Sometimes I miss how simple it was when I was just the Slayer.
The vampire pinned to the wall snapped and clawed at her arm, and she winced when she saw the gouges it was shredding into the leather of her jacket. She tightened her grip on its throat, the vamp's yellow eyes widened in fear as she drew the stake back, and with an ever-growing tinge of guilt that she was killing yet another vampire who was someone's mother, sister, wife … something … instead of restoring her to humanity, she rammed the wood home.
Her hand was suddenly grasping nothing except empty air, and she closed her eyes as a familiar bloom of undead dust settled over face and chest. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered if she should be wearing a mask.
Could vampire dust be carcinogenic? I doubt the Watchers know … slayers generally don't live long enough for it to matter.
"Took you long enough," Spike said as he cleaned the edge of his axe using a scrap of cloth undoubtedly sliced off some vamp's outfit during the battle. When Spike was satisfied that the blade was clean, he dropped the scrap of fabric and glanced about. "Is it just me, or is this already getting easier?"
"Not that I've noticed," Angel said in a pained half-moan as Xander and Oz helped him to his feet. He had a bloody scratch running down his neck and he limped as he stepped away from the broken table he'd been thrown into.
"Chin up," Spike replied with a cheery, disingenuous smile. "You'll get the hang of it."
Angel glowered at Spike and made no reply.
"I think I know this nest," Xander announced as he glanced about.
"Oh yeah?" Oz asked. "How many people did you kill here?"
"Oz!" Buffy scolded him. "No soul, no guilt, that's how it works … do we have to go over this again? Maybe it would be easier for you to remember if I just had some t-shirts made up."
Oz raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I get it."
Buffy unclipped the radio on her belt and raised it to her mouth. "Any of the vamps escape the building?"
"One," Giles's voice replied through the static that crackled on the radio. "Larry took care of it. He didn't get very far."
"The Master send any reinforcements?" she asked.
"Not as of yet," Giles replied.
They hadn't lost anyone since she'd returned to this reality, and she intended to keep it that way. Each night they worked nest to nest, building to building, with proper lookouts and lines of communication. The Oz and Xander from this world had already been fighting for years, which was helpful, but Angel's return to humanity meant that the stronger vamps could easily out-muscle him, which wasn't helpful.
Worth the trade-off, though.
Oz reached down, picked up a brightly colored super soaker, and held it aloft so that Angel could see it. "You dropped this."
Angel, with laborious steps, walked over and grabbed the gun. "Thanks," he said as he slung the weapon over his shoulder.
"Seriously though, we hit that factory after we tricked the Master and his goons into waiting for us at City Hall, and that was still tougher than this," Spike observed. "Are we thinning them out?"
Buffy considered the question. "Could be. Or it could be that the Master is massing his forces somewhere." She ran her fingers over the rips in the sleeve of her coat and felt like crying. "This was lambskin."
"Better lambskin than your skin," Spike said, and everyone nodded in agreement.
She tucked her stake into a holster at her belt and resolved to find jackets made of sturdier animal hides.
"Where now?" Xander asked, and he once again had that fervent, bloodthirsty gleam in his eye that Buffy was growing increasingly worried to see. "We've got time for one more nest, right?"
"Slow down, killer," she said, and she tried to soften the words by flashing a wry smile. "That's two nests down, and it'll be sunrise in a few hours. That's good progress for one night … it's time to head back."
"Couple months ago, if we patrolled this far into downtown Sunnydale, we would have run into a lot more than two nests," Oz said. "Or more likely, we'd be dead."
"Like I said, progress," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. The Master had gone quiet since the factory had burned down … too quiet.
He's up to something.
They made their way back through the former factory-turned-vampire nest, checking behind each pillar for concealed vamps, and Buffy turned a blind eye to Spike rifling through anything that might look like it might hold something of value. When he snagged a few glittering objects from what appeared to be a jewelry box, she wondered what surprise he'd have for her later. It would be nicer if he worked a job and earned the money instead of looting the lairs of the undead, but she supposed it was the thought that counts.
Angel brought up the rear, and he seemed smaller than he had before, somehow. The black coat didn't billow behind in the same way when he walked, the shadows no longer clung to him, and if anything, he seemed out of place. She slowed down, and when Spike shot her a questioning look, she made a shooing motion and urged him to keep walking. She waited until Angel had caught up to her before she spoke. "Hey," she said, "this will get easier. You just need to adjust to the new body."
Angel stared straight ahead as he limped along, and it was several long seconds before he replied. "I appreciate the attempt at a pep talk, but Buffy, there's a fine line between pep and pity."
"It's all pep," she assured him. "I'm pepmeistering it up over here. Trust me, after a few more weeks of nest-hunting, you'll feel like your old self." She reached out with a fist and nudged his shoulder, then immediately regretted it when he winced. "You're still big and strong."
Did that sound as lame to him as it did to me?
"You're twice my size and about a foot taller," Oz called back without turning around. "I can't say I have much sympathy."
Angel opened his mouth to retort, then the spirit seemed to go out of him.
"You'll adapt," she assured him. "Though it wouldn't kill you to actually show up to sparring every once in a while … you're two weeks into humanity and you haven't shown up one time."
Angel tensed for a moment before he replied, "It's not just the strength, Buffy, I'm slower, my reflexes are gone, it's …"
She held up a hand and cut him off. "Enough. You'll adjust, if you try to adjust. Also, maybe work in some holy water once in a while? That vamp wouldn't have smashed that squirt gun out of your hand if you'd been spraying it in the first place."
"I never used to fight with …"
"Stop!" she said, and the word came out louder than she intended. "We all need to get the way we used to do things out of our heads, me included. Everyone is checking their egos at the door and we're using every tool we have. Slayers have gone out by themselves for …. for forever, I guess … and they die one by one before they're old enough to legally drink, and that isn't going to be me, and it isn't going to be my friends."
When Angel didn't reply, she stepped in front of him and forced him to a stop.
"Angel? Are we on the same page?"
His expression darkened, wrinkles appeared on his brow as his face tightened in anger, then in an instant, it was gone. He smiled at her and replied, "You're right, I'll adapt." The smile deepened, a warm glow appeared in his eyes, and yet she knew that with every passing day that Angel became more convinced that he'd made a mistake. If she didn't assure him otherwise, eventually the regret would tear him apart. She glanced behind her and confirmed that everyone had exited the building, then she turned back to Angel and was surprised to find him standing right next to her. He stared down at her with his dark eyes and waited to see what she would say nothing. There was a world of questions, of longing, of hurt in those eyes. In another time or place, she'd want to learn more about it, about all of it, but this wasn't that time or that place.
Don't look at me that way.
"There are positives to being human," she reminded him. "Morning is almost here, and as far as I can tell, the sunrise always cheers you up."
He chuckled and nodded in agreement. "I'd usually be looking for a place to hide right about now, but instead I can't wait for dawn."
"I hope this means you're almost done moping," she said.
"I don't mope," he protested.
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed and glanced away.
"Maybe there was some behavior in the vicinity of moping," he reluctantly admitted. "But I've been looking through those journals you and Giles have been working on, and I get it. The curse was too dangerous."
I hope you never learn which parts of the journals I didn't photograph …
Her radio crackled at her hip and Spike's voice could be heard through the speaker.
"What in the bloody hell is taking so long?"
"Time to go," she announced.
Angel nodded in agreement, and they proceeded side by side towards the raised, rolling metal door.
. . . . . . . . .
It felt good to be out of the basement, though she still hadn't stepped foot outside of Sunnydale High School since the day she'd been restored to humanity. The windows and skylights had given her glimpses of blue skies and sunshine, and the warm, comforting library provided some respite from the all-too-often chilly subterranean rooms in which she'd been living, but she still felt trapped.
Considering that I haven't actually attended a class for a few years now, it's a little weird that I've spent the last two and half months in high school. At least Buffy finally agreed to stop having someone follow me everywhere … it's nice to use the bathroom in peace.
Then again, she had nowhere else to go. A few of the White Hats, out of pity, had tracked down some of her belongings that hadn't garnered any interest at her parents' estate auction. Other than those cardboard boxes, her old life was gone. She'd have to visit her mom and dad's graves, of course, and even though she'd known they were dead for well over a year, she'd known as a vampire, and grief as a human was an altogether different experience.
Her heart throbbed in her chest, the memories and guilt threatened to overwhelm her, and she closed her eyes and practiced the calming exercises that she and Tara had been working on. As was often the case, her mind turned to the moment of her restoration to the world of the living. She'd been snapping at the arms pinning her to the wall of the basement and fighting against the chain locked around her neck, Xander had been roaring and promising bloody retribution, and Buffy had grabbed her jaw and forehead and held her still while Giles plunged the glowing hypodermic needle into her neck. The pain had been excruciating at first, and then the real her woke up.
Initially, the sensation of being alive had overwhelmed her with joy, then she remembered what she had done as a vampire.
A small, soft hand reached across the library table and rested upon hers.
"Will, wherever you are right now, come back," Tara said in a gentle, soothing manner.
Willow's eyes snapped open, and she tried to smile. "Thanks. I needed that."
Tara was living a nightmare for so many months … and I was part of it … why doesn't she hate me?
Some of the White Hats hated her, she knew that. Oz hated her most of all, but Tara not only didn't hate her, she'd forgiven her.
If only I could forgive myself.
"You're going to have to let it go," Tara said. She trembled slightly, and Willow could tell that she was also battling against the memories.
"Tara, I am so, so …"
As she tried to apologize, Tara withdrew her hand, shook her head, and cut her off. "Don't say you're sorry. Angel and Buffy are right … you, Xander, everybody who was turned, it wasn't you. You're stuck with the guilt, and the trauma, and the memories, but every day it gets better, doesn't it?"
It does, with your help, Tara …
She wanted to agree, to simply say that Tara was right, but she wasn't. She wasn't, and she had to tell the terrible, horrific truth to somebody or keeping it secret was going to eventually poison her every waking thought. "Tara, when Buffy says that the vampires aren't us, she means it because she doesn't know any better. When Angel and Spike say it, it's a comforting lie, but they know it isn't true. Not really. Xander and I know better."
Tara's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What do you mean."
"Being a vampire, it's not like becoming a different person," she admitted. Even if this meant Tara would hate her, like she should, she had to tell her the truth. "It's more like the part of you that you went your whole life pretending didn't exist is free to do what it wants. Angel isn't tormented by guilt because Angelus was evil for hundreds of years, he's tormented by guilt because he knows that the demon that crawled into his head did nothing except unleash the worst parts of himself."
Tara stared at her for a long time, and Willow was afraid that she'd frightened or horrified her, but finally Tara spoke, and when she did, her voice was calm and comforting. "Will, everybody has parts of themselves that they hate, or that they're ashamed of. We all have impulses that are evil, but our conscience, or soul, or whatever, for most people that's what's important. You didn't kill or torture people when you were yourself, so the fact that some part of you went wild when you were a vampire, sure, maybe that's part of who you are, but it's not all you are." She paused a moment then continued. "You know that, right?"
"I know," Willow murmured. "But finding that out about yourself is … is horrible."
"We are not defined by the worst parts of ourselves."
Willow forced a wan smile. "I sure hope not."
Tara picked up a water bottle, took a long sip, and Willow could tell that she was trying to think of a natural conversation segue.
"Will, do you mind if I ask you something?"
She nodded in response. "Anything, Tara. You know that."
"Well," Tara said as she plucked at a purple sleeve of her thick, woolen sweater. "Buffy is pretty forthcoming about the Master, and everybody we should be scared of, and magic, and all of that … but she doesn't talk much about us, as people. Do you understand what I mean?"
"I do," Willow agreed. "Probably for a pretty good reason."
"But you went to that other world," Tara continued, "so you saw what it was like, and you met all of us, right?"
"Not you," Willow corrected her. "I think in that world, you never got nabbed. I … I never …" Her words trailed off and she found that she was beginning to shake.
"Willow Rosenberg," Tara said, and her voice had the slightest edge to it. "We are not drifting back to that subject!"
Willow nodded and drifted her eyes downward towards the computer that Giles had reluctantly allowed her to set up within his sanctum of leatherbound tomes.
Tara continued, "What I've been meaning to ask is, what was it like meeting yourself? In that other world, I mean."
"Weird," Willow replied. "Really, really weird. I mean, I was a vampire, so I hated being reminded of the weak, pathetic, mewling, worthless …"
"Will," Tara snapped.
She shuddered for a moment, then tried again. "Right, sorry. Anyway, I kind of hated myself, but I also kind of … wanted myself … as twisted and wrong as that sounds. When you're a vampire, there's this constant pressure, this thirst for death, for blood, to just destroy, and it makes everything else seem unimportant. I was a witch there, as I guess I am here, but way better. I don't think I was as good as you are, though."
"I guess I have the Master to thank for that," Tara said, and her voice thick with fright, and her words hesitant. "I had to learn quickly enough to be of use, or I'd be eaten, as he often reminded me." She cast her eyes down, and Willow wished that so many things about their lives were different than they were. "How different were the other Buffy and Angel?"
"I hated them so much that it's hard to remember," Willow admitted. "But the Xander from that other world was unrecognizable compared to our Xander. I mean, he isn't a vampire anymore, but our Xander hasn't gone back to the way he was before. At all."
Tara frowned. "He hasn't always been this intense?"
Willow shook her head. "Nope. Nor as violent, nor as handy with anything that has a point or an edge."
Tara picked up a pencil and chewed thoughtfully at the tip. Her shoulder length hair curled the slightest bit at the edges, and Willow found herself fascinated by the way the morning sun gave Tara's locks the slightest golden glow. Willow reached up and self-consciously patted at her own short-cropped red hair while she glanced down at her baggy jeans and hot chocolate-stained white sweater.
"I think Xander needs to get laid," Tara announced. "And not as a vampire. Vampire doesn't count."
Willow's eyes widened in shock, she glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot, then they both burst out laughing. When the moment of mirth had died down, Tara smiled, and Willow felt her still half-frozen heart thaw just the tiniest bit more. "You're bad," Willow informed Tara. "Though that doesn't mean you're wrong."
Xander and I are non-vampire virgins.
"It's good to hear you laugh again," Tara said as she leaned back in her chair.
"You know," Willow said with a thoughtful expression on her face, "now that the neighborhoods around the school have been cleared, and we've got the cameras and the patrols set up, we could try heading out … when the sun is out, of course. Maybe lunch?"
Tara froze in her chair, and Willow could see the slightest tremor of her hands as she lowered them to her lap.
"Or we can keep staying in the school for a while," Willow hastily continued. "It's safe and warm in here, and neither of us should go wandering around town until we're sure we're up for it."
Tara nodded, Willow reached out her hand, and Tara extended her own to grasp it. They both snatched their arms back when the library doors swung open.
"Good hunting?" Willow asked as Buffy trekked into the library, followed shortly thereafter by Spike, Angel, and Xander.
Tara stiffened in her seat when no one else walked through the swinging doors. "Where … where … is … everybody?"
Willow hadn't heard her stutter in weeks, and it horrified her to hear it again. Tara kept her hands in her lap so that no one would see the nervous flutters of her fingers, but Willow could see the movements of the muscles of her wrists and forearm. When they were alone, Tara was fine, but the more people were around, the more apprehensive Tara became.
How can she be the most comfortable around me, the person she should hate the most?
Buffy's voice was reassuring as she replied, "Everybody is fine, Tara. A few of the White Hats decided that they actually wanted to attend class."
"A perspective I wish more high school-aged acquaintances of mine shared," Giles observed as he slung his long overcoat across the book counter and dropped several stakes into the weapon bucket, as Buffy liked to call the rolling, oversized trashcan they used to store weapons.
"I feel like a bit of a broken record," Buffy said as she dropped a stake and a hand-axe into the weapon bucket, "but any sign of Kendra?"
"Nope," Willow replied. "She must be taking the scenic route."
"If I was her, I wouldn't be in a hurry to get to Sunnydale either," Spike observed. He produced a startling number of weapons from within his leather coat that he proceeded to discard one by one into the bucket.
Buffy tossed her brown leather coat, which looked to have been shredded along the sleeves, next to Giles's jacket, then she cast a discerning gaze in Willow's direction. "Everything been going okay in here? Have you had the urge to do something that would make me very angry at you?" She narrowed her green eyes and crossed her arms.
"No, no," Willow quickly assured Buffy. "Self-harm is not on the agenda, I can promise you that." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tara smile, and Willow decided that was reason enough to keep trying.
Spike headed towards the makeshift kitchen in which a hotplate, several mini-fridges, and a small table had been placed, and Angel moped around by the swinging doors while Giles and Buffy sat down on either side of her.
"Any luck on the digital side of things?" Buffy asked as she gazed at the screen.
"Making progress," Willow replied. "I've been putting out anonymous suggestions that some bioengineered, military-developed virus is affecting the behavior of people in Sunnydale, the government is covering it up, people should stay inside at night … all the stuff we discussed."
"Wonderful," Giles murmured as he frowned, removed his glasses and began to clean them. Willow waited, but Giles refrained from voicing his usual protests over the inclusion of technology into their efforts.
"Good job, Will," Buffy said as she patted her on the shoulder.
Willow rifled through a stack of paper on her desk and pulled out a particular slip. "I did have a few questions, Buff," she said.
Buffy nodded. "What?"
"Well, some of these names you gave me, websites, things like that … are you sure they exist?" She looked up from the paper and stared at Buffy.
"Actually, no," Buffy admitted with a shrug. "But the ones that don't exist yet, buy stock in them."
"Buffy!" Giles protested. "You were the one that suggested, over Spike's objection I might add, that we not use knowledge of the future for personal gain."
"It's Willow's gain, not mine," Buffy pointed out. "Besides, I was only kidding."
"In addition to spreading fake news, as you so adroitly put it," Willow continued, "I've found out a few things."
"Like what?" Angel asked as he stepped closer and joined the conversation for the first time. "Like where we can find the Master?"
Spike uttered a sharp, barking laugh, then he crossed his arms, leaned against the book counter, and stared at Angel. "Not that you could take him on the best of days, but right now? He'd eat you for breakfast. And lunch. Maybe there'd be enough left of you for dinner."
"Spike!" Buffy protested.
Angel hid his reaction well, but Willow could see his jaw clenching and the hands in the pocket of his coats knot into fists.
"Will, what did you find out?" Buffy asked as she desperately tried to change the topic of conversation.
"Well," she replied, "the city finally figured out that Mayor Wilkins is gone for good. They're going to swear in the deputy mayor and hold a special election in a few months to find his successor."
"He's really not coming back?" Tara asked, and the room fell silent and still at the intensity of the fear in her voice. "I … I saw him a few times, for spells, and to … teach me. He scared me more than the Master did."
"He's gone," Buffy confirmed.
"We watched him turn into a giant snake and explode," Spike added.
Angel glanced at Buffy. "Is he serious?"
Buffy nodded and Angel shuddered for a moment. "I hate snakes," he admitted. "Ever since the Master …" he glanced around the room. "Never mind."
"You know, Willow said as she pursed her lips and wrinkled her brow in thought, "we could have someone we know run for mayor." She turned to stare at Giles.
"Forget it," Spike said.
"Spike's right," Buffy said. "Elections are a waste of time." She removed her hand from Willow's shoulder, raised her arms and stretched, and Willow was fairly certain that Spike and Angel both stared at Buffy's bare midriff in the exact same appreciative manner.
It is a rather nice mid-section.
When Willow realized that she was also staring, she snapped her eyes away just in time to catch Tara unsuccessfully trying to hide a frown.
"I'm going to take a nap," Buffy announced as she lowered her arms. "A long one. Wake me when school's out for the day."
"Buffy," Giles interjected with a pained look. "I know that the situation is dire, but it has been dire for quite some time. Don't you think that high school …"
"Stop," Buffy said with an upraised hand. "Don't bother. This is the way my life went, Giles. The school of hard knocks is going to be the only institution of higher learning that might award me a degree, okay?"
Giles hesitated as if he intended to argue, then he gave a slight nod of his head.
Oz swung open the swinging doors, scowled at the sight of her, then addressed Buffy. "That Watcher and slayer you've been waiting for? They're here."
"They are?" Buffy asked. "I'd almost reached the conclusion that they weren't coming."
"Well, to be more precise, that Watcher is here," Oz said by way of amending his earlier announcement. "That slayer, Kendra, isn't."
"And where might she be?" Giles asked with a note of concern in his voice.
"Probably getting herself killed," Angel muttered.
"Angel!" Buffy scolded him.
"He's right though," Spike added.
"Buffy, I have to ask," Oz interrupted, "are you sure this Watcher is the guy you've been waiting for?"
"Pretty sure," Buffy said with a nod. "Why? What's wrong with him?"
Oz for a moment seemed at a loss for words. "Where do I start?"
The doors swung open again and a thin, diffident looking man with precisely parted light brown hair and oval spectacles walked in. His blue-striped Winchester shirt looked freshly pressed, his light grey suit was overly large and ill-fitting, and while Willow didn't look at his feet, she suspected that if she had, the conservative Oxfords he undoubtedly wore would have been polished to a mirror shine.
"Am I ever going to stop running into this git," Spike announced in a mournful, pained tone as he rubbed his eyes and shook his head.
"I beg your pardon?" the newcomer asked in an aggrieved tone.
"Sorry," Larry said as he burst in behind the newly arrived Watcher. "He's wilier than he looks."
"We expected you a few weeks ago," Buffy said as she walked over to the book counter and leaned against it with folded arms. "And we expected you to have a slayer with you."
The man cleared his throat as he gazed around the room at the expressionless, and in some cases hostile, expressions directed his way. "Yes, well, the finely honed instincts of the slayer charged to my care, Kendra Young, alerted her to the presence of a potential nest in one of the buildings we passed on our not-particularly-scenic, and exceedingly expensive, taxi ride through Sunnydale." The words were English accented, and the effete phrasing was delivered with a reed-thin, high-pitched voice.
"This guy's a rogue demon hunter?" Angel asked as he gestured towards the Watcher.
The newcomer frowned, reached into the inner pocket of his oversized jacket, and pulled out a small leatherbound journal. His brow furrowed in a thoughtful manner as he flipped through the pages. "Rogue demon?" he asked. "I can't say I've heard of that particular variety of hellspawn." He closed the notebook and tucked it away.
Everyone in the room exchanged looks.
"We'll simply have to trust Buffy as to this gentleman's eventual usefulness," Giles announced.
"Perhaps introductions are in order," the Watcher said as he stepped nearer to Buffy. "Ms. Buffy Anne Summers, I presume. Wesley Wyndam-Price, at your service. I am here hoping to offer guidance, assistance, help of any sort …"
Angel shook his head and muttered, "Somehow I doubt you're going to be of much help."
Wesley frowned and asked Angel, "And who might you be."
"Angel."
Buffy reached out, patted Wesley's arm, and when she had regained his attention, she leaned back against the counter. "I have a question, Wesley," she said. "Why did you let Kendra wander off by herself? I was there for quite a few of the increasingly insistent and borderline impolite messages Giles left for you, and I remember with crystal clarity that we told you to bring her straight to this high school before she did anything else in Sunnydale."
"She's the Slayer, following her instincts and slaying vampires is what she does," Wesley protested as he stared at Giles. "Mr. Giles, I must admit that I, along with every other Watcher, are at a loss as to what has been happening here in Southern California, but I would hope that you have not forgotten about the duties of the Slayer."
"I don't need you to lecture me on the duties of the Slayer," Buffy admonished him. "Including the duty to not get killed in a new city because you have no idea what you're up against. There are hundreds of vampires in Sunnydale and nests big enough to overwhelm any slayer."
"Yes, well …" Wesley spluttered as he glanced about in nervous confusion, "the Slayer does tend to work alone."
Spike walked over to the book counter and leaned against it next to Buffy. "Kendra's not going to last long, but hey, you Watchers have never cared. Find 'em when they're young and dumb and keep 'em poor, that way they're easier for you to control, right?"
"Mr. Giles, I must insist …" Wesley began to say.
"They have a point," Giles interjected, and a bit of the resentment and anger that had been building for the last few years bled into his words.
"There's more than one slayer now," Buffy informed Wesley. When she saw a skeptical expression on his face, she nodded towards Spike.
Spike reached into the weapon bucket, grabbed a baseball bat, and tossed it to Buffy.
She snatched the bat out of the air, broke it in two, then broke those smaller pieces into two again. She then tossed the splintered wood back into the bucket and refolded her arms.
"That was my favorite vamp-smashing bat!" Larry protested as he stared with a look of horror at the bucket.
"Sorry," Buffy said with a wince.
"Well then," Wesley said with a flushed, nervous look on his face. "I will admit that there were doubts that Mr. Giles's reports were accurate," he ignored Giles's harrumph of irritation at the lack of trust, "but I can see that he was correct." He looked Buffy up and down. "Ms. Summers, you are alive, you remain a slayer, and although this raises many questions, it also raises many possibilities. I expect that …"
Spike smacked at the book counter, everyone leapt, and Wesley stopped talking. Spike pointed a finger at him and with a grin said, "You were head boy once upon a time, weren't you?"
"Why, yes," Wesley spluttered. "How ever did you know?"
Spike laughed, shook his head, and vanished into the kitchen.
Buffy stared at Giles. "You're up."
. . . . . . . . .
"Mr. Giles, I cannot say that I appreciate being ushered back here as if I was some embarrassment of an interloper," Wesley protested. "And while we're speaking privately, I'd like to point out that half the volumes on those shelves should not be accessible to teenagers, Ms. Summers seems even more out of control than we had feared, and …"
"Stop," Giles said as he opened a draw of the desk with one hand and raised the other palm outward. "Just, stop, Mr. Wyn … Wesley."
Giles extracted an amber-colored bottle of scotch from the desk, set it on the burnished, glossy dark wood of the desk, then reached back into the drawer and extracted two glasses. He placed the drinkware next to the bottle and poured two fingers worth of whiskey into the tumblers. He recorked the scotch, set it on the wood, then picked up one glass while simultaneously pushing the other towards Wesley.
"You're going to want to drink that," Giles recommended.
Wesley took in his surroundings … claustrophobic office, dark wood desk with delightfully old-fashioned yellow lamps with the little dangling chains, ancient manuscripts piled on the end tables and couch … and then he pushed the scotch away.
"Thank you, but it's a little early for me."
Giles took a long swallow, then nodded. "I suppose it is rather early. Then again, I've been up all night." He gestured towards the glass. "Really, you should down that. I would have preferred to have this conversation later, after you've adjusted and we've all had a chance to feel each other out, but Buffy insisted that you be told immediately."
"She does seem to be in charge around here," Wesley murmured.
"What was that?" Giles asked with narrowed eyes and a heated voice.
"Nothing," Wesley immediately replied. "Thanks just the same, but I'll pass on the offer of alcohol at the crack of dawn. What I would like, however, is a look at your journals. All of them." Wesley leaned forward and proceeded to do an exceedingly poor job of feigning sympathy. "There are some who think you've been out here too long, Mr. Giles. That maybe leaving the Watchers wasn't the best thing for your mental health." He rapped at the table with his hands, then continued, "I'd like to put those foul rumors to rest."
Giles finished the glass of scotch, then poured himself another. "I have something to show you," he announced after he'd taken another sip. He set the glass down, turned to the side, and wheeled closer to the desk a metal stand upon which a large television sat. The bulbous glass of the cathode ray tube was only a few feet from Wesley when Giles stopped pushing the cart.
"We're going to watch television?" Wesley asked with a puzzled expression on his face.
Giles ignored the question, leaned forward, and slipped from its case a VHS tape sitting on the edge of the desk. He inserted the tape into the VCR set in the shelf beneath the television, then pressed play. Once the machine had begun to whir, he turned on the TV and sat back in his chair.
"And what am I supposed to be seeing?" Wesley asked.
"Shup up and watch," Giles snapped.
Wesley flinched at the harshly delivered admonishment, then frowned and turned to the television. The blackness vanished and a video depicting several people in the lobby of a hotel, celebrating a victory, began to play.
After a few minutes, when the tape had stopped, Giles turned off the television and VCR and sat back to gauge Wesley's reaction.
"That device," Wesley began as he pointed at the TV with a trembling hand. "What was that?"
"That was a video recording taken of Buffy's phone," Giles explained. "The video on the phone was part of the slayer journals given to her by … well … we'll get to that in a minute. Basically, Willow pointed a video camera at a video playing on Buffy's phone so that we could show it to you when you arrived."
"And Willow is … who?" Wesley asked.
"The young witch you saw seated in front of the computer in the library," Giles explained. "Red hair, twitchy … you couldn't have missed her."
"Red hair, yes," Wesley said as he nodded his head and continued to stare at the television. "Mr. Giles, that was me on that video, was it not?"
"It was," Giles confirmed.
"And …" Wesley said as he slowly withdrew his shaking hand and set it on his lap. "I looked older, and I'm not sure what happened to my neck, and that man I just met, Angel he was there, too, along with several people I do not know." He turned to stare at Giles. "What did I just see? What trick is this?"
"No trick, I assure you," Giles said with a solemn, grim tone. He opened another drawer on the desk and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "This is for you. I have not violated your privacy by reading it." He extended his hand and Wesley retrieved the paper, opened it, and with jaw agape read its contents.
"I never told this to anyone," Wesley said as he crumped the paper into a ball and jammed it into the front pocket of his jacket. "How did you … what is going on here?"
"You did tell someone, just not anyone in this world." Giles pointed yet again at the glass of scotch. "Drink that, and I'll explain."
Half the bottle of scotch was gone by the time Giles had finished explaining.
Wesley hiccupped, covered his mouth for a moment, then with somewhat slurred words said, "I'd prefer to believe that you cracked under the strain than accept that we are living in a dimension created by a Vengeance Demon's curse."
"That would be more pleasant for both of us," Giles conceded as he refilled his glass, then stoppered the bottle and tucked it back into its cabinet drawer. "But I'm afraid what I've told you is true."
"That willful and insolent girl, Buffy Summers, has seen the future … or a future, anyway," Wesley intoned as he tried to digest all that Giles had told him. "I find it hard to believe."
"Willful, yes," Giles conceded as he leaned back. "Insolent … not so much anymore. She knows things she could not possibly know, and she brought with her from that other world technology, knowledge, that could have come from nowhere else. Also, I believe her, and I trust her."
"Still …" Wesley protested, "there are other potential explanations."
Giles tapped his index finger at the glass for a moment, then replied, "There are two other people here in Sunnydale who have seen that other reality and can confirm that I've told you the truth."
"Why did you tell me?" Wesley asked as he drained half of the scotch left in his glass in an attempt to muster a certain amount of liquid courage. "It certainly doesn't seem like you care much for me."
Giles took another sip and stared at Wesley in silence.
"I cannot help but notice that you are not disagreeing," Wesley said with a frown.
"Buffy has a list," Giles finally replied. "Your name is on it."
Wesley tilted his head, and when further details were not forthcoming, asked, "A list of what, exactly?"
"People, for the most part," Giles replied. "People who were important to her and her circle of compatriots in the other reality, people who could help, most importantly, people who could be trusted."
"I have faced two vampires," Wesley said as he drew himself up straighter in the chair, "though I will admit to feeling somewhat flattered."
"Yes … quite," Giles said with a frown. "I checked your credentials rather thoroughly, and whatever that other universe's Buffy saw in you, it doesn't show up on your resume."
Wesley ignored the jibe, finished his glass, and shook his head. "This is a lot to take in. My life, my reality, it's a lie?"
"Oh, our world is very real," Giles assured him.
"I suppose," Wesley continued, "from a certain point of view, this me would have died, erased as I if I had never been, if you had succeeded. What happened to me in that other universe? What was my fate?"
"I honestly don't know," Giles admitted. "When it comes to knowledge that will help us fight and keep us alive, I'm all ears. As to everything else, I tend to think that ignorance is bliss."
"You might be right," Wesley admitted. "Still, the temptation has to be overwhelming."
Giles shook his head, removed his spectacles, and set them on the table. "If you saw the look Buffy gets when the subject comes up, I suspect that there are things we may not wish to know about our other lives."
"Perhaps that is wise, Wesley admitted. "Who else has been told the truth?"
"All of us who are working together in Sunnydale," Giles replied. "Kendra will need to be told, but the Watchers Council? It might be best …"
"I cannot keep this secret from them."
Giles shrugged. "If you tell them, they'll conclude that you have gone mad and recall you immediately. After that, you'll be subjected to multiple lengthy, and thorough, psychiatric evaluations."
"Well, I certainly don't need to tell them right away," Wesley said in a rather hasty fashion. "It can be put off for quite a while … months, perhaps years … until I've thoroughly researched the issue and am prepared to make a comprehensive report."
"Very wise of you," Giles said in a bone-dry, amused tone.
Wesley reached for the glass, then remembered it was empty. "Any other existential revelations I should know about?"
"Buffy brought back with her the secret of a cure for vampirism," Giles relayed.
Wesley gasped and half stood from his chair. "You cannot be serious."
Giles stared at him and said nothing.
"You are serious," Wesley intoned as he settled back into his seat. "What is the secret?"
Giles chuckled for a moment, then replied, "The blood of a Mohra demon, of all things.
Pity that they are so rare and, apparently, ill-tempered."
"Unbelievable," Wesley said in a near-whisper.
A short, balding man with prominent teeth, protruding ears, and pale skin beneath a too-tight grey suit chose that moment to poke his head in through the office door. He wrapped at the wall, smiled, and in an obsequious, near-fawning tone asked, "Mr. Giles, I was hoping for a minute of your time to revisit the topic of keeping study areas off-limits to students during school hours."
"The library and basement are off limits for the time being, you know this," Giles replied in a sharp, biting tone. "Or should I have Spike remind you?"
The man raised his hands, shook his head, and a few beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Just thought I'd check and see if you still needed all that space." He paused a moment, wiped at his glistening forehead, then continued. "We all appreciate your efforts at keeping the neighborhood safe, you know that."
"Thank you," Giles replied. "Now, if you do not mind, this is a private conversation."
"Of course," the man said as he closed the door and vanished from sight.
"Who was that?" Wesley asked.
Giles put his glasses back on before he replied, "This school's principal.
Wesley had just opened his mouth to ask another question when the door swung open again. Both men turned their attention to the sound and watched as Buffy stepped into the room.
"Ms. Summers," Wesley said as he rose, somewhat unsteadily, from his chair. "You seem to be an extraordinary young woman, if I might be so bold."
Buffy looked him over, the corners of her lips turned down in the slightest of frowns, and she looked past Wesley at Giles. "He's not at all what I expected. Is he evil?"
"Well, he is a Watcher," Giles replied, "but evil? Not in the strictest sense, no."
"I beg your pardon?" Wesley protested.
Buffy again ignored him. "This dork was on the list, so give him at least a few weeks … maybe a month or two … to come around. If he hasn't proven useful and left the Watchers Council by then, you have my permission to send him on his way or bury him in a shallow grave. Your choice, and I'll back you either way."
Spike poked in his head into the doorway, extended his arm, and tapped his watch. "Let's get this done, slayer."
"Pressing business?" Giles asked.
"Spike and I have an errand to run," she explained. "We have to stop someone from breaking bad."
The corners of Giles's lips turned down in a stern frown and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Buffy, we've talked about this. We cannot simply dispense justice based on what people in our world might do."
"What are you two discussing?" Wesley asked.
Buffy and Giles ignored the question, and Buffy, in a rather plaintive manner, informed Giles, "That's not what this is about, honest! He's just a kid."
Spike leaned back into the room again. "We're trying to keep nip those psychotic tendences in the bud before they take root." He extended his hand, made a snipping gesture with his index and middle finger, then retreated back out of sight.
"I trust your judgment," Giles said, though his expression said otherwise.
"Thanks, Giles," Buffy replied with a wide grin on her face. She scampered behind the desk, gave him a quick hug, then departed.
Giles and Wesley stared at each other for a good long while before Giles finally spoke. "I expect you'll want to see my journal entries. I've continued with them, even though I'm no longer a Watcher."
"Yes … I suppose so," Wesley said in an absent-minded manner while he stared with a vacant expression at the blank television.
. . . . . . . . .
"Can't say that I ever thought I'd see you again," Spike announced as he craned his head and neck through a half open window. "Last I heard, you didn't have any skin … I'm thinking that was a better look for you."
"Spike!" Buffy protested as she yanked the white-painted, wooden frame of the window
upwards.
Warren Mears swiveled his chair away from his computer, with hurried, frantic movements, pulled up his sweatpants, and tossed away the sock that he'd been pressing against his groin. His room featured the usual accoutrements of a teenage boy, including posts of science-fiction movies, women in varying states of undress, carefully arranged mini-figures, and electronic and computer hardware piled on every available surface.
"What the fuck do you want?" Warren asked as he stood, stumbled backwards, and nearly fell over when he tripped on the roller leg of his chair. He was pudgy, his eyes weak, his lips trembling, and Buffy found it difficult to believe that the youth in front of her could eventually be the source of so much pain and horror.
"Ugh," Buffy said as she eyed first the prurient images displayed on Warren's computer monitor and then the sock he had tossed away. "Really? This is what I had to walk in on?" She walked over to the computer, averted her gaze from the adult-oriented video playing on the screen, and ripped the power cords free. The monitor and blinking PC lights immediately went dark.
"I was watching that!" Spike protested.
Buffy shot Spike a frown, turned back to Warren, and was surprised to find him holding aloft a sword that he'd plucked off the bedroom wall.
"Stay back!" he said in a near-howl. "I'm warning you!"
With one serpentine, too-fast-too-follow movement, Buffy crouched, darted forwarded, and plucked the hilt of the sword from Warren's hand. With a casual movement she snapped the blade over an upraised knee and tossed the ruined halves onto an unmade bed featuring Star Wars branded sheets and comforters.
"Warning us?" Spike asked as he leaned against a cabinet. "You've got it backwards, we're here to warn you."
"What?" Warren asked as he began inching towards the door.
Buffy grabbed the hilt of the broken sword off the bed, threw it across the room, and Warren stopped in his tracks when the jagged, splintered steel sunk through the bedroom door and stuck, quivering, in the wood.
"We're here to give you some friendly advice," Buffy said. "First, you're going to leave Sunnydale … in fact, you're going to leave Southern California entirely."
"Second," Spike continued as he reached out and knocked a bunch of porcelain maquettes of comic book characters to the floor, "any notions you have of building robots, or women robots, or robots that act like women, forget about it." Warren winced when Spike proceeded to stomp the ceramic figurines into shards.
"Finally," Buffy added as she stepped near Warren. "After you leave California, and after you find work in something that has nothing to do with computers, or cyborgs, or robots, or anything involving technology, you're going to stay away from California and anything even remotely technology related … forever. Because Spike and I are going to be checking in on you, and if we find out that you've so much as touched a keyboard … well …" she whirled, snatched his computer tower off the floor and tossed it through the window through which they'd entered. Splinters of glass glittered in the light, the tower sailed far into the distance, and Warren stared in wide-mouthed horror at the gaping hole in the side of his bedroom.
Spike walked past Buffy, grabbed Warren by the collar of his pajama top, and held him aloft. "Do we understand each other?"
"I get it!" Warren cried out. "Leave town, no computers."
Spike tossed Warren into the corner of the room, where he proceeded to huddle on the floor with his hands pressed against the wall.
"I kind of hope he doesn't listen, and we have to come back," Buffy said as she turned to stare at Spike. "Don't you?"
"I wanted to kill him straight off," Spike said as he adjusted his leather jacket.
"Who are you?" Warren asked as he stared at them.
"Consider us the ghosts of Christmas future," Spike replied.
"And if you want to have a future," Buffy added, "do what we told you to do."
. . . . . . . . .
"I know that look," Angel said as he stepped through the swinging doors of the library and eyed Wesley sitting at one of the tables and staring into space. "Giles told you, didn't he?"
Wesley didn't bother pretending that he didn't know what Angel was referring to. "He told me. It's a lot to take in."
Angel shrugged and walked over to the bookshelves, his coat fluttering behind him as he strode. "In the end, it doesn't change anything. We're here, evil is here, and if we don't fight for this world, who will?"
"Who indeed," Wesley murmured as he watched Angel run his hands over a row of particularly old volumes. "You lot keep rather odd hours, I must say."
Angel extracted a volume from the shelf and in an absent-minded fashion replied, "You can't imagine how hard it is to get a decent day's sleep when a school bell is going off every hour or so."
Wesley eyed Angel closely, and the staring went on long enough that the taller man looked up from the book and frowned. "See something interesting?"
"An ensouled vampire," Wesley said in a voice that approached awe, "and one that has been healed and become human … I wouldn't know where to begin in terms of studying such an anomaly."
"Hey," Angel snapped, "I'm not an anomaly, I'm just Angel." He turned back to the book, and his tone bordered on mournful as he continued. "That's all I am now."
"Yes, Mr. Giles did mention a certain amount of guilt and regret amongst those formerly afflicted with vampirism." He affected a cheery tone. "I am sure you will be fine, in time."
"Not if I don't find another way to help," Angel said as he pulled free a sheaf of papers tucked into the book he was reading.
Wesley blinked a few times in confusion as Angel sat down at the table across from him. "I was under the impression that your knowledge of the Master's activities has been vital."
Angel shook his head and began to rifle through the stack of papers. "That isn't the sort of help I meant." He slammed the book shut and the gust of air thus created wafted a single sheet of paper across the desk. Angel tried to grasp it mid-flight, but his human reflexes weren't up to the task. Wesley plucked the sheet out of the air, stared at it, and frowned.
"Give that back," Angel growled.
"This is a photograph of that device … that phone … Ms. Summers brought back with her from that other world, isn't it?"
Angel's chair scraped against the tile as he stood and fixed Wesley with a rapidly darkening expression. "Give. That. Back."
Wesley handed back the page, Angel tucked it with the others, then he folded the papers and placed them in the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Who drew that?" Wesley asked. "The drawing is actually quite good."
The comment seemed to mollify Angel somewhat, as he flashed a half-smile in response. "I drew it, actually … or that other me, did. The writing is Buffy's, though. I think."
"The spelling is off," Wesley said as he removed his glasses and set them on the table. "It's Enochian, not Erotican."
Angel shrugged and moved around the table towards the library doors. "Close enough."
Wesley stood with an outstretched hand and Angel paused to stare at him.
"Mr. …"
"Just Angel," Angel said by way of interruption.
"Angel," Wesley continued, "in my limited time here I already have gleaned that I am viewed as having a certain amount of naivete, yet nevertheless I feel I would be remiss if I did not warn you against the course of action that I suspect you are about to embark upon." He gestured at the pocket of Angel's coat that contained the folded pages. "That is an extraordinarily delicate, and dangerous, process that can corrupt, or kill outright, the subject."
Angel stepped near to Wesley, glanced around to ensure that the library was empty, then lowered his head near the smaller man's ear and whispered, "You have a choice, Wesley. Option one: you and I never had this conversation. Option two: when I get back, you and I are going to have big problems."
Wesley, nevertheless, felt compelled to make one more effort. "I was under the impression that Ms. Summers considers you to be of significant importance. Should you not speak to her first?"
Angel shook his head. "I don't have the time … I have to make it to a particular bar before it closes."
"A bar?" Wesley asked. "As in, a drinking establishment?"
Angel turned, resumed walking towards the door, and called back, "A karoke bar, actually."
. . . . . . . . .
"I'm not being nosy," Buffy protested as they walked down the basement steps towards their small, and increasingly-depressing, makeshift apartment. "I just want to know where you keep traipsing off to."
"Like I told you before," Spike replied, "it's a surprise. The entire point of a surprise is that you are surprised."
"I'm familiar with the definition of the word," Buffy said in what she hoped was a firm, but not snippy, tone. "But you keep wandering off without backup, and I don't like it. It'll be sunset in half an hour, and you and I are on patrol tonight. What if you'd been late getting back?"
Spike issued a single derisive snort and stared at her with an aggrieved expression. "I got back in time, and I can take care of myself."
Buffy reached out, patted his arm, and Spike turned to look at her.
"We've got another vampire king, or lord, or whatever vampires call their leaders, in town," she said. "We all need to be more careful."
"Why do you think?" Spike asked. "Because Kendra says so? She's new to Sunnydale and needs to figure out pretty quick that not every vamp with a posse is a big bad."
Buffy shook her head. "The Master sent out goons to look for whoever this is."
"Goons who are now dead, thanks to Kendra," Spike pointed out. "Goons who might have been able to answer questions if she had thought to keep one of them alive long enough to interrogate it."
Buffy continued, "… Kendra will learn, and if the Master is sending out henchvamps to search for him, he … or she … must be important."
Spike shrugged and flashed a wicked smile that simultaneously thrilled and irritated her. A flush of warmth spread down her body, and she had to try very hard to remember that they still had a full night ahead of them before they could have a few hours to themselves. "Why don't we go rattle some cages?" Spike suggested. "See who it is?"
She shook her head again. "We stick to the plan. We clear out nests, give Giles more time to work on his still-entirely-speculative-and-likely-a-pipe-dream cure, and we let everyone get healthy and helpful."
"Helpful?" Spike asked in a voice thick with doubt. "Buffy, Willow isn't the same in this world, and she might never be. Same goes for Wesley, Tara, and the rest of them. As for Angel … Angelus is gone, sure, but it's embarrassing to watch him try to …"
She cut Spike off and repeated, "We stick to the plan." A thought occurred to her. "Where is Angel, anyway? He promised he'd be there for afternoon sparring, but nobody has seen him since this morning."
Spike shrugged and replied, "Moping about somewhere, I'd wager."
. . . . . . . . .
The bouncers had not been rude when he sought entrance, not exactly, but they weren't friendly, either. Only a few months before, he could have exuded menace, or let a flash of vamp-anger show, or do something besides try to talk his way inside, but those days were done.
Of course, he could enjoy the taste of chocolate ice cream and walk in the sunlight again, so it wasn't all bad.
But it's mostly bad.
Every night Buffy went out and fought, and every night he felt more useless. He could learn to use guns, he could spar, he could try his hand at magic … though Giles had warned him he had no affinity for it … and Spike would sit there smirking and grinning at his helplessness the entire time.
The stairs into the bar were steep, narrow, and he was not all prepared for the cacophony of colored lights, a multitude of demons of a few dozen different species, and the table-surrounded stage with a shimmering blue curtain backdrop.
I was expecting Caritas to be less … glam.
Every eye, whether set within a humanoid skull or protruding from a gelatinous stalk, swiveled towards him as he stepped off the stairwell. If the music had been playing from a record player, Angel was fairly certain he would have heard it scratch and fall silent at his entrance.
He pulled his coat closer, tried to ignore the warbling sounds of a Fyarl demon belting out a horrifyingly off-key rendition of Wind Beneath My Wings, and searched for the demon described in Buffy's journals. The sight of his own visage in the mirrors behind the bar startled him, as it always did after he'd become human again, and he patted his hair to ensure that the unruly spikes were settled into place.
A mellifluous voice thick with curiosity called out, "See something you like? Cause I sure do."
Angel squinted his eyes in the direction of the garish, neon glare of the bar and spotted a green-skinned, red-horned demon wearing a white suit, burgundy shirt, and several rings on his fingers. The demon looked him up and down, wrapped his lips around the straw of his drink, then sucked until slurping sounds indicated that the cup was empty.
"Cat got your tongue?" the demon asked as he set the glass on the bar. He glanced Angel over from head to toe with a thoroughness that made Angel draw his coat closer, then leaned back. "You're less twee than what usually floats my boat, and we don't get a lot of human customers in here, but I could be convinced to let your tall, dark, and brood-a-licious self buy me a greyhound."
Angel walked closer, made sure he stayed out of arm's reach, and pointed at the demon. "You're Lorne, right?"
"Guilty as charged," Lorne said with a wide smile that revealed gleaming white, perfect teeth. His red eyes and horns could have given him a menacing countenance, but if anything, the demon felt overly friendly rather than malevolent. "Now that I've answered one of your questions, how about that drink?"
"Buy you a drink?" Angel asked. "Don't you own this place?"
Lorne spread his arms wide, "I'd hardly want to steal from myself, right?"
"I'm not sure that makes sense," Angel replied as he rubbed the back of his neck.
Lorne tapped thoughtfully at the deep cleft in his protruding chin as he stared at Angel. "There's something about you that seems familiar, and I'm not just trotting out a tired old line."
"We've met, actually," Angel replied. "Sort of. I think."
Lorne braced his hands on the bar and shrugged. "I'm torn between whether you're mysterious or confusing. Let's go with mysterious, it's more exciting."
"I'm looking for someone who can help me with …" Angel paused a moment, then realized how ridiculous he would sound if he tried to explain why he was there. "You know what, it would take too long to bring you up to speed." He lowered his voice and stepped closer. "How about I just sing for you? That's how this works, right?"
"No foreplay?" Lorne protested as he opened his eyes wide in mock indignation. "No how-do-you-do? Straight to the aura gazing?" When Angel did not reply, he sighed and pointed at an easel set to the side of the stage. "Sign-up sheet is over there."
Angel glanced over at the crowd of demons clustered around the podium and winced. "I'm kind of in a hurry, I need to find a …"
"Sign-up sheet is over there," Lorne repeated, more insistently, before he turned back to the bar.
Sensing that Lorne's mood was unlikely to change, and in acceptance of the fact that his days of muscling his way through these sorts of delays were over, he made his way to the easel and stared with horror at the dozens of incomprehensible names already scrawled on the page.
This is going to take all night.
He filled in his own name, found a quiet corner where he could, hopefully, avoid any of the problems that came with being a human in a demon bar, and settled in to wait. Over the course of the night, a few of the more unruly denizens made cutting remarks designed to provoke him to anger, but he knew better to rise to the bait … they'd turn him inside out before the bouncers could intervene.
When, eventually, it was his turn to sing, the overhead lights had been turned on and other than a few dispirited, half-conscious demons slumped over tables, the place was empty.
"I thought you'd have given up," Lorne said as he settled down into a chair near the front of the stage. "Let's hear what you got."
Angel rasped his throat a few times to clear his pipes, then clambered onto the stage and stood in front of the microphone. Only a few pairs of eyes were on him, but he felt terribly exposed and vulnerable.
"Maybe this was a bad idea," he said as he began to retreat back towards the steps leading down to the bar.
"Angel … that's your name, right?" Lorne asked.
Angel nodded.
"Angel, you came all this way. Sing." He gestured towards the microphone.
Angel stepped closer, grabbed the slim, silver metal of the stand, and leaned near the microphone. As the strains of a guitar riff began to play over the speakers, he turned to Lorne in surprise. "This wasn't the song I wrote down," he protested.
"I switched it out for this one," Lorne announced as he interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "Call it a hunch."
By that point the lyrics had begun to scroll on the screen and Angel had to hurry to catch up with the song.
Jessie is a friend
Yeah, I know he's been a good friend of mine
But lately something's changed
It ain't hard to define
Jessie's got himself a girl and I want to make her mine
He didn't need to see the bartenders raising clawed paws to cover their ears to know that he had no talent at singing. Lorne seemed not to notice his vocal shortcomings as he leaned forward and watched with mouth agape as he struggled through the song. Eventually Lorne raised a hand and the music cut off.
"Thank the Powers," someone rather rudely announced once Angel stopped singing.
Lorne pointed at the chair across the table from him and gestured. "Sit down. Now."
Angel sat down and Lorne stared at him for a long while before he finally spoke. "You tossed away immortality, all the darkness and self-loathing that made you you, for a girl? Really? How unbelievably romantic, you big dope." He glanced Angel over again. "An ex-vampire … I didn't know such a thing existed."
"I already know what I am," Angel interrupted. "Can you tell me anything useful?"
Lorne frowned at the bluntness of the inquiry. "Lighten up on the cologne, for starters."
Angel blinked a few times, then lowered his nose and sniffed at his shirt.
"Honey, the girl you want, she's already yours," Lorne announced. The green-skinned demon blinked a few times before he shook his head with a confused look on his face. "But blondie isn't yours, is she?" Lorne stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Your aura tells me that you and I have known each other for years, but I'm pretty sure I'd remember meeting a dark morsel such as yourself before tonight. Who are you, and why is your destiny so confusing?"
"It's a long story," Angel said.
Lorne laughed. "I'll bet."
Angel leaned forward and for the first time realized that he had nothing to bargain with. He barely had enough money for cab fare to Los Angeles, he had brought with him nothing of value, and if Lorne wanted information, he didn't know anything that was likely to be of interest. Still, he had to try. "You know why I'm here, and you know that there's no one besides you that can help me. In a different place, a different time, you and I were friends, Lorne." He tried to let sincerity drip into his voice even though he was staring at a stranger. "Can you help me?"
Lorne stared at him for a long time, then Angel's heart … his working, human heart … leapt for joy when he nodded.
"There's a new arrival in SoCal who can help … he's a warlock who dabbles in chaos magic and will work for a price." Lorne's voice grew ominous. "Unfortunately, he lives in a dark, twisted place a half day's drive from here." Lorne shook his head. "I warn you, Angel, you will not enjoy the time that you spend where he dwells."
Whatever I have to do , I can endure it …
"Where is he?" Angel asked. "Some sort of hell reality?"
"Worse," Lorne replied. "Chino."
Angel couldn't help but blanch in disgust.
"I know," Lorne said as he reached out and rubbed Angel's forearm in a disconcertingly familiar fashion. "I don't envy you."
Angel was about to ask for the name and address, but Lorne had already extracted a gleaming gold pen from the pocket of his shirt and begun scribbling in purple ink a name and address onto a napkin. When he finished, he pushed the scrap of paper across the table.
When Angel reached for the napkin, Lorne held it against the wood with his finger and asked, "Are you sure about this?"
Angel looked at Lorne for a moment, then decided that he was too desperate, and too tired of being nothing more than human, to play games with the truth.
"I have to help her," he said.
Lorne stared at him for a moment, then pulled his hand back. Angel snatched up the napkin and tucked it into his jacket pocket before the proprietor of Caritas could change his mind. He wasn't quite sure what else to say, so he stood from the table and tried to summon up the appropriate words of gratitude.
"Lorne, I know we just met, but …"
"Save it," Lorne said with a wave of his hand. "You and I have done this dance before, we just can't remember it … for some reason." He stood as well. "Don't be a stranger, Angel."
Angel tilted his head. "I'm not sure if I'll be back in L.A. again."
Lorne laughed, and the musical, lilting sound filled the bar as the demon stood. When he finally stopped laughing, he said, "That's a good one."
. . . . . . . . .
"Home sweet home," Spike said as he stood on the rooftop of the warehouse and stared out over the city of Sunnydale. His eyes blazed a sulfurous yellow in the darkness of night, jagged fangs protruded from an elongated jaw, and his lean body was coiled with anticipation as he stared in the direction of the high school that housed not one, but two slayers.
Two slayers is a neat trick … how did those nitwit Watchers pull that off?
His reverie was broken, again, by the bleating, piteous sobs of the vampire he'd been torturing.
"I'm trying to have a moment here," he roared, and in response, blissfully, the vampire shut up.
One of the vamps Drusilla had sired had lugged his tools to the roof, and he sauntered with deliberate steps to the chest and reached inside to grab a mallet and a heavy, black iron spike.
"No, please," the vampire began gibbering. "I've told you everything I know."
Spike walked over the pathetic creature and with a careful eye appraised his work. Spikes identical to the one he held pierced the vamp at the shoulders, wrists, and ankles, and the metal had been driven so deeply through bone and into the bricks beyond that the vamp resembled a butterfly pinned on display in a museum.
"I know you've told me everything," Spike said as he tested the weight of the mallet. "That's not with this is about anymore."
"His blood is old and cold," Drusilla moaned with a hand to her forehead as she swayed in the shadows of the roof. "Can we not kill him and be done with it? I'm hungry, and all this screaming and pounding and begging is twisting my thoughts round and round."
"Not yet," Spike replied. He stepped close to the vampire and watched as it desperately tried to pull its ruined arms free from the metal pinioning his limbs. Dark blood coated the metal, but the wide caps on the ends of the spikes kept the vampire from pulling free.
"What do you want to know?" the creature asked. He looked young, young enough to be a high school student, though Spike hadn't cared to inquire that deeply of its history. "I've told you about Spike, the other Spike, the one who looks like you."
Spike tapped the mallet against the vamp's forehead, and it whimpered in fear. "Now that just ain't right or fair, is it? He looks like me, he sounds like me … doesn't a bloke have a right to his own likeness?"
"I don't know, beloved," Drusilla said, "two of you sounds like it might be … interesting." She smiled at him, then her hands began to sensuously caress at the spots where her diaphanous white gown covered her breasts and lower stomach.
Spike watched appreciatively for a few seconds, then cleared his throat and turned back to the vampire. "Behave yourself, Dru. There's only one me."
"Kill him, then?" Drusilla asked. "This man who wears your face?"
Spike nodded. "That's what I had in mind." A thought occurred to him. "I wonder what I taste like."
Drusilla giggled, then inserted her index finger into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked upon the digit, and after she'd withdrawn it, she announced, "I could tell you, my sweet. You taste of …"
When Spike caught her meaning, he interrupted immediately. "Not that kind of taste, I meant his blood!"
The vampire pinned to the brick wall of the warehouse roof laughed, and Spike growled in rage, raised the hammer, and ignored the vamp's cries of pain as he inserted the spike into its mouth. The creature's face transformed, it bit down against the metal, and its teeth splintered as Spike hammered the spike home. The vamp's cries grew louder until, with a sound of pulped flesh, the iron point shattered the vertebrae of its neck. With its neck broken, it mercifully fell silent, though it continued to watch with terror-filled, wide eyes as Spike finished hammering the metal through its flesh and into the wall.
"There we go," Spike announced when he had finished. He patted the vamp on the cheek and said, "I hope you enjoy the sunrise."