Chapter 4: After the War

As the moon's celestial glow illuminates the faces of wounded, grieving and exhausted slayers, Buffy flashes Faith a look.

I hate this.

Faith looks back at her with troubled but strong eyes.

Me too.

The two of them continue counting how many slayers remain alive post-apocalypse - a morbid process that never gets any easier. The group of courageous girls that stand before them (and the ones that don't) knew what they signed up for when they took this gig. Even so, it doesn't make the aftermath of war any easier on the Scoobies' collective conscience.

Spike stands a couple yards away from the crowd of "good guys" in an attempt to avoid any unwanted reunions. However, his conspicuous hair and inability to be quiet for longer than five minutes is bound to betray him eventually.

"Alright, listen up," Buffy announces. "Angel has graciously arranged for us to fly back to Cleveland on the private plane he stole from Wolfram and Hart-"

"I didn't steal it. I just …" He lowers his voice. "... didn't give it back." Buffy shrugs in response.

"The plane is operated by magic so Willow will stay in the cockpit to make sure nothing goes wonky," Buffy continues while Xander tries not to laugh at the word 'cockpit'.

Illyria materializes next to Willow, who has a difficult time keeping her gaze anywhere else but the God's form. She's Fred … but she's not. Her posture, her speech, her movements - are distractingly perfect. Inhuman. She no longer smells like lilies or some other floral scent that one couldn't help but fall in love with - instead she smells like nothing. The otherworldly being beside her is still an exquisite and iridescent beauty - but she's not Fred.

"Your eyes linger. Why?"

"I, um. I'm sorry. You just … you look-" Willow is caught off guard by Illyria's candidness.

"You knew this shell," she interrupts, her voice devoid of emotion. "Fred."

"I did. A little." Willow doesn't know what to say. How do you mourn someone to the thing that killed her?

Illyria has an almost non-existent capacity for grief and right now, it's reserved for Wesley, and Wesley alone. She couldn't care less about a stranger's discomfort or sadness over her appearance. But he would. Illyria thinks to herself for a moment. What would Wesley say to this weakling?

"I am sorry for your loss. I am told she was a special girl," she responds, leaving the conversation before Willow can say anything else. The witch wrinkles her freckled face into a look of puzzlement, watching the magnetic woman leave her presence. It's not often she encounters someone of her caliber. Xander's gonna get a kick out of her, she thinks to herself.

Meanwhile, Buffy is still in speech-mode.

"Angel and a few of his soldiers will be accompanying us on the trip home. We will provide them a safehouse until we can ensure that the fight is truly over." Buffy flashes her soft green eyes at Angel and then Spike, who both note the twinge of doubt in her voice. It wouldn't be the first time old enemies resurfaced.

Turning around, Xander's eye follows Buffy's gaze toward a bleach-blonde vampire hiding in the shadows. He flinches, clearly taken aback by his appearance.

"Holy crap," Xander mumbles.

Knowing he's been caught, Spike rolls his eyes into the next dimension and waits for Xander to blow his cover to everyone.

"Bloody hell."

"Spike? Is that Spike?" Xander chokes, drawing attention to both of them.

"In the flesh." He presses his lips together tensely and buries his hands into jacket pockets. A few familiar faces circle Spike, dazzled by his return to the land of the living.

"It's The First! Guys, it's The First!" Xander's voice is shrill. He points an accusing finger at Spike, triggering the swarm of Slayers to tense into their fighting poses. Buffy suddenly feels inclined to get involved.

"Wait, guys. It's okay. For those of you who don't know ... this is Spike. He's an ally." Buffy feels strange simply calling him an "ally." For her, he is much more complicated than that. "He was dead but now he's not. He'll be … coming back with us."

The Slayers relax accordingly, causing Angel to look a little disappointed; he was kind of looking forward to seeing where that went.

Willow joins Faith and a few former Potentials who proceed to crowd around Spike. Some poke his face to make sure he's corporeal while some wait for some kind of deeper explanation. Willow, however, stands beside him looking entirely unphased by his appearance. Spike notices her casual demeanor.

"You knew?" he questions.

"I could sense your essence while I was doing my spell up there. Figured Buffy might be upset if I set ya on fire," Willow shrugs softly.

"You could sense me? That's awfully creepy, Red."

"Is it any less creepy that you can smell people from far away?" Willow counters with a raised brow.

"Touché."

"Is it too early to make jokes at your expense?" Xander chimes in, grinning from ear-to-ear. "'Cause I thought of a few good ones while you were dead."

"Knock yourself out." Spike pats him on the shoulder a few times and wriggles away from the horde of humans. Buffy refocuses on what she was saying.

"Uh, good work tonight, everyone. We'll reconvene when we reach Cleveland."

Buffy thinks that about wraps up her speech. It lacked the cinematic feel she hoped to achieve but right now, all she can think about is getting on that plane. Spike will be there - with answers. Faith senses that Buffy is finished talking and decides to take over.

"Alright. Let's rock." Faith nods to her formal rival, leading the group to Angel's aircraft.

The lingering scent of petrichor and smoke fills the air and follows them to their destination. There's an eerie quiet as the mass of remaining warriors trek through the streets, through the mud, through parking-lots and whatever else stands between them and the get-away plane. They're exhausted, but determined. They're ready to go home.

Angel's aircraft is above-average as far as magic flying machines go. The windows are larger, the seats are cozier and the storage is fully-stocked with every snack and beverage known to man. As Buffy stuffs her face with cheese puffs, cheetos and brownies, she starts to understand why Angel trusted the corrupt company of Wolfram & Hart in the first place - they make everything look so shiny.

Buffy makes her way through the plane with her half-eaten snacks, eyeballing everyone and everything until she locks eyes with Spike who - of course - is sitting at the very back of the plane, away from all the chatty adolescents.

There's a tense moment where Spike can't tell if she's going to sit with the fellow slayers or opt for the loner life and join him in the back. His crystal blue eyes wander down to his hands, which are fidgeting uncontrollably in anticipation. Get it together, ya ninny. It's just Buffy … oh, God. It's Buffy. He notes the patter of two ankle-boots that come to an abrupt stop when they reach his row. Spike lifts his head up to find the blonde hanging over him.

"Mind if I sit here?" Buffy asks.

"Sure," he answers, trying not to sound too eager.

Xander squeezes through the aisle with a cart of beverages to distribute to thirsty slayers. He passes Angel sitting alone, also isolating himself from the rest of the group. He leans down and opens one of the drawers, revealing some blood bags.

"Buffy and I found these in the fridge. Take it before I vomit, please." Xander gags (ostensibly for comedic effect) and holds out a blood bag for Angel to take.

Angel, who is faint from hunger, practically snatches it out of his hands and rips it open, before pouring it into a glass; Xander watches with a pure look of disgust on his face.

"Missed you, buddy," he chokes out.

"No, you didn't," Angel retorts.

"No, I really didn't." Xander continues making his rounds, leaving behind the broody vampire. Angel swallows the cold blood, wincing a little as it travels down his throat. You really couldn't heat it up for me? Wow, I've become ridiculously high maintenance.

Faith pops a squat down next to Illyria, who looks outside of her element on this flying contraption. She seems deep in thought - as usual.

"First time flying, princess?" Faith interrupts the God's contemplation, lifting one leg onto her seat and hugging it close. Illyria barely registers her presence.

"When I was young, we rode magnificent beasts. Flew through the air and demolished kingdoms as one. We had no use for such technology."

"I'm guessing Angel didn't advocate for you keeping the dragon."

"He asked the Wiccan to send it back to its native dimension per my request. There it will thrive. Here it would … fester." Illyria keeps a knife-like gaze on the window, eyeing the far away landscapes from above.

"Yeah, they're not exactly low-pro," Faith responds.

Illyria can't help but equate herself to the dragon; she is very much an alien in this world, especially without Wesley to guide her. In a moment of weakness, Illyria wonders if this world will ever accept her; if she'll ever make sense here.

Faith notes the flash of fragility on the God's face and decides to show uncharacteristic concern for a stranger.

"I heard you were tight with Wes," she begins, prompting Illyria to stare daggers into her. "I also heard you were kind of a student of his. I was once, too." Faith glances around for prying eyes before pulling a flask out of her jean jacket and taking a swig of whiskey. As a leader, she tries to keep her alcoholic tendencies hush-hush. "He tried to help me. Be a mentor to me. But I didn't let him. It's nice that … he got the chance to be that for you."

"In my time, your defiance would be punishable by death," Illyria answers coldly.

Faith takes another gulp of her dry alcoholic beverage.

"Why do you think I did it?"

Faith slithers out of her seat and heads for the cockpit to check on Willow, to get away from people and conversations she regrets having. On her way down the middle aisle, she is taunted by the words that came out of her mouth. Why do you think I did it? Faith had never admitted that outloud - that her impulsive actions in the past were not just a cry for attention, but a cry for death.

The brunette escapes her own thoughts by popping her head through the door to find Willow sitting in the pilot seat, drowsy and dangerously close to falling asleep.

"Hey. All good in here?" Faith queries.

"What?" Willow's body jerks to the sound of Faith's booming voice. "Oh. Yeah, totally. Everything is peachy!" She gives Faith a cheeky smile but the slayer can see the fatigue in her face.

"You're exhausted. Go to sleep. I'll keep watch."

"What, no. I can-"

"Don't sweat it. If this thing decides to spiral into chaos, I'll wake you up. But I'm sure we'll be fine. Besides, we're almost there."

"But-"

"Willow, you kicked ass today. You deserve rest. " Faith shuts the door behind her and hovers over Willow with a hand on her popped-out hip. She wears black, leather pants with a studded belt and a buttoned-up jean jacket over it. Her dark-brown mane is pulled back and around her shoulders, revealing her vehement stare. Faith's ebony eyes are deepened by silver, smokey eyeshadow and heavy eyeliner - a classic look for her. Maybe it's the way the interior lighting is hitting Faith just right or the fact that Willow is totally out of it but the red-head is definitely checking her out.

"Are you sure?" Willow questions, realizing her eyes have been wandering for too long.

"I'm sure." Faith's eyes wander down to Willow's bare arms clasping onto each other for warmth. "Here." She instinctively unbuttons and slides off her jacket, revealing a red tank that accentuates … everything. Faith wraps it around the witch's shoulders like a cloak. Willow is too exhausted to analyze the girl's weirdly nurturing gesture - as much as she'd like to.

"... thanks." She contours the coat to her body. The last thing she sees before closing her eyes is Faith leaning back in the chair beside her with a leather-covered leg on the dash and a flask on her burgundy lips. Willow finds herself enjoying the view for a few seconds before getting pulled into slumber.

At the back of the plane sit Buffy and Spike - in silence. Buffy has a million questions for the man beside her: who brought him back to life? Why was he working with Angel? And the one that's eating away at her - why didn't he just tell her he was alive? She can tell Spike is flustered without even looking directly at him. His pale, veiny hand vibrates on his leg, anxiously awaiting a conversation he clearly isn't ready to have. The slayer decides it's been a long, long night -and she's having trouble even keeping her eyes open. Buffy makes the bold decision to nuzzle her face into his shoulder; it smells of pine and cigarettes and everything she'd forgotten in Sunnydale. Spike freezes as she does this, a warmth brewing in his chest. Buffy's eyes flicker shut and she rubs her jaw into his side more, finding herself wanting to be as close to him as humanly possible. It's safe; familiar. Spike had forgotten what it was like to feel so connected to someone - to her. After a few moments, he gently rests his cheek on the top of her head. The two don't dare move a muscle or say a word for the rest of the night.