Not much I can say except that FMS is truly a gift. Thanks so much Wendy ♥




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At the point where hope and reason part,
lies the spot where madness gets a start.
Hope to make the world kinder and free--
but flowers of hope root in reality.
No peaceful bed exists for lamb or lion,
unless on some world out beyond Orion.
Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.
Owls acting as owls must is not a vice.
Storms do not respond to heartless pleas.
All the words of men can't calm the seas.
Nature--always beneficial and cruel--
won't change for a wise man or a fool.

--The Book of Counted Sorrows

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“Um, sir? Are you ok? Sir? Sir? Are you ok?"

“Huh? What?”

“Are you ok Sir?”

“Ok?”

“Yeah. Your hands are all….” The young man behind the counter waved his hand in a meaningless gesture. “Are you ok?

“My hands?”

“Your hands man. The-the blood. Are you hurt?

Looking down dazedly at his hands, he turned them this way and that, finding dried ribbons of blood staining his palms, the scarlet colours already fading into a diseased crimson.

Blood? Blood!

Her blood!!

‘Oh God. Her blood! I have her blood on my hands. Buffy’s blood. Her blood is on my hands! My fault. My fault. Buffy’s blood is on my hands!’

Looking wildly at the clerk behind the counter, Spike all but barked.

“The loo! Where’s the bloody loo?” Shaking his head in aggravation at the young man’s confused look, he shouted, “The bathroom! Where’s the fucking bathroom?!?”

“I-in the back corner of the store… underneath the big mirror,” the smooth-faced kid said worriedly, pointing to the right side.

Spinning around furiously, his overly-bright blue eyes saw the large mirror mounted on the wall close to the ceiling in the far back corner of the convenience tore. With long, quick strides, Spike was just short of running as he made his way to the bathroom. Pushing the door open, she slammed it shut behind him as he grabbed at paper towels, scrubbing frantically at his hands.

‘Buffy’s blood. Her blood is on my hands!’ his mind screamed at him, over and over inside his head, guilt rising like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him in its wake.

Reaching for the sink, his hands fumbled as he twisted the knobs, thrusting his hands beneath the water as it rushed out in force, spraying the wall, his clothes, his face as he scrubbed at his hands, the soggy paper towels shredding and plopping into the bottom of the sink in small wet chunks.

Steam began to rise as the water grew hotter and hotter and still Spike washed his hands furiously, his skin turning first pink and then red with the heat of the water and his actions and still he scrubbed on, scouring any lingering traces of blood away with layers of skin as the pads beneath his fingers became raw.

‘Her blood is on my hands!’

He failed. He failed his Slayer… his golden Buffy. He once told her that every Slayer has a death-wish, but he was wrong. Not Buffy. His Slayer was full of life and light and no matter how many times life spun her around, she’d take it on the chin and get right back up swinging. She had the strongest heart of anyone he’d ever met in his time on this earth and because he failed her, that heart now lay in a chest that was still.

Looking up into a mirror that was fogged from the steam, the dingy white wall behind him reflected back in its frosted, hazy surface and he laughed hysterically, the laughter breaking off into a sob as he stared at what he couldn’t see. Yanking his hands out of the burning water, he turned, whipping open the door before striding out of the bathroom and walking hurriedly down the aisle, snatching a bottle of booze in each hand as he walked past, heading for the doorway to the alley. Kicking the door open, he stood for a moment looking both ways seeming unsure of which way he wanted to go. Settling on a direction, he turned walking quickly with long strides towards the maze of alleyways behind the downtown area, his duster billowing out like a dark wave behind him. Turning this way and that, he all but ran through the alleyways, making his way to the end that opened up at the edge of the park. Shouldering his way through the small gathering of people hanging out at one of the picnic areas, he ignored the indignant “Heys” and he pushed on towards Restfield and the solitude of his crypt.

Bursting through the door, he kicked it shut behind him, tossing one of the bottles he nicked from the convenience store into the chair, un-noticing as it bounced once on the deep cushion before plonking onto the floor and rolling away as he was too busy ripping the cap off of the one he still held, tipping it up and drinking deeply of amber liquid.

He drained half the bottle before he stopped, righting his head as he looked around in the darkness. Shrugging off his duster, he let it fall to the floor behind him and he went and retrieved the second bottle of whiskey from beneath the table where it rolled. Striding to the hole leading down to the lower level, he dropped down, landing heavily on his feet before he turned towards the right and to where he had boxes of stuff piled up in a small area. Standing there, he could see a picture of the Slayer sitting on top of some other items and he reached in with the hand still holding the open bottle, gripping it with thumb and ring and pinky fingers as he used the other two to turn the picture right side up. Staring into a face filled with life and eyes full of fire, his strength seemed to leave him suddenly and he crumpled to the floor, spilling the contents of the box along with him.

‘Oh Buffy. I am so sorry Pet. I am so sorry I wasn’t fast enough or strong enough to kill that demon bugger before he could hurt Dawn. I am so sorry you had to jump. I’m so sorry…’

Bringing the bottle to his lips once more, he drained it before opening the second, drinking deeply from it as well. He had never felt such pain in his entire existence. With the hundreds of scrapes and pummellings he took, hell even his torture at the hands of Angelus, he had never in all of his years felt pain like this. It was as if his heart had been pierced with a stake but instead of finding release in an explosion of dust, he was left with this thick knot of wood that seemed to twist ever so slowly, burrowing itself deeper and deeper until he thought he was going to die from the agony or pitch headlong into the blackest pits of insanity.


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She couldn’t hear a thing. People fussed all around her, talking, talking but she couldn’t hear a thing they said. Even the regular sounds, the opening and closing of doors or the creaky sounds of the stairs, the sounds weren’t there. The bathroom too. She had gone to the bathroom, walking up the stairs as if she were sleep-walking, sinking to the floor as she heaved and threw up into the toilet and when she closed the lid and flushed, those sounds were absent too. It was as if someone hit the mute button in her head.

Tara had come in there later, finding her still sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, her head resting on the lid and the next thing she knew, Xander was there, picking her up and carrying her to her room as sweet blonde girl followed behind him carrying a bowl of water and a basket filled with antiseptics and bandages. She sat mutely as Tara talked to her for a few minutes, making gestures with her hands that Dawn couldn’t comprehend before the gentle Wicca finally knelt down, taking the hem of the ceremonial dress she was still wearing and pulling it up, up, up over her head as her arms fell limply from the sleeves to her sides. Then the Tara was dipping a cloth into the bowl of water and cleaning the cuts on one side of her stomach, using feather-light strokes as she wiped away the dried blood, dipping the cloth back into the bowl and rinsing it before moving to the opposite side and repeating the same gesture.

Once her stomach was cleaned and bandaged, Tara got up and left, coming back a minute later with fresh water and she knelt down once more, moving the damp cloth along her legs and washing away the blood that had run down them from her stomach. Once she was satisfied that Dawn was cleaned up, she took out a long nightshirt and tugged it over her head, pulling her arms through the sleeves before she leaned over and pulled the blanket back, pressing her gently backwards until her head hit the pillow, her legs pulling themselves up automatically as she closed her eyes and curled up on her side. Covering her gently, Tara pushed a long lock of golden-brown hair behind her ear as she leaned down, kissing her gently on the cheek before turning out the light and leaving her alone in the silence.


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Anya moved about the kitchen quietly and efficiently, putting water to boil in the aluminum tea kettle and stirring a pot of milk so that it wouldn’t scorch while it warmed. Searching the cabinets, she found a canister filled with chamomile tea and set it onto the counter next to the sugar bowl and small pitcher of milk she poured from the refrigerator. No-one had eaten a thing all day and she understood why as she, herself, didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, her headache finally tapering off from a screaming crescendo into a throbbing ache. Still, she knew they couldn’t go without anything in their stomachs so she made herself useful by putting together the makings for tea and hot chocolate.

When the milk was thoroughly heated, she covered it and moved it to a back burner, going back to the refrigerator and pulling out a lemon which she then proceeded to slice into eighths. It was quiet in the house; any talking that was done was in hushed tones as if they were thinking that Buffy was simply asleep and trying not to disturb her rather than dead and Dawn hadn’t said a word, whispered or otherwise, since before their trek home this morning through the sewers. Xander was sitting, huddled in a corner of the couch with a pillow clasped to his stomach while Giles sat in the chair across from him, staring off into space with his fingers steepled against his lips. Tara was upstairs, putting Dawn to bed and Spike had left as soon as it was sundown. Willow followed not too far behind him, using Xander’s car to go to Los Angeles after it was decided that telling Angel in person was the kinder thing to do. Giles made a number of quiet phone calls throughout the day, half of which were trying to reach Hank Summers and the others to God knows who.

Just then, Tara walked into the kitchen. Anya looked up from arranging the slices of lemon in a shallow dish, one side of her face bruised, the skin around her eye swollen and it bulged slightly as she shared a small comforting smile as the thoughtful girl moved to help, taking mugs from out of the cupboard next to the sink before pulling a wooden serving tray from a cabinet underneath. Arranging everything on the tray, she poured hot water into two mugs as Anya made hot chocolate for Xander, adding a scoop of chocolate chips before stirring. Setting the mug onto the tray, Tara picked it up gesturing to Anya with it.

“I’ll be out there in a minute. I just want to wash this pan out first.”

“Ok.”

Sharing another gentle smile, Tara turned and left the kitchen as Anya turned to the sink, running water into the pot before picking it up and washing it with the still soapy sponge. Rinsing it thoroughly, she placed it into the drainer and was hit with another wave of sadness. Gripping the counter in front of her, she let her head fall forward, closing her eyes tightly against the pain. Really, she and Buffy had never been that close, but she was one of the first real friends that she had ever had since becoming human; since forever really because even for the thousand plus years as a demon, her only real friend then had been Hallie. She had never let anyone else get close enough and somehow, without her knowing it, Buffy became a real friend. They might not have been close and done the gossiping and shopping thing that girls liked to do in groups, but there was a mutual respect and trust and that was something even more rare for Anya than all the female bonding. And it hurt. Much like it had when Buffy’s Mom, Joyce died, except this time, the hurt didn’t just sit in her breast. This time it spread out from her chest down deep into her stomach.

‘Stupid human mortality!’

Feeling hands grip her shoulders, she straightened up and turned to find Giles standing there, his grey-blue eyes soft with understanding.

Answering the question in her eyes, he quietly responded with “Honey” and gestured with the hand that held a small jar half-filled with the sticky substance and suddenly she pushed forward, her hands grasping and clinging to his upper arms while she buried her face against his wide chest as his arms wrapped themselves solidly and comfortingly around her.

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He was out of booze. He drank both of the bottles he stole a few hours ago as well as cleaned out everything he had at the crypt which sadly only turned out to be a half a bottle of bourbon and a quarter bottle of scotch.

He wasn’t drunk enough.

Tonight he wanted to be so faced he couldn’t see straight. He didn’t want to be able to form a single coherent thought. He wanted to be so drunk he couldn’t feel a damn thing. Closing his eyes, he was greeted with shining green eyes set above a button nose and cascades of shining golden hair and his heart twisted inside his chest.

No. He wasn’t near drunk enough.

Getting unsteadily to his feet from the chair he didn’t remember dropping into in his search for more to drink, he knocked over the small table that sat in front of the telly, uncaring that the small bowl filled to the brim with stubbed out cigarettes and ashes went scattering across the floor.

Making his way to the door, his feet seemed to get tangled in the puddle his duster that he shrugged off earlier. Falling heavily to his stomach, Spike cussed a blue streak as he inadvertently head-butted the floor.

“Dammit! Who in the bloody fuck… put my bleeding coat… on the blasted floor? Whatever oogly boogly you are, you better clear out before I rip your fucking arms off and bash your head in with’em. Ass-assuming you have arms o’course.”

Disentangling his feet finally, he lurched upright once more, kicking the coat out of his way as he opened the door to his crypt and stepped out into the cool night.

Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.’

Her name repeated like a mantra inside his head as he walked, weaving his way around headstones and statues, determined to find more alcohol. Reaching the gate he stood wavering, trying to decide where he could go. Willy’s.

Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.’

“Alright mate. Willy’s it is,” he spoke aloud to himself, unaware the his feel propelled him in the opposite direction; to the house on Revello Drive.



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“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. What are you doing?!?”

“I have to jump. The energy… I know… Buffy, I know about the ritual. I have to stop it.”

“No.”

“I have to. Look what’s happening. Buffy, you have to let me go. Blood starts it and until the blood stops flowing, it’ll never stop. You know you have to let me. It has to have the blood…”

“…Buffy? No!”

“Dawnie, I have to.”

“No!”

Dawn tossed and turned in her sleep, whimpering, her cheeks wet with tears as she replayed the events of the night before in her mind like an endless movie.

“Listen to me. Please, there’s not a lot of time, listen. Dawn, listen to me. Listen. I love you. I will *always* love you, but this is the work that I have to do. Tell Giles ... tell Giles I figured it out and--and I'm okay. And give my love to my friends. You have to take care of them now… you have to take care of each other… You have to be strong. Dawn, the hardest thing in this world, is to live in it. Be brave. Live… for me.”

“Noooooooo! Buffy! Buffyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!”

Dawn sat up, her throat burning from the screams that tore their way out of her chest.

“Buffy! Buffyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!”

Still deaf to the sounds outside her head, Dawn didn’t hear the feet pounding along the floor or up the stairs or the door as it flew open and crashed into the wall. She ignored the hands and the arms that surrounded her, unable to focus on anything but the pain that seemed to swallow her whole and she just kept screaming and screaming, Buffy’s name rending the quiet that settled over the night.

“Buffy! Buf-fyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!”


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Spike plodded along, his drunken haze annoyingly clearing a bit in the brisk night air as he wobbled unsteadily but upright down the sidewalk, unseeing of the familiar houses and cars parked along the street towards Buffy’s house. His keen ears didn’t hear the familiar sounds of the night; late-night T.V. in one house; a dog barking close by before another answered further up the street. The only thing the bleached vampire could hear was the sound of his own voice in his head.

‘Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.’

Suddenly a scream cleaved the night in two and Spike was off running before he realized it. Again and again the scream sounded out, tearing his mind out of its drunken fog when he realized who it was and his demon roared in answer.

“Dawn!”

He ran as fast as he could and within a minute he was tearing up the steps onto the porch, flinging open the front door, his guts twisted into a fear so intense he thought he was going to be sick with it. Shouting her name again, he heard Willow’s frantic voice calling his name upstairs and he leap forward, taking them two at a time. Shoving his way through the bedroom door, he called out once more, his shout just a fraction of a ounce quieter.

“Dawn!”

Pushing his way through the group gathered at her bedside, Spike took the terrorized girl into his arms, his eardrums feeling as if they would burst from her screams as she stared unseeingly ahead, her chest heaving with every breath.

“Dawn. Dawn come on! Look at me. Dawn!”

He shook her shoulders lightly and she her eyes seemed to focus on him finally.

“Dawn. Please, Dawn… Nibblet, please…”

Suddenly her deafness lifted and Spike’s firm voice filled her ears.

“Nibblet. Dawn, please… please. Come on Bit…”

And with that it seemed someone opened the floodgates and she pitched herself into his arms, her body heaving with the force of her sobs, her weeping so agonizingly heartrending that Giles seemed to deflate, sinking down onto the bed behind her as every eye in the room overflowed anew.