Buffy did not know how long she stayed there on the porch, just trying to make her mind process the fact that Angel was really there. Her heart, her mind, everything felt numb – as if this was not real, not actually happening. A surreal, dreamlike feeling surrounded her, as her mind repeated over and over, trying to make it real, *Angel is here…he’s come back…Angel is here…*

Finally, it occurred to her shell-shocked mind that at the moment they were both in very real danger; she needed to get him inside, and fast. He was conscious, but unable to rise from the ground where he had fallen, so she lifted him effortlessly into her arms and carried him into the house, lying him gently down on the sofa.

He moaned softly, turning his head toward her. Then, those deep, dark eyes that had mesmerized her, haunted her dreams, for so long, slowly opened, gradually focusing on her face. “Buffy,” he whispered, relief in his feeble whisper, and so much emotion in those eyes….

Buffy lost her breath in that moment, and felt a stab of pain in her heart at the memory of those eyes, nearly a year before, staring at her in disbelief and betrayal, not comprehending the choice she had been forced to make.

For the next few minutes, she forced herself to go into Slayer mode. The swirling emotions that were threatening to take her over would do nothing to benefit either of them; she tried to shut out every distraction and just focus on the task at hand – tending to her injured ex-lover. She could only guess at what turn of fate had brought him back from the hell she had sent him to, but he was here now, and he clearly needed her help, badly.

He was bruised and bleeding; apparently having recently received a vicious beating; she realized suddenly that he needed blood, or he would not be able to heal. She suddenly remembered the bagged blood in the kitchen that she had brought home with her that evening. She had brought it back for Spike, declaring firmly in her fiercest Slayer voice that as long as he was in *her* house, it was the only kind of blood he would be consuming.

*Spike.*

The thought of the blonde vampire upstairs waiting for her gave her a moment’s pause. When she thought of the night they had just shared, the bond they had formed over their shared feelings of loss and comfort, and then looked down at the barely conscious vampire on the couch that had held her heart in his hands for so long, she felt overwhelmed with confusion and uncertainty.

She knew that she was very attracted to Spike, cared for him, and could easily love him if she allowed herself to – so where did Angel fit into all this? Certainly not in the realm of her memories alone, where he had remained during the past few painful months. She had thought that he was out of her life forever – until she had opened her front door to find her painful past laid at her feet.

She did not have time to try to figure it out right then; she did not even know how Angel had come to be there at all, and would not until she could help him recover enough to tell her what had happened to him.

Some instinct told her that the beating he had taken had occurred *after* he had returned to this dimension. And if that was the case, then nine chances out of ten, Faith was probably involved somehow.

After she had managed to get a little of the blood down Angel’s throat, he seemed to revive a little, becoming more aware of his surroundings. He struggled to pull himself up on his arms to face her, seeming a bit disoriented and confused still.

Then, his eyes settled on her, focused and alert this time. “Buffy,” he gasped, a wealth of emotion in his voice, weak, but so familiar to her.

“Angel,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes, and before she knew what she was doing her resolve was crushed, and she lowered her head to his chest, sobbing. “Angel, I’m so sorry!”

“Buffy,” he whispered, and she could hear the tears in his voice as well. “Oh, Buffy…” That was all he could manage to say, but she could hear the warmth, the compassion in his voice that told her that he did not hate her, even after all that had happened.

It was a long time before Buffy could regain control of her emotions enough to lift her head and meet his eyes…and even then it was a struggle. Every time she looked at him, she was taken back to the moment of the betrayal she had been forced to commit.

She dropped her eyes after only a moment, her hand clutching his tightly; she had no idea how it had come to be holding his in the first place.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper. “How did you – get back?”

He was silent for a moment, seeking her eyes, aware that her guilt was placing a distance between them, but not knowing how to broach it. “I – I don’t know,” he answered quietly at last, his voice a little stronger as the blood began to do its work. “A couple of months ago, I just – just found myself back here. In Sunnydale.”

“A couple of months ago?” she frowned, confused. “Then – where…?” It hurt her to realize that he had been back for so long, and had only now sought her out. She had longed to see him for so long, it was painful to think that he had not wanted to see her.

*Of course he didn’t want to see you,* she reminded herself. *You sent him to hell, Buffy. Should you be surprised that he didn’t drop by to say hello the moment he got back in town?*

Still, she could not keep the hurt from her voice as she asked, “Where were you?”

Angel was quiet for a moment, before he answered, “Buffy – I was in hell. That sort of thing changes you.” The sarcasm, the accusation, in his voice was faint – but it was there, and she flinched to hear it. When he saw her reaction, he looked away. His voice was softer when he went on, still not looking at her, “I – wasn’t myself. I guess I was – half crazy, Buffy. Wild. What humanity I had was…” He stopped, shaking his head, searching for words. “Gone – or buried. I wasn’t even the same person I was…before.”

“What happened?” Buffy gently pushed him, her eyes still downcast, when he did not go on.

He was silent for so long that she ventured a look up to see his haunted eyes, gazing at the coffee table between them, lost in painful memories. Just when she thought that he was not going to answer at all, he whispered, “She found me.”

A chill went down Buffy’s spine, and she knew without asking who “she” was. The thought of Angel in Faith’s cruel hands, already driven out of his mind with suffering, rekindled the smoldering fury that had ignited when she had learned of Spike’s abuse at those same hands.

*That’s it,* she determined suddenly. *That little bitch is going down.*

“She – she helped me,” Angel went on haltingly. “At first. Helped me get better. Told me who I was – said I was -- *destined*.”

“Destined for what?” Buffy frowned.

He looked at her, his eyes distant with memory. “To help the Slayer,” he replied simply. “She said – she had a – a special calling, greater than the other Slayers – and I was destined to help her fulfill it.”

Suddenly, Buffy understood. “Did she tell you what exactly that entailed?” she asked darkly, thinking of the ritual.

He looked down again. “Eventually,” he said softly. There was a bitter sarcasm in his voice as he went on, “once she thought I was too grateful to her, too much under her control, to object.” He paused, before adding in a voice of steel, “She was wrong. I refused, as soon as I knew what it was she wanted to do. No Slayer in her right mind would want to do a thing like that.” He shook his head slightly. “Only someone as demented and power-hungry as Faith.”

Buffy nodded her agreement. “What happened then?” she asked, almost afraid to hear the rest of his story.

“Well…the difference in her was like night and day after that,” he continued, his eyes down and his voice trembling with the painful memories he was recounting. “She tried to – to convince me – to help her anyway.” His eyes looked so lost, so haunted.

Instinctively Buffy squeezed his hand tighter, reassuring him with her presence. “But you got away,” she reminded him gently, trying to pull him from his dark reverie.

“Eventually,” he said again. He looked up at her suddenly. “We have to stop her, Buffy. It won’t take her long to find some other vamp foolish enough to go along with her. I hate to say this – but I think we need to take her out, Buffy. For good.”

Buffy looked at him for a long moment, then nodded grimly. “I’ve been afraid of that for a while now,” she admitted.

“We should hurry, too,” he went on, urgency in his dark eyes. “I think she may already have someone lined up to take my place.”

“Anyone I know?” Buffy asked, her eyebrows lifted in surprise at that news.

Angel nodded, with a slight grimace that said she was not going to be thrilled with his response. “Spike.”

Buffy felt her stomach drop – and also the very inappropriate urge to laugh. “Um…Angel…” she began cautiously. “There’s something you should know…” She knew why Angel would make that assumption. If Spike had been acting the part of Faith’s loyal paramour in front of Angel, it was only a natural conclusion to reach.

How was she going to be able to explain to him that Spike was actually working against Faith, and she had invited him into her home – not to mention her bed?

Suddenly, a thought struck her, and she looked back at Angel, a startling question rising in her eyes with a strange realization. Long before her battle with Angelus, she had rescinded Angel’s invitation to her home, for the safety of her family and friends. And she had never extended a new invitation, having no cause to, assuming that he was gone forever.

A few moments before, when she had found him at her door, the thought of any danger he might pose had been the farthest thing from her mind. She had not thought, in her shock and disbelief at seeing him at her door, and had simply lifted him across her threshold and into her home.

Without extending a new invitation.

Her eyes widened with surprise and suspicion, and she unconsciously moved back a little from him, her mind racing as she thought of possible scenarios which might have led to Angel’s current “welcome” status in her home.

Angel’s eyes were innocent and startled at her reaction, as he stared at her, his tone confused and a little defensive as he spoke.

“Buffy…*what*?”


In desperation, Spike backed against the bedroom door, trying the handle, though he knew already that the door would not open. When his fears were confirmed, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gain control of his emotions, shaking his head in denial of his helpless situation.

Willow laughed at his reaction, taking her time as she advanced on him; they both knew he had no escape. “That’s not gonna make me go away,” she mocked him, as she came to stand a few feet in front of him. With a cold smile, she ran the back of her hand lightly across his forehead and down his cheek, and he flinched back hard, hitting his head on the door in the process.

She smirked, and suddenly he heard her voice, not in his ears, but as an echoing intrusion in his mind. *Who would have thought…the big, bad vampire who took down a werewolf with his bare hands…afraid of a little magic?*

The hatred, the underlying fury in her taunting voice, was intensified by the fact that she was speaking only in his mind, her violent emotions that accompanied the words a tangible force that he could feel for himself.

“Get out of my head, witch!” he ground out, his voice low and trembling with mingled anger and terror at her violation, as he pulled away from her touch.

She stepped back, regarding him with a smile for a moment. But then, her features twisted in rage and he could feel her power invading his mind again. He tried with everything in him to shut her out, to close his mind to her, but with a sudden violent surge of anger she delivered what felt like a vicious backhand blow – without touching him. His whole body slammed hard against the door, rattling it loudly, but the sound was drowned out for him by the roaring of the powerful voice once again in his head.

*I’ll leave when I’m *ready* to…murderer!* she snarled, and the pure menace in her mental voice was terrifying.

Suddenly, she was right back in his face, her hand resting on the wall beside him, closing him in. He was shaking so hard that he thought his legs would cease to support him from sheer terror, and the power of Willow’s magic, still invading his body and mind, as she spoke again in his head, her voice once again soft and almost gentle. She seemed pleased that he was no longer resisting her at all, mentally.

*There we go,* she spoke in his mind, her voice clear and unhindered. *That’s so much better. See? You don’t have to make everything so hard.*

His mind was racing, desperately trying to think of a way out, panic rising in him with the realization that she could hear his every thought, know any idea he came up with as soon as he did. He wondered suddenly if anyone had heard the sound a few moments ago, when she had slammed him into the door so hard. Desperately he hoped…surely someone must have…

*No one heard it,* she cut off his hope with a cruel smile, her hand once again trailing down his cheek in a disturbing caress. *The spell’s on the door this time – not your mouth. I don’t mind if you beg for mercy this time. In fact…* She leaned in close, and he jumped, startled, when she whispered aloud in his ear, “I think I’d like it better if you did.”

“B-buffy,” he tried, despising the obvious fear in his voice. “If you stake me, she’ll…”

“Believe anything I tell her,” she interrupted in a tone of calm triumph, emphasizing each word separately, as she produced a stake out of thin air, tossing it in her hand and catching it neatly as his eyes widened in fear at the sight. “Can I help it if you attacked me? A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She shrugged with a sly smile, as his eyes widened in terrible understanding. “And fortunately for me…there won’t be anyone to contradict my story.”

She pressed the stake against his chest, her cold smile widening as he cringed. “Go ahead,” she told him. “Scream if you want to.” She shrugged. “No one’s gonna hear you.” Her voice lowered to a chilling whisper as she leaned in to add, “And you’re *gonna* want to!”

Panic seized him; it did not matter that he knew he didn’t stand a chance against her. Everything in him focused on not letting her carry out her horrific threat. With a sweeping motion of his arm he knocked the stake out of her hand, sending it clattering across the floor. She was distracted enough by his actions that he was able to lunge at her, hurling her to the ground under him. Before she could react he slammed his fist down into her face with desperate force.

She couldn’t work any magic if she was unconscious.

Unfortunately…she was not unconscious.

With a weak but effective gesture of her hand, she threw him off her, and he landed a few feet away, feeling as if he had been kicked in the ribs by someone much larger and stronger than little Willow Rosenberg.

Willow struggled to her feet, wiping blood from her mouth, her eyes blazing with fury. With another wave of her hand, before he could even begin to rise, she threw him violently into the far wall, with a breathtaking, bone-crushing impact, where he slumped to the floor against the wall, unable to rise.

“Okay…*now* I’m mad,” she snarled, advancing quickly on him, stopping for a moment to pick up her stake.

He could do no more as she reached him but to shrink away from her against the wall. He was hopelessly trapped, unable to fight or run…helpless.

“Don’t,” he said softly as she crouched down in front of him, turning his head away from her cruel smile of triumph. “Please…don’t…”

“You know,” she said calmly, her penetrating gaze drawing his eyes back to hers. “I think I changed my mind.” Without warning she hit him with another vicious jolt of power that slammed his head back against the wall, at the same time leaving a deep, bleeding gash across his cheek. Kneeling in front of him and pressing the stake to his chest again, she ordered in a menacing whisper close to his ear, “Shut up.”

Slowly, she backed off a little, removing her hand from the stake carefully – and to his horror, it remained suspended in the air, rotating slowly, its tip pressed painfully into his flesh.

Desperate, knowing that she was about to kill him, he tried to move, to fight her off, even knowing that he would fail – and found himself pinned helplessly as before, to the wall behind him, unable to move an inch.

His wide, terrified eyes met hers, cold and merciless, full of cool triumph, as she held her hand up in front of his face to be sure he saw what she was doing. After a weighted pause, she snapped her fingers, the click resounding with a fatal clarity in the silence that had fallen over the room – and he felt the stake at his chest press just slightly forward.

He bit back a cry of pain as its jagged point pierced further into his skin, its slowly spinning tip tearing his flesh.

Willow leaned in from the side, gripping his hair and yanking his head back to whisper with chilling glee, “This…is gonna be so…cool…”

It was in that moment that he knew there was absolutely no hope. He was going to die.

Suddenly, the door that Willow had magically sealed and soundproofed burst open, flooding the room with light from the hallway, and momentarily obscuring the figure who stood in the doorway. But the pure power radiating from him was unmistakable, even before Spike could make out his face.

Rupert Giles.

“Willow,” the Watcher spoke calmly as he slowly entered the room. “I think you’d better stop.”

Willow slowly stood, a smirk on her face as she looked the Watcher up and down with bold contempt for the power she could not have helped but sense.

“I think you’d better stop me,” she sneered.

Giles gave the girl he had mentored and loved for years a sad, regretful smile. “As you say,” he replied softly. And without a move, without a word, apparently simply by his thoughts, Willow suddenly slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

Spike’s relief was only partial. After all, he still could not move, and the deadly stake was still boring into his chest. Of course, at the rate it was moving it would have taken hours to actually dust him – which had been Willow’s intent – but it was still unbelievably painful.

The Watcher crossed the room and stood over the helpless vampire, regarding him for a moment as Spike looked up at him in apprehension. He was not so certain that Giles was the lesser of the two dangers.

With a simple wave of the Watcher’s hand, Spike felt the binding pressure on his limbs disappear, and the deadly stake dropped to the floor with a soft clatter. Spike collapsed forward, his hand pressed to the bleeding wound in his chest, gasping back sobs of relief, with the release of his terror of the past few minutes.

He gave the fallen witch a wide-eyed, sideways look, then looked back up at Giles. “Is she…did you…” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “What did you do?” he finally managed to get out.

“She’s quite all right,” Giles assured him. “When she awakens, she’ll be considerably calmer.”

“Not that I’m doubting you, mate,” Spike said between deep breaths, his eyes still on Willow’s unconscious form. “But on the off chance she’s *not*…”

“She’s been stripped of her powers,” Giles interrupted calmly, his eyes also on the girl.

Spike looked up at him in surprise. “For how long?”

“Until I feel it’s appropriate to return them.”

Spike was impressed, and did not bother trying to hide it. After a moment, he looked back up at Giles as he struggled to get to his feet. “Not that I’m not grateful,” he choked out, “because I bloody well am…but…I can’t help but wonder…if you didn’t save me…just to have the soddin’ pleasure of staking me yourself, Watcher,” he said frankly, stumbling, falling back to one knee from the pain in his ribs.

“Quite the contrary, Spike,” Giles spared him a small smile as he moved forward and reached out a hand to the injured vampire. “I rather think I want you alive at the moment.”

Spike cast a dubious look between his face and his outstretched hand, unsure whether or not he could trust the man at all.

There were precious few people he could trust lately.

“Come on, now, take it,” Giles urged him, impatiently, but not without understanding. “I’m not going to hurt you, Spike…”

“Yeah,” Spike muttered, but he took the Watcher’s hand and allowed him to pull him to his feet. “I’ve heard that song before…”

“As much as it pains me to admit it,” Giles went on, that odd little self-deprecating smile still in place. “I rather think we need you at the moment.”

“And what’s brought about this little change of heart?” Spike asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Giles’ smile widened slightly. “Come,” he said, walking toward the door with a beckoning wave of his hand, presumably leading the way to his room down the hall. “Let’s talk.”