Chapter 6: Return to the World

Spike returns to the world. Well, actually, the amulet from the hellmouth pops him into Angel's office in LA. But, things are different than in canon due to visions, realizations, and decisions in the afterlife. They're knitted into his very being, even if he doesn't directly remember them. (And, as throughout, each drabble's title is the prompt on which it's based.)

Lorne

Once more, Spike rematerializes, this time in Angel's office in LA a few weeks after he perished, closing the hellmouth in Sunnydale. In the real world, he's able to get his bearings more quickly. Angel is annoyed at Spike's arrival; his team is trying to figure out what just happened.

For context: This final arc of the story begins at the end of Angel S05:E01. That's when Spike, shortly after dying at the hellmouth, rematerializes in Angel's office at the evil lawyers, Wolfram & Hart. (He's resurrected, unexpectedly, via the amulet he wore to bring down the First Evil.) It's also right after Angel has made his deal with W&H for his team to work at the law office. Everything goes quickly AU, starting in this drabble.

-oo-00-oo-

Spike returned in a swirling maelstrom of ash that was dark as Hades yet glimmered like mineralized dust from ancient exploding stars.

His bones accreted like stalagmites on fast-forward. They intertwined with a heavier, muddy dampness. Meanwhile, thickening with life, desire, with blood, the swirling ash took on an orange glimmer. The oddly familiar feeling of cords stringing together preceded a white-hot, burning agony that accelerated upward like an explosion in a chute.

Bloody hell, not again.

And, suddenly, images raced through him— statues, pictures, places, dances, Anya, Amanda, Giles, Angelus, Nikki, and many more— and then evaporated into mere traces. They fluttered away like scraps of tissue puffed to the floor. Or flapping butterfly wings.

His nervous system restarted with a jolt. Screaming, he doubled over his bent knees. At his feet, the amulet he'd worn to fight the First Evil glistened balefully.

He didn't know how or why he was here, but remembered that fight. He'd been with her , with Buffy , in the darkness. She'd joined her hand with his, passing him the torch of righteousness. Then he'd brought down the cavern to seal the hellmouth and destroy the First's army of Turok-Han. It felt like minutes ago.

He'd told Buffy to go, to escape. To live, so that one of them would be living. He was sure she'd made it.

He didn't have time to question that awareness because, wherever he was, he wasn't alone. Grunting, he straightened, ready to fight. People surrounded him, strangers, in something like an office. Was this where he'd come for judgment after death? No, that wasn't right.

"Spike, why are you here?"

Harmony's here?

"Harmony, please…," a man with a heartbeat confirmed his guess. Unsurprisingly, his posh British accent and manners didn't calm the room.

Another human male, a dark-skinned American, huffed, "This is Spike? The Spike?"

"Who's Spike?" The human female asked with a soft Texan accent.

His demon began planning an attack.

Possibly noticing that, a large green demon with red eyes addressed him. "Easy, slim. Easy. Nobody's gonna hurt you." And why was a demon the voice of reason?

Regardless, the others kept talking over each other. Spike preened when someone asserted he was evil, but then Angelus spoke up.

The blighter was hiding behind him. Spike spun toward him, his demon rushing to his face. "You useless prick." he growled. "You gave that amulet to the slayer knowing it would burn her like dry kindling."

"I didn't know that." Angelus held up his hands like a bloody peacemaker.

"Like hell you didn't." Spike's eyes narrowed as he prepared to spring.

"I'd planned to wear it," the other vampire objected. "But she insisted I return here and leave the amulet."

Christ, Angelus had perfected the righteous passing of blame. "Did she know it was a ticket to immolation?" he snarled.

Truth muddied his grandsire's eyes; he'd had no clue what the enchanted bling did. Arsehole.

The lot of them seemed about to launch into more twaddle, like bloody Scoobies. So, Spike slipped into his best instructing-the-minions voice.

"Oi. You know who I am, but who the bloody hell are all of you?" He put his hands on his hips, oddly surprised to find he was clothed. Ignoring the randomness of that thought, he continued. "Where am I? And can someone tell me where to find Buffy Summers, the slayer? Not necessarily in that order."

"I'm Harmony." She waved. "Do you have amnesia like that guy on that stupid soap opera? And why are you looking for my nema-whatsit?"

"Nemesis, Harm," he absently corrected her.

"Spike, cut the crap," Angelus spoke over him.

The green bloke stepped forward. "Oh sweet surrender, where are our manners? Just because a guy materializes unexpectedly from an amulet received special delivery doesn't mean we can't spare a moment for the niceties."

"Yes it does. Because it's Spike."

"Angelcakes…"

"I must be in hell," Spike muttered while kicking the aforementioned amulet. And, wait… he'd been brought back to the world through this amulet?

"No, this is LA, but a lot of people make that mistake. Anyhoo, I'm Lorne." After introducing everyone else, he added, "We're in Angel's new office at Wolfram and Hart. And, regarding the slayer, I feel I should know that but…"

Angelus cut in. "She's OK." All heads turned his way.

"Well, where is she, then?" Spike took a step toward his grandsire. Where's Buffy?

"Europe, last I heard."

"Last you heard? How long was I gone?"

"Close to three weeks," the bigger vampire grudgingly replied. "But you can't get in touch with her."

"I'll find a way. Need to talk to her. See her."

Face blank, Angelus replied, "That's going to be tough."

But Angelus was a prince of liars. Spike was sure of it. "Look, you can't keep her from me."

The twit had the nerve to reply, "She's not mine to keep... or yours."

"You finally figured that out?" Shaking his head, he turned toward the office door. "Well, I'm outta here. Places to go; people to see." Striding toward the door, he found himself singing under his breath. " I kicked the habit; shed my skin. This is the new stuff I go dancing in. "

As he reached the elevator, he heard Lorne scurrying after him. "Oh my, you've got a heck of a story to tell, cupcake."

Then as Spike stepped through the elevator doors, something yanked him backward toward Angel's office. Turning to confront the tosser, who wasn't there, a burning sensation like barbed wire heated by the sun scorched around his neck and chest. Like… oh sodding hell, it was where the amulet had been.

Seeing Lorne watching with confusion, he groused, "Think I'm tethered to that gaudy neckwear that brought me here. Where did Angelus get it, anyway?"

"In the mail. Oh, you mean before? I think from here, from Wolfram and Hart."

And now it was back here, not in Sunnydale. Something stank like last week's fish.

Tacos

Angel's team looks into the amulet that delivered Spike to Angel's office. This happens more quickly than on the show, perhaps because the puzzle seems more straightforward than in canon. Also, the linkage between the amulet and Wolfram & Hart appears right away, which may make it easier to see where to begin.

-oo-00-oo-

He'd spent most of the night in the evil lawyers' unexpectedly modern science lab. Of course, that was after a couple fun outings in cars with vamp-friendly glass, wherein Angel's Scoobies confirmed he was indeed tethered to the pendant (but not to his grandsire, thank Christ). Unfortunately, the cursed bling also connected to the W&H building. Because, when they got to the LA city limits, he'd felt the chain yank him. And then he popped back in the building's lobby like he'd been reset by the Matrix.

He'd lost track of how many tests they'd run since then. They'd tested his blood and demon composition. (Surprise, he was a vampire, with the soul that Angelus had omitted mentioning in an expository tirade Spike had mercifully missed.) Fred, the sweet Texan brainiac, had delved deep into DNA, metallurgy, and gemology. Wesley, the Brit, pulled out dusty leather-bound books and scrolls. And the American fellow, Gunn, had paced until finally heading out. He said he was going to a white room to interrogate someone, which Spike assumed was an elaborate research dodge worthy of Xander Harris.

Mercifully, Lorne had herded Angelus away after a few hours; apparently they were also tired of his brooding, sniping nonsense. Star-crossed lovers, my pasty arse. Spike owed the green demon for that favor.

After having taken a break in the wee hours, the lads had returned shortly after the sun rose. Wesley looked wrinkled and perturbed; in other words, like the former watcher he obviously was. Spike's first impulse was sarcasm, but he held back. He wasn't sure why, but he sensed the fellow might have an innate and easily quashed helpfulness. Gunn was jumpy like he'd chugged a whole pot of coffee. Meanwhile, Fred the Texan lass had barely taken a nap on the office couch before popping back up to run another test or three.

Poor wren looked knackered. She also seemed out of place in this edifice of manly manliness, but that wasn't for him to judge.

Her face brightened like Christmas when a lab minion scurried in with a TacoTico take-out bag. She stood, pushing hair behind her ear, before opening the bag. "Well, I always say: when in doubt, get some tacos." She'd offered some to the lads, who'd waved off the opportunity of heartburn for breakfast. With a crooked smile, she said "Spike, I'd give you some, except you're… you know."

"British?"

"Vampire."

"Oh that. Well, got any hot sauce?" Spike ignored Gunn's snort. He wasn't hungry, having guzzled the snooty, exotic blood Angelus' kept around the office. But, the idea of actual, physical food made his teeth tingle.

"Yeah. Cholula and this habanero sauce," the little wren replied.

"Count me in," Spike said.

"Angel doesn't eat human food," Gunn objected.

Slathering hots on his plate of tacos, Spike tucked in, enjoying the lad's astonishment. "Angelus is a pissy snob. Don't know what he's missing." He raised a second taco in a toast of excellence. Fred gifted him with a shy grin of agreement.

"By the by," Spike asked between bites, "why does Angelus have an office at Evil Lawyers Inc.? Why are you lot here with him?"

English looked up. "We, um, came over together from Angel Investigations."

"We're going to fix it from inside," the Yank supplied with can-do naivete.

Spike's scarred eyebrow rose. "Yeah, well, good luck with that."

"You doubt us?" Gunn volleyed back like a lawyer, himself.

"Don't know you well enough to say," he replied evenly. "I don't trust Angelus. But I imagine you all had your reasons." Their surreptitious shared glances were unexpected. Spike filed that away for later thought.

Continuing aloud, he said, "At least Old Granddad wants me gone from here as much as I do. Bet he's in his office right now trying to figure out how to bump me from LA. Calling in favors, consulting oracles, and the like. Regardless, you lot seem savvy, actually exploring the problem, so I imagine I'll be out of your hair shortly. Got someone to find."

Buffy ; her name released an ocean of feeling inside, trying to fill his dead heart until it beat again.

Fred glanced at the others, then half-whispered. "I checked last night, and I couldn't find contact or location information for 'Buffy Summers' anywhere in Wolfram and Hart."

"Yes, I discovered that, as well," English replied, lips thinned. "That reminds me…," He walked toward Spike and, while picking up the TacoTico bag, dropped a folded note on Spike's lap. "You should be able to read that." He grabbed some chips and then leaned on the nearest lab table.

Spike frowned while opening the note. Inside he found a message in a code he barely remembered from his first years at Cambridge. And how did the man discover I'd know that code? His eyes speared the former watcher, spotting proud, self-aware amusement in the twitch of his lips and the glimmer behind his glasses.

Sucking in his cheeks while he tabled his suspicions for later, Spike unfolded the paper. Pulling out long dormant knowledge, he decoded it to read, "At my flat, I phoned an old contact. Buffy called back. She's catching the next flight here. She said, and I quote: 'I meant what I said in the cavern, Mister Denying-Martyr-Guy.' She made me read that back to confirm."

"Well, is that right?" Spike leaned back in his chair. His mind supplied a shadowy memory he couldn't quite place, where Buffy explained how she was still incomplete, like cookies still in the oven. He also had the sense that she was internally writing off Angelus as the recipient of her completed cookie self. He suspected he was smiling as brightly as Fred smiled at 7am tacos.

Speed Dating

Spike discovers some puzzles of his own at Angel's Hyperion Hotel. Conversation between him and Wesley also raises some questions. But what isn't in question is Buffy, who arrives right on schedule.

-oo-00-oo-

Spike finally caught some shut-eye. He didn't trust Evil Inc. so he decamped to Angel's old digs, the Hyperion Hotel. It was empty but livable, like that pompous mansion Angelus had kept in Sunnydale.

Although exhausted, his natural curiosity took over. He picked the lock on the main office, figured he'd peek look through files and such. Oddly, papers still covered the desk, a drawer sat half-open, and mail lay midst processing. A tea set's milk pitcher had clabbered next to a couple half-empty soda cans. He found a second office that looked about the same. In a small staff kitchen, it looked like people left mid-meal. Most suspiciously, an unfinished bag of take-out tacos lay on the table.

It was like a bloody alien abduction flick. Yet, he'd spoken with the Angel Investigations team hours earlier.

There was a mystery here but, ready to drop, he headed upstairs to find a bed. And then his nose informed him the slayers had stopped here recently. No doubt after leaving Sunnydale. Red and her gal-pal had occupied one room; Dawn and Chao-Ahn were across the way. And… bingo. Buffy had stayed at the end of the hall. Without Angelus, he was pleased to note.

Obviously that's the room he chose for himself.

Unwisely, the ex-watcher rousted him late afternoon. "Best stay outside in the hallway when doing that," Spike said while helping the gasping man back to his feet. With grudging admiration, he noted the watcher had defended himself well, almost tagging him with bolts from a set of wrist-mounted launchers.

"Yes, well… one forgets," Wesley wheezed, brushing off dust. "But, the slayer's flight lands in an hour. Thought you might want to meet her. I'm told she refuses to visit Wolfram and Hart."

"Sensible," Spike said, pulling on his boots. "You're watcher trained. So why you helping me?"

The man's weary eyes searched Spike's face. "Not a watcher anymore. Let's just say I researched Angel's family and learned you've changed. In recent years you've sided with the slayer, which aligns our interests."

"Hmm. You didn't tell me that the slayers kipped here not long ago."

"I don't remember that," the Brit replied, perturbed.

Spike hummed again before saying, "Well, let's go, English. You can ask her about it directly."

But, he'd simply come to deliver a company car to Spike on the down-low. More mysterious, hidden generosity pointing to troubles in House of Angelus. Ex-watcher with conflicted loyalties, where had he seen that before? Regardless, Spike accepted the Brit's help knowing his grandsire wouldn't provide it. Also, he got a sense that helping Spike assuaged the man's need for atonement.

Interrupting Spike's musing the watcher murmured, "Lorne says you've already proven your worth, so now you'll prove your love." Seeing Spike's dubious look, he added, "He reads people's auras when they sing. And their fates. He read yours."

"Bit disconcerting, that is."

"One gets used to it."

After dropping off the man near his flat, Spike drove solo to the airport. Necro-tempered glass and a BMW transmission for the win. Soon, standing outside the airport's International Arrivals gate, he fidgeted while ignoring suspicious glances from airport security. He stood next to a gift shop, so pretended to peruse the magazine titles: Speed Dating: Is It a Fad?; Never Stop Finding Nemo; and Bennifer Forever. Well, he wouldn't wager on that last one.

Then everything around him faded as Buffy emerged through the gate, backlit by hallway lights. Her shampoo commercial hair, which he'd loved from the start and belittled because he'd been a wanker, shone like a halo. It was like bloody angels with harps had parted the clouds to let one of their own pass to Earth.

Right then, she spotted him. The greatest blessing of his life occurred when her face lit up with an astonished, joyous smile. "Spike!" she called, and started running like she was in one of those shampoo commercials. "You're here, oh my God! Like, really here."

"Came back from the afterlife for you. Would do anything for you."

She barreled into him at full slayer speed, which would've toppled a regular human. Her arms wrapped around him as she burrowed her head against his shoulder. "You were gone," her muffled voice exclaimed. "You made me leave. You burned up. You didn't believe me." She was half wailing and her fists were pummeling his shoulders.

"I'm here now, sweets. I'm not leaving you. Never again. You're the one, Buffy. I'm here." He ignored the curious and rapturous glances they were getting. He also ignored the tears that had overflowed to his cheeks.

Backing up, she said, "You're still wearing that horrible, evil amulet." She reached up to pull it off.

He stayed her hand. "Am tied to it somehow. Can't go more than a room's length without it."

"We're going to do something about that." she replied firmly.

"Hope so. Looks ridiculous and feels like razor wire if I take it off. But, if it's keeping me on Earth with you, I'll wear it forever."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Angel has some explaining to do."

"But later, yeah?"

"So much later." She wiped at his tears as she gazed into his eyes. A salty finger brushed over his lips, waking the nerves from his lips to his chest to his groin. This was a fire he relished.

"Don't do that again. Don't leave me."

"Never, pet. You know me."

"I'm going to kiss you now."

Oh, thank Christ. He met her lips halfway. Soft and expressive, they moved with passion and caressed with tenderness he'd never felt from her. They opened to the touch of his tongue, where the tip of hers joined his and began to dance.

"We need to find a car and get a room," she said, breathless.

"Got the car already," he replied, inhaling the perfume of her rapture. "Wherever you want to be, I'm there."

Only One Bed

It takes a while, and some clarification between them, but Buffy and Spike finally become ready to take the next step in their newly acknowledged relationship. (Which, gentle readers, is PG-13.)

-oo-00-oo-

Snogging in his parked car, he imagined they'd go to the Hyperion. Buffy vetoed that notion.

"Spike, I'm not going to Angel's creepy hotel. His people seem nice, but that place is the meaning of ookeyness. I swear it's haunted."

"Used to be. Don't think it is anymore."

"Not really changing my mind. Anyhow, I have reservations at another hotel. It's old, but not with the weirdness or the Angel-ness. It's one my mom loved when we lived in LA. She helped them redo their art."

"If Joyce liked it, I'm a fan already." He had an odd feeling that, somewhere, the woman was pleased at sharing something she'd enjoyed with him, although he knew that was bonkers.

Buffy crossed her arms. "I'm also not going to Wolfram and Hart. You can go if you need, or if you want to be there or have to pick up anything, or…"

"Got nothing but what I'm wearing, pet," he interrupted. "And nowhere to be, but by your side." He leaned toward the passenger seat for another kiss. Finally pulling back, he said, "But let's get someplace more comfortable, yeah?"

Giving silent thanks to the ex-watcher's instructions on how to use the car's GPS, he entered Buffy's hotel name. And then they were on their way. The drive traversed many layers of LA, from the modern airport, through industrial and film lots, and finally peeling back decades of neighborhoods. At the end, the Edgewater Arms greeted them like a grande dame from Hollywood's era of silent movies and gold rush nostalgia. Even Spike could tell that it was nicer than the Hyperion. Joyce had good taste, albeit eclectic.

As they walked to the entrance, Buffy laced the fingers of her free hand in his. It was as precious to him as the first kiss she'd ever given him. Content, he listened to the sound of her suitcase wheels along with the plash of waves from the nearby Pacific Ocean. Happily, he hadn't bounced back to W&H, so this was evidently still inside the blasted amulet's sense of LA city limits.

While Buffy checked in, Spike hovered nearby. It seemed like yesterday since he'd seen her. It also felt like a bloody lifetime. He would happily spend another several lifetimes being with her. Or whatever time was allotted, as he'd just had a nasty reminder that the end might come at any moment.

Finally they were on their way upstairs to their room. She leaned into him on the elevator, her back to his front. A rumble of contentment welled from within; he was sure she could feel that and also probably his hardness pushing through his pants to join her. Ahh, and she squirmed her lovely arse just so, confirming his guess.

He honestly had a spot of difficulty walking down the hall to her room. As soon as she used her key-card to enter the room, they sped inside. Door locked, lights on, suitcase pushed aside, he waited for her to make the first move. Give her that power, that control over the situation.

When she grabbed his coat lapels, he expected a kiss. Instead, simultaneously fierce and fragile, she glared at him. "You didn't believe I meant it. But I did. I love you."

He paused, hoping it was enough to forestall his habit of saying exactly the wrong thing. But he knew the truth mattered, here. Finally, he admitted, "I won't lie. I wasn't sure you knew what you were saying. Or that you meant the same type of love I felt. But, either way, I'd have said whatever was needed for you to leave. I couldn't keep you, knowing I wasn't going to make it. Never ask that of me. I'm not that strong."

"Did you stop loving me?" Her bravery crumpled momentarily, with tears welling up.

He ran his fingers from her cheek and then feathered her hair. "Oh pet, never. I love you with everything I am. I don't deserve to stand in your light, but I seek it and bask in it."

"I cried so much because you'd died. And I could never tell you I see you. That I want you. As you are. All I knew is you'd died thinking I didn't love you."

She was back to pummeling his chest with her fists. On one hand, he knew she was prone to such things. She was a slayer to her core. And love made her vulnerable. On the other, he'd been content to let her lead with her fists in their former relationship, which had been ruinous for her.

Gently, he corralled her hands. "Buffy, stop. It's all right. I believe you, and I'm not just saying that so you'll stop tanning the leather." He smiled into her questioning gaze, into the light that brightened her entire face. Inhaling as though pulling in courage from the surrounding air, he affirmed, "I believe you love me. And I love you too, with all I am. All I ask is that you let people know I'm with you, that I'm your lover. That's the only way it's healthy for the person you are."

Swallowing his nerves, he added, "But if you don't want me that way, I'll still be there, walking and fighting at your side."

He watched while she considered his words. His Buffy was so quick when jumping into battle, seeing and acting on all moves at once, yet so deliberate when opening her heart. He waited, but not without trepidation.

Finally, she rushed forward into his arms. "I want you with me. In my bed and at my side. I already told everyone I loved you and they could suck it. And right now, I want you without clothes, under the covers, with me.

"Good thing that's what you want, since there's only one bed."

She snorted. "Duh."

He laughed while she let him into the suite's bedroom.

It's Magic!

After a night of bliss, it's time to do more research into the amulet. Buffy has recruited Willow to combine forces with Wesley and Fred. She wasted no time; neither does Willow. (This is an "extra" drabble to fill in the story, without a prompt from the Drabblemania challenge board.)

-oo-00-oo-

The next morning, after a night of outstanding pleasure and a languorous start to the day, an alarm sounded from the bedside table.

"Time to get dressed," Buffy announced with a groan.

"Thought you liked me unclothed and at your mercy." And pleased that his newly returned body was up to her enthusiasm.

"I do, but I'm not sharing you with Willow, who should be here in five minutes."

"Wait. What?" He hastily shoved aside a recurring threesome fantasy he'd entertained back in his more evil days.

She started digging through her suitcase, tossing his clothes toward the bed. "I texted her when I was in the airport bathroom. She's looking into that amulet and promised she'd pop by in… oh, four minutes from now. So seriously, get dressed."

"On it, pet."

She'd put on knickers and a sundress, but he'd only managed pants and his belt when a large, percussive flash splashed the suite's outer room. Willow stepped from it, all jaunty and carrying a tote bag, which she dropped on a nearby table.

Spike blinked. "You can teleport, now?"

"It's magic!" Willow grinned. Then, she approached and actually hugged him, regardless of his half undressed-ness. "Spike, it's so good to see you. You won't believe it, but we missed you."

"Maybe you did. Doubt it was universal."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," she asserted. He didn't believe her, but stranger things had happened.

She released him when Buffy cleared her throat and feigned ( probably she feigned) toe-tapping irritation.

"Sorry Buff. Got carried away." The redhead grinned slyly before going to unpack and open a laptop from her tote. "But, let me share what I found. I think I spotted that amulet in a pamphlet from the fifteenth century about Abramelin the Mage. He had a lot to say about it. Take a look." She'd spun her laptop so it faced them.

Finished pulling on his shirt, Spike stalked forward the image on her screen. "That's it. Or its twin, separated at birth." Eyes narrowed, he asked, "How did Wolfram and Hart get it? Because that's where Angelus got it."

"Who knows? They're evil, it's evil." Willow shrugged.

Buffy piped up. "It's a whole evil thing. So, how do we get rid of it?"

Spike commented, "A smart bird named Fred has been investigating the sciency stuff. Metallurgy and the like. Might have helpful info. But, gotta contact her through Angelus' pet watcher. Seems to be a bit of intrigue going on and they may be hiding their work from Angelus."

"Really? I thought we Scoobies were bad with the interpersonal intrigue," Buffy said.

"Angelus always takes what's wonky and makes it worse," Spike asserted, no longer willing to hold back opinions on her former honey-bunny. Surprisingly, she didn't object.

As though it was a mundane occurrence, Willow asked, "Did he lose his soul again?"

Buffy glanced at him, brow raised. He shook his head. "Don't think so. But there's something suspect about them all just pitching stakes inside an evil law firm. Some of the lot seem skittish about it. Also, Angelus claims the amulet was meant for him to wear, like they were sealing a deal. Or trapping him."

"Hmm." Buffy crossed her arms.

He realized his chest had begun to prickle. Annoyed, he went back to the night table and retrieved the damned amulet. It seemed to be getting more insistent on being physically attached.

"So I'm one step ahead of you on the Fred front," Willow said. "Before coming here, I called Wes at that number you had, Buffy. The Angel Investigations number didn't answer. Anyhow, he and Fred are on their way, so we can share intel." Seeing the amulet in Spike's hand, she grimaced. "I'm embarrassed I never scanned that doohickey for curses or spells. Do you mind?"

"What do you need to do?"

"Put it on the table and let me do a quick divining spell."

He set it down and watched as she spread her fingers like she held an invisible dome. As she mumbled, the air above the amulet darkened, as though gobbling the room's lamplight. Sparks flared from her fingers, snapping within the darkened space under them. With a few more words, the evil lightshow beneath her palms dissipated.

"Oh Goddess, that's dark magic all the way through." She shook her hands.

Knocking at the door turned out to be Wesley and Fred. The duo earned bonus points for bringing carry-out bags loaded with pancakes, waffles, and a cardboard carafe of coffee. Wes handed an additional bag to Spike, who found a container of blood inside. With a subtle, wry eyebrow twitch, the man murmured, "I hear both vampires and slayers can work up quite an appetite."

Staring, Spike murmured "Appreciate it," while tamping down his urge to deflect the ex-watcher's attention with sarcasm. He could tell that, for whatever reason, the man was letting Spike know he understood and accepted that he and Buffy were together. It was odd, but also… nice.

Meanwhile, Buffy had pulled out the room's main table and set out the food. As they ate, Red, the ex-watcher, and the diminutive Texan shared their research. At one point, Buffy leaned against Spike as though passing out, obviously as baffled as he was. With a rumbling chuckle, he reached over to pour her more coffee.

Then she kissed his cheek, not worrying about the company. Sensing a commotion around the table, he was ready to go on the defensive. But, there was no need.

Because it was Willow exclaiming, "Oh Goddess. Fred, Wes, I think that would work!"

Pool Sex

Their research has uncovered a way to deal with the amulet. Buffy celebrates with Spike in an old-fashioned saltwater pool at the hotel. Spike enjoys everything about it. (Again with the PG-13 reminder.)

-oo-00-oo-

After Willow and Fred explained their proposal, Buffy said, "Okay, not a witch or a scientist. But the amulet brought Spike back. Is it keeping him alive? You know, not dusty." She clutched his hand under the table. If he were turning to dust, she'd keep him intact through strength and willpower.

Fred spoke up. "Nope. I scanned Spike. He's normal… well, normal as a vampire with a soul. The amulet's energy is separate; it doesn't keep him animated. It's like a lasso pulling on a calf. The calf's a happy, healthy critter. It's that darned lasso that's the problem."

Wes added, "Unfortunately, we cannot cut it free because the link would simply regenerate. We must disintegrate it from within."

"Yeah, that's the part that might hurt," Willow grimaced.

"Not loving this plan," Buffy muttered.

"Gotta be done, pet. Not looking forward to it. But I need to be free of its tether."

Grudgingly, she agreed.

They cleared the room and set out magic supplies that, of course, Red pulled from her bag like Witchy Mary Poppins. Evidently, Wesley was an adept warlock able to protect Willow against dark magic. Even better, he explained that their earth magic, used against evil, wouldn't exact any later costs.

They settled into a circle around Spike. Next to him, the amulet lay on a cloth bespelled to confine its reactions. They lit candles and started chanting. Like hunters boxing in their prey, they used successive incantations to unlace alloys, curses, and spells, one by one.

Finally, it was the main event. He'd been warned, but still howled when the spell hit. Like an electrical storm tearing through him, it unzipped, tore out the amulet's bindings, cauterized, and then re-knit him. At his side, dark, jagged energy spasmed like dozens of meaty spiders' legs around the amulet.

And then… it was over. The amulet sat beside him, reduced to a pile of rusty chain, spiny metal, and dull glass.

And he was still undusty. A laugh bubbled up from within. Seconds later, Buffy barreled through the former spell circle. Touching him, making sure he was there, she peppered him with kisses.

A bloke couldn't ask for better.

"Do you still feel the amulet?" she asked, green eyes filled with hope.

"Not a bit. But, gotta get my sea legs back before I can be sure."

"Got that covered," Red announced while folding the cloth over the amulet before poofing it away. "Do you feel an urge to pop down to the Mariana Trench to grab your shattered bling?"

"That where you sent it? No such urge. And I haven't zinged back to Wolfram and Hart, either. Think I'm free, Red," he crowed..

Over Buffy's and Willow's whooping, he heard Fred murmur to Wesley. "Wait, why are we working at Wolfram and Hart now?"

"Angel says we're taking them down from inside. But I don't recall when we made that decision."

"Was wondering how that happened," Spike interjected. "The Hyperion looks like you walked out one day, leaving everything behind. And the idea of a handful of you eliminating interdimensional evil from inside seems a bit, well…"

"Foolhardy," the former watcher supplied.

A cellphone rang. Wes fished it from his pocket, answered it, and then said, "It's Lorne. He's had the same surprising return of his memory."

Willow, having retrieved her laptop, was scanning through documents. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with the ex-watcher. "The unlocking incantation affected all associated spells. I think maybe you were under a memory spell associated with the amulet. Maybe timed to kick off near when it returned Spike, or I guess it was supposed to be Angel."

"That would make a horrible amount of sense," that man agreed. "It's all centered on Angel, isn't it?"

A brief discussion followed, after which Wesley and Fred agreed to meet Lorne and Gunn to plan a confrontation with Angel. Thankfully, Buffy decided it was their battle to fight, although she promised help if they needed it. After they left, Willow stayed and chatted for a while before teleporting home.

By then, the sun was near the horizon. Buffy led Spike outside for a stroll around the hotel grounds. Leading them down a path to an old-fashioned saltwater pool, she announced, "We're starting our new life together today." Bossy wench . Of course, he agreed. And loved it.

Sheltered by half-wild greenery, the pool was shallow and still warm from the sun. The distant, rising ocean tide drizzled rivulets of water into the far end through a pipe. He hadn't seen one of these pools since a childhood holiday at the Brighton shore.

"Stay here," she instructed. Then she strolled toward the pool, shedding her sandals, sundress, and panties as she went. Looking back to ensure he was watching, she descended the pool's stops in measured, swaying footfalls. She was Aphrodite, sensual and proud, entering the shell of her oceanic domain.

He admired her while desire ignited every atom within him, ready for the dance of passion between them. His soul and demon united in awe. More notably, perhaps, his jeans had become deliciously, uncomfortably tight. Finally, she beckoned with a sinuous "come hither" while her free hand slowly journeyed from throat, over hard nipples, to the altar at her crotch. He was like a teenager, half staggering out of his clothes as he hurried over.

Kisses, caresses, touches in all their sacred places weren't enough. He knew from experience that the friction of sex in water wasn't entirely pleasant. But he could give her pleasure for hours, given that he didn't need to breathe. Grinning, he sank under the surface and found her nectar. Even underwater, he heard her scream his name. If anyone was nearby. They didn't dare venture over.

Later, they reclined in the pool. The distant tide bubbled water in, making tiny, quivering waves. The gentle lapping sensation felt profound, like a powerful memory that was just out of reach.

Microphone

After one last interaction with Angel and his disgruntled team, Spike and Buffy are ready to move on. Spike sees a pub hosting a poetry slam and he's moved to share some poetry with his lady. This happens much earlier than in canon, and with a whole different vibe.

Note: Spike's first poem, "She Walks Effulgent," is one I previously wrote and posted as an imagined work he might have read during the poetry slam in Angel's final canon episode. It fictionally dates from either Spike's final year in Sunnydale or his time in LA. So, I figured he might have it ready to be read during this story. The second one was crafted specifically for this drabble.

-oo-00-oo-

Of course Angel's team and Angelus needed an arbiter. Enter the Slayer.

Buffy had stomped her way into the Hyperion in stylish yet serviceable boots that coordinated with her no-nonsense wardrobe and attitude. Spike was happy to simply be muscle at her back.

Arguments flew back and forth. Mostly, Angelus talked out of his arse. With puppy eyes not quite masking anger, he claimed Wolfram & Hart backed him into a corner. Oh, and somehow his agreement to move his team to their offices had been a shield to protect those he cared about. Rather vague on that point, Liam. His team seethed with hurt and outrage as though they'd never dealt with the tosser before.

They'd been in this phase of couples' counseling since yesterday. So, Buffy stepped forward like Solomon, promising violence to force a decision.

At which point, the team shared a collective kumbayah that they would separate from Angelus and establish their own "help the helpless" joint. Which apparently they'd almost done before, so Spike wondered why this had taken so long.

Lorne offered a place to set up shop. Which meant the old man would be rattling around his hotel by himself. Or, possibly with the cheerleader Cordelia, who'd impressed Spike during his Ring of Amara misadventure, but was now in a coma at some W&H facility likely to imminently punt her. And with someone dodgy named Connor.

It was a bloody soap opera, and not a good one. Spike was happy to leave, knowing that the kiddies were settled and Gramps was… still himself.

They strolled to where he'd parked the car, hoping W&H hadn't repo'ed it yet. As they turned a corner, he stopped. Buffy pulled her hand from his, readying for a fight. But he pointed at a sign that said Walk-In Poetry Slam . In perhaps the most daring moment of his unlife, he said, "I want to try that. Mind going in?"

"You have poetry?"

Looking away, he confessed, "Yeah. I wrote one before the big fight in Sunnydale. Figured I might read it to you if I survived." He shrugged. "I still remember it."

"Wow, okay," she agreed, once again taking his hand.

Inside, the place was small, mostly setup for acoustic music. And poetry. He ordered a beer, a soda, and some of those nacho chip-and-queso messes. Seemed his lady liked food with cheese.

Since he was new, they let him read next. On stage by himself, he sat and took the microphone in his left hand. With a deep, steadying inhale, Spike looked over the small room's audience. He almost dropped the mic to leave the stage. But Buffy's attentive expression set his resolve. So, he said, "I wrote this last year, thinking of a woman I admired. It's called She Walks Effulgent ."

Clearing his throat, he began from memory, unconsciously shifting into a more William-like pronunciation.

She walks effulgent in the night
Fierce in Heaven's starry skies
And never shirking from the fight
To skewer evil with the cries
Of victory through righteous might;
A hero's rest her call denies.

Eyes green as earth, soul pure as gold,
A will of iron; smile of grace
Grants clarity to fights foretold
And binds our courage for to face
Unflinching hordes of evil bold
That light and virtue would erase.

A vessel for eternal power
So frail, so strong, so human yet
She walks undaunted in the hour
When mortal line is most beset
By ancient fears that would devour;
A courage we must not forget.

Applause and clapping rose from the seated audience. A smile spread across his face as he realized they'd actually liked it. More importantly, Buffy's gleaming eyes and wondrous smile was a balm that healed a century of embarrassed shame. Cecily's pity and his peers' scorn crumbled into sand. He'd told himself that Drusilla had cured him of such human emotions but, in truth, he'd waited over a hundred years for this.

Emboldened, he announced. "Tonight I'm especially inspired. So, here's an on-the-fly piece from the Ramones. Well, yeah, they didn't write Do You Wanna Dance , but their version is the real dog's bollocks. That means 'the bomb' to you Yanks."

With that, the words soared within him. Echoing the punk version of the song's tune and drive, he shared what burst from his imagination.

Do you wanna dance and hold my hand?
Tell me baby I'm your lover man.
Oh baby, do you wanna dance?

Do you want to meet me under the moonlight?
To dance, to fight, to know delight.
Oh baby, do you wanna dance?

Do you, do you, do you wanna dance?
Tell me baby that you'd take the chance.
Oh tell me, that you wanna dance.

Do you wanna join me, sword in hand?
Dexterous woman next to sinister man.
Conquering evil, when we dance.

Do you, do you, do you wanna dance?
Tell me baby that you'll take the chance.
Tell me that you wanna dance….

With me.

He ended, flinging his arms wide, heart open to the room and mic loose in his hand. The audience erupted into shouts and applause. Buffy stood and strode to the stage. In a voice loud enough that the entire room could hear, she declared, "Yes, Spike. I want to dance with you. Always."

Enthusiastic appreciation rose from the audience. For Spike, though, the sound faded into the background. After dropping the mic on the chair, he sinuously leapt off the stage and into her arms. Reading each others' bodies, they started an impromptu two-step in front of the stage. A few people joined them. The bar turned on their sound system, starting a small party with a round of drinks on the Watchers' Council credit card.

They'd finally left the bar, gotten to the car, and started the drive back to the hotel. Turning to him, she smiled. "Spike, I'm finally ready to be with you. You're the one."

And, with that, he was home.

.

And here endeth the story.