Tired and weary of browsing through volumes of dry texts, Giles removed his glasses and massaged his eyes with the backs of his hands. Even after the dull weary itch had faded, he continued to rub as if he could scrub it all away.
Before he could dwell on his unhappiness, a rapt knock on the door drew him forth from his thoughts.
"Yes? Oh, Ms. Hartness, please do come in."
Closing the door behind her, Ms. Hartness surveyed the cluttered desk and let out a soft chuckle. "Research, Mr. Giles? I wasn't aware you alone were in charge of the advancing apocalypse."
His eyes crinkling, Giles smiled. She always knew how to barge into a room like an irritatingly welcome friend and make him smile amidst danger, worry, and responsibility.
"Yes, well. It can never hurt to try. Though truth be told I feel as if I might as well be doing nothing anyway, there's so little to go on. And quite frankly I don't know what to do, Marissa."
Word of the first two murders had spread quickly. The Council, per their form, was predictably slow to consensus and action. But it didn't stop others from having their own ideas. Regardless of any theory, something was coming. And no one having any idea what it was made people very, very nervous.
Recognizing the slow sticky dread of helplessness in Giles' eyes, Ms. Hartness gently nudged Giles' chin to meet her gaze. She beckoned him to stand, wrapped her arms around as far as she could reach, and held him tight.
They swayed silently for a few moments, two little buoys adrift in a wide, dark, and tumbling sea.
Breaking the comfortable silence, Ms. Hartness pulled back to look at Giles. "Rupert. She's not making any improvements."
Meeting her gaze, Giles sighed. "Yes, I know."
"Good. Then I think you realize we've done all we can for her here."
Seeing him opening his mouth, preparing to interrupt, she placed a finger over his mouth and continued. "Rupert. It's been months. She came to us broken. She's still in pieces, but….she's stubbornly resigned herself to live. And I doubt she's even realized it, but she has. In fact, she'd probably deny her own will, bu I daresay she's stronger than she gives herself credit for."
Shaking his head, Giles agreed. "Oh, I have no doubts that Willow gotten remarkably better. But it's only been a few months, do you really think she's ready to go back to Sunnydale?"
"My dear Giles. She'll never truly be ready, but she is needed. For whatever is coming. There will be a great battle fought on the Hellmouth soon as you well know, and your Slayer will need all the help she can get. Willow must go back. It won't be easy, but there's nothing more we can do to help her here. The rest is up to her. And her friends. And you." She finishes, looking up at him with a smile in her eyes.
Giles smiles back. "She thinks you're afraid of her, you know."
Chuckling softly, Ms. Hartness replied "Oh don't be ridiculous. I couldn't be more afraid of her than Tupperware. Now, come. Let's go to her, shall we?"
Pain.
That's all that he could remember. There was no room in his brain for anything else, all possible thoughts scattered like ants by new waves of torment.
Blinding flashing pain besieged him and tore through his flesh. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, but no sound escaped. He was trapped in a bubble of anguish.
It seemed endless, stretching on into infinity, pulling him to the far corners of wherever he was.
He thought it was pain at first, what else could it have been? But for a moment - a miracle moment - his back stopped spasming. Primal body functions kicked in and relishing the respite from agony, his spine relaxed into a gentle natural arc.
It seemed that the moment his back relaxed, the rest of his body followed, each muscle softening slowly like butter. It seemed to take forever, but the agony and sound eventually melted until he was just Spike, with elated tears of thanksgiving leaking from his eyes.
Limbs sprawled out, he lay panting heavily on the ground, praising whatever Gods above and below for the solid terrain he could grasp.
Grateful for his newfound freedom, he was nonetheless aware of his vulnerable state. Desperate for survival now more than ever, he forced himself to his knees and scrutinized his surroundings. Bracing his aching arms on his thighs, he opened his eyes and froze.
Trash cans littered the damp alley. A dumpster lay dormant against the far wall. And a bent golf club stuck out like a spider leg from a dank cardboard box.
It was the exact same alleyway he had come from.
Except it was daylight.
Spike ever so slowly raised his gaze towards the sky.
And didn't burn.