handed me over to that lovely government non-entity where they attempted to pick me apart to find the bones of my magicks and implant me with bionic twaddle to see if they could control it. None of which worked, the stupid wankers."

"Only after you turned me into a Fyarl so I could be slaughtered by my own Slayer, which might've destroyed her as well," Ripper immediately snapped back, his eyes now scorching with the blue energy he molded around himself. "Had we been alone, I'd have had your guts for garters myself."

"Ah, been hanging around too many vampires, have we?"

"I can truthfully say that I know at least one vampire with more honor than you. But enough. I know your games; this little 'chin wag' is merely distraction." The energy rippled around him. "I'm here to give you one chance to reverse your spell, Ethan. For old times sake, and all."

"Bully for you. And do tell: what's my motivation?" He arched his eyebrow in a tart's come hither. "Humor me. You know how I love a villain's monologue." Of course, Ripper had been quite right. While they'd been speaking, Ethan had mentally reviewed his options. Since his former partner in magicks was manifesting through a portal, an aspect of Janus, it should be possible to unleash a spell to follow the energy back to its source. But, dammit, he needed more time to work out the particulars of casting such a spell without speaking. Or without betraying his intent by wheeling over to Janus for the physical contact that would bind the spell.

Ripper's lip lifted in mordant humor. "A villain's monologue. Yes, you did always love to hear yourself speak," Then, with a pleased, unfriendly smile he said, "With a little something I found in old Shapur's Horologion, I could easily render this entire building into ash using the power leashed within this portal. Of course, that would take you out as well. Shall I do it?"

Rupert Giles flicked his fingers, causing the icy blue of the portal to intensify and hum. Ethan felt Janus behind him, pulsing in sympathy.

Bugger. The arsehole might could do it.

Nevertheless, old habits die hard. "You're bluffing, Ripper," he asserted with painted-on certainty. "That tome has been lost for near on a century."

"Turns out the Aurelian vampires are like magpies and have been collecting magical gew-gaws for more than a century. And, more than one of the clan feels inclined to help my Slayer, who of course helps me." He paused to let that sink in.

Ethan felt the line of Janus' power flare, redirecting itself away from him and toward the portal. Because, all portals were under Janus' purview in the end.

Dammit. His lips pursed in sour fury. "Fine," he spat. "Well played, this time." He locked eyes with the image of Rupert Giles, avenging warlock, who apparently had only grown in power as he'd gained years of life. "I'll reverse the spell," he ground out. And, of course he would, knowing that he could recommence the spell later after he figured out how Ripper had tracked him down, this time.

Ethan spun his chair and wheeled to his worktable. The portal behind him grew until it seemingly touched him, prickling along his skin in what he certainly wouldn't describe as a caress. No doubt it was Ripper's energy shaping it. Gazing at his block of the original Ianus Geminus, Ethan inhaled deeply, placed his hand on top of the block, and then voiced the spell to undo his original request through tight, unwilling lips.

Then, spinning in place, he turned to Ripper. Having touched Janus, his fingers were alive with his spell to follow the other man's energy back to its source. But he hadn't counted on the spell that Rupert Giles had methodically woven into his avatar. As the portal contracted, having lost Janus' borrowed power, Ripper's image contracted into a veined ball of energy that reached out to envelop Ethan like a giant man-o-war.

Ethan's fingers dropped, his spell lost before he could throw it. Lightning ripped through the seated mage's body, from his skull, down his spine, and through his feet like an infernal zipper. Finally, the overwhelming, blue veined electricity dissipated, leaving Ethan lit only by the candles that flickered around his workshop.

"Oh, such lovely agony. Ripper, you never disappoint," his drawled, turning to where his old partner had stood. With an odd pang, he saw that even the image of the man was gone. In a lower, growling tone, he added, "Too bad you didn't stay for my very special after-party." Without realizing it, he had stood up to approach the missing portal. Looking down at his functioning legs, his eyes lit up with glee. "Well, well, well. Good on you, old man. I knew you cared, harsh darling that you are."

Then he reached his innate magic out to Janus as he'd done hundreds, no thousands of times over the decades, searching for the deity's spark. And... nothing. There was no answer. He walked over to touch his hard-won block from the original Ianus Geminus, but there was no sense of the god's presence. The ochre-rimmed eye facing him was blank and unseeing. The adamantine eye of darkness reflected in the mirror seemed to be looking beyond Ethan as though he weren't there.

"What the…," he muttered while flicking a spell to raise the candles' light. And again, nothing happened. Blinking, he walked to his table and shoved everything aside until he found the grimoire he'd had since his teens. Picking it up, he opened the pages to read out his very first intentional spell. The text was jumbled and indecipherable. Cursing under his breath, he spoke the spell from memory. It was a simple spell to float the scatterings on his writing desk into the air. Yet nothing moved. No papers fluttered, no pens or pencils gave up their gravity. Nothing happened at all.

"Bollocks," he exhaled as he leaned both hands on the table in shock. His magic, which had been his constant companion since he could remember, was completely, entirely gone.

"Rupert Giles, you absolute, buggering bastard," he whispered, realizing that the man who had once been his closest mate had one-upped him yet again. Perhaps permanently.

.

-ooOOoo-

.

While back in Sunnydale….

Ethan's undoing spell, focused through the twin eyes of Janus, rippled through the dimension, reversing unnatural bindings and closing the gateways that Ethan's original invocation had called forth.

Geese that descended from those who'd guarded the Ianus Geminus for the Romans lost their mission. Leading their waddling followers, they meandered back to the ponds just out of town. Gates in zoos, circuses, and farms suddenly all became lockable, as expected, while the animals that had escaped looked around, confused about their whereabouts. Far underneath the ground, within ancient passages of the Deeper Well where it bored through the planet, other antediluvian, supernatural locks resealed. Firmly trapped once more, Old Ones such as Chthon, Thuron, and Illyria, ceased their stirring and once again were unable to call out to cultivate earthly acolytes.

Closer to home, in the corner of the empty Magic Box, fragments of Toth's staff shimmered while Toth's twinning spell vaporized, leaving behind broken pieces of wood. Several other manifestations of Ethan's calling, many of which had not yet been activated, similarly faded and disappeared.

In a swank penthouse that was far more extravagant than a hospital intern's salary could afford, the god named Glorificus screamed as her essence ripped from the body of her host. Now entirely mortal, Benjamin Wilkinson collapsed on the floor as lifeless as he had been weeks ago when Glorificus first raised him for herself. No longer glamored, the track marks from his final overdose were barely visible from under the taffeta sleeve of the cocktail dress in which Glorificus left him.

Meanwhile, as the god's minions watched in horror, a baleful haze oozed like a greasy scream of fury from the man's mouth, eyes, and pores. Collecting like a sewer's miasma, the darkness wafted through the rapidly closing gateway to the other side, where extra dimensional energy normally resided. After a moment, the minions themselves begin to disintegrate, with bits dropping on the carpet until the late intern Ben's body was surrounded by clots of odd clothing and ashy debris. The Sunnydale police, finding no evidence of barbeque forks, would eventually chalk the death up to a gang on PCP.

And what of the girl named Dawn Summers? On the other side of town, she felt a strange sensation, like body-wide heartburn, for barely a second. Released from its unnatural human binding, the Key to interdimensional portals left her. Speeding away to its eternal, ageless self, it awaited its intended purpose many centuries in the future. The girl Dawn merely shrugged and continued with her homework, now mortal and bound solely to the magicks of Mother Earth through the flesh and blood of her family, dead and undead.

At the same time, Dawn's mother felt an odd clarity as the pain of her non-stop headache lifted. The Key's portal-opening energy, a trace of which had lodged within her due to proximity to the girl, unwound from the woman's neurons and reunited with the Key. Mrs. Summers wasn't sure what had happened but, in all honesty, she hadn't felt this good in a while. She made a mental note to ask Spike, this weekend at the gallery, if he still could sense oddness in her blood flow. Somehow she suspected he wouldn't.

And meanwhile, what of new feelings that might have grown due to the temporary changes that Janus' influence had unleashed? Although an opener of gates, including those that allow feelings to come through, emotions were something that the dual, stony faces of Janus could never touch. Even after people encountered artifacts influenced by Janus, such as the last remaining copy of Shapur's Manichean Horologion, the engendered feelings of acceptance, belonging, and even love belonged solely to those who felt them. It was true of the Watcher, the Scoobies, just like everyone else.

And thus, all of the love— and occasional exasperation— felt for Dawn Summers remained in the hearts of all those where it had kindled. LIkewise, the impractical, miraculous love a vampire felt for a Slayer and her nascent reciprocation… those feelings belonged to their own hearts, where they had never been touched by a careless witch's spells or by Janus' urgings. There they remained to be tended and blossom as the two of them chose.

And, from the stories told in later years it seems apparent that, over time, they indeed discovered and tended that path, together, for the rest of their days.

And thus endeth the tale.


END NOTE:

This chapter fulfills the following Challenge Prompt 5 of the 2021 Elysian Fields Mystery Fic-a-Thon Challenge.

YOUR FIC MUST CONCLUDE WITH AN HEA/HFN

Proof of prompt usage:

LIkewise, the impractical, miraculous love a vampire felt for a Slayer and her nascent reciprocation… those feelings belonged to their own hearts, where they had never been touched by a careless witch's spells or by Janus' urgings. There they remained to be tended and blossom as the two of them chose.

And, from the stories told in later years it seems apparent that, over time, they indeed discovered and tended that path, together, for the rest of their days.