Days of Grace by Laura Siri

Chapter #1 - Ch. 1- Shades of Gray

A/N: WARNING! This fic contains rape for the purposes of character development. If you have a dislike of such things, please don't continue. Also, this fic is complete. I'm going to post a chapter a day until it's all up... Enjoy! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- His world was a scheme of black and white, colors as absent as his ability to feel remorse. But unlike the remorse, he missed the color, missed the satisfaction he’d felt when he’d held it in his arms. Since his return he’d learned that color, flashes of something more, they came only when he was with her. He thought maybe that was why he hated her so much. He watched her trying to laugh with her friends, trying to shrug off the impending danger, the threat that was him. It made him smile, a cold, calculated expression. She thought that he was going to play like he had before, that she could dance this dance, just be strong and deflect his efforts before they could land. They all knew his game, how he terrorized, how he tortured by killing until his victim was entirely alone. Slow, methodical isolation. He thought maybe... maybe it was time for something new. Up front, heart to heart, blow to blow, soul to… well, maybe not soul to soul. She went patrolling later that night, wearing a pink sweater he could remember his good self running hands over, over perked nipples hidden three layers deep. Such a tantalizing picture, he saw it inside his head, every moment of stripping her innocence raging in his mind. The sweater was just a façade now, where it had been a symbol of untouched fruit before. She was almost past a large marble mausoleum with cherub angels when he came around and stepped directly in front of her. "Angel." "The stars say otherwise, Lover." The way she said his name, urgent like, it was like the sweetest blood to him. Watching the pain fill her eyes every time he broke her softest hope about his soul-filled alias returning. "You should’ve staked me, Buffy… You’re gonna regret not doing it." His fist connected solidly to flesh, his knuckles cracking against her cheekbone. He watched her head snap back, but she didn’t cry out. She was completely silent, backing herself up against the crypt wall. "Really, Lover, you should know better. Being by yourself at a time like this." He watched as the despair left, as angry resolved filled her, and she came off the wall quickly, kicking out at him. He grabbed her foot, twisted, flipping her back so that her face and shoulder slammed into the crypt. Stunned, she let out a yelp, rolling over onto her back and staring up at him. Her left cheek was bleeding from the abrasive stonewall, her right purplish from his fist. "Your heart’s just not in this, Lover." He leaned down, using her shirt to lift her to her feet. "Maybe I should have done something to piss you off first, like kill off some of your dear friends." Buffy spat in his face, bringing her fist to connect with the side of his head. His head twisted sideways and he dropped her, allowing her to scramble backwards and away from the wall. "Touch them and I will more than kill you." "See, that’s what I used to love about you. All guts and fire in the face of impending death." He grinned, knowing it was a terrible sight of fangs and wrinkled forehead, and then rushed her. "Let’s save this violence for a bit later, what do you say?" His voice was a chilling whisper in here ear, a second before she felt the needle slip into her skin like a sting. There was a rush, when all the blood from her body felt like it was being forced into her brain. She watched the earth rise in slow motion and felt the arm that caught her seconds before she slammed into it. "Gotcha, Lover." Buffy stared up at him with glazed eyes as he turned her towards him, her head rolling back on his arm; the stars above his head glittered eerily, casting him as a demon with a halo. Bending over, he lifted her up into his arms and delighted in how light she was.Beautiful, mosaic contradiction… Such a tiny, graceful package to know such violence. Angelus grinned as he stared down at the bruises spreading over her face; he recognized color when he saw it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Buffy woke to cold. It was all around and inside her, goose-pimpled flesh and pounding heart. "Well, you woke sooner than I expected. Must be that Slayer constitution. That’s good." His mouth was in her hair, near her ear, tickling. He had the lower half of her body pinned with his. "You’d better pray it holds up now." She felt metal around her wrists and ankles, heavy and clanking as she shifted, then pulled. But the manacles held tight. He ran his hands down her bare stomach, smiled as her flesh quivered beneath him. His lips traced a rough path down her throat, coolly wet, until his mouth was directly over her pulse. "So sweet," he murmured, flicking her skin with his tongue, scraping with his teeth. Then he let his teeth go deep. Buffy screamed, jerking harder at the chains. He pulled back quickly, too quickly, and laughed at her. "Slow down, Lover. We’ve got all night." Buffy spat in his face, and he connected his fist to her mouth. She kept silent, but licked the blood defiantly from her bottom lip. From there it was slaps, scratches, bleeding wrists and ankles from straining against her bonds. Shallow rips from his teeth that stung like agony. She screamed until she lost her voice. She tried tossing him, biting him, but he only laughed and made the blows harder. He was everywhere, and Buffy felt as if she were suffocating. When finally he topped her, she wasn’t ready, prepared. But she said his name in a cry when he ripped into her. That was her weakness, her failure, and from that moment she ceased to struggle. She turned her face into her shoulder, tasting salty tears, feeling emptiness even as he relentlessly jack hammered into her. When he bit her deep vein again, she came. Came in blood and passion so hard that she nearly tossed her demon lover. But he growled and kept his teeth in as her back bowed upward and had her straining towards the ceiling. I hafta let go. She felt one of the chains snap, and with her free hand, her traitorous free hand, she pressed the back of his head towards her and urged him on. Tightened on him in other places, screamed with everything in her. "Take it all! Please, end this, oh god, please end this." She was sobbing again, and it seemed he would do it, the demon whose hair felt silky beneath her fingers, whose fangs shifted slightly to further rip her throat. Buffy’s hand felt heavy, and it slid, trailed down cold sweaty flesh. She heard Angelus growling softly as he drained her, but it was distant. Let me never wake up… -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Angelus forced himself to finally stop drinking as Buffy’s body grew cold beneath his, as the blood grew to only a fragile, salty flow in his mouth. He licked the edges clean, tongued the wound roughly, then pulled back to survey his work. He hissed, staring at the array of color before him. All that multicolored, swollen flesh, like an artist’s palate of a thousand shades and hues. "Exquisite," he whispered as he stood. Buffy’s arm slid deadly to her stomach, landing there with a wet plop that sent blood droplets flying up into his face. It lay curled amongst all the beautiful colors, a single free limb to the other chained ones; it took his breath away. As Angelus stared down at his masterpiece, body buzzing with the blood of a Slayer, his Slayer, the world was colorful once more. She had bled color back into his undead world. He laughed, threw his head back and howled like the devil he was. He turned as he heard the slight rustling of lace and silk, the soft sound of slippers moving over marble. He grinned, showing a wicked display of fangs, and turned around to gloat. "Isn’t she a marvel, Dru? Just look at her!" "Miss Edith is being naughty, Angelus. She says you want to play only with your Slayer pet now and will forget all about your Dru." She held the doll out to him, a stern expression on her face. He ignored it and kissed her roughly. The doll dropped between them as she kissed back, pressing its porcelain into his naked stomach. "I knew Miss Edith lies. I taste Slayer blood, smell it all over you." She eagerly cleaned his fangs with her tongue, vamping out as she nicked herself. Enflamed with passion and its mistress hatred, Angelus felt a sudden flash of impulsivity. "Let’s leave, Dru. Let’s travel the world and burn it down around us like we used to." "Mmmm… Chaos and death like a pretty picture puzzle." She rubbed her hand over her stomach and thrust her hips at his. "The world on a blood-coated platter, darling." "But what about my Spike?" She pouted, and with the fanged face it seemed all the more horrific. He couldn’t resist licking her mouth just once more. "We’ll be back for him." And, he thought in grim satisfaction as he looked at Buffy, prone and violently disarrayed, We’ll be back for what’s left of her… -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spike rolled himself quickly into the courtyard of the mansion, feeling with some satisfaction the bone and muscles reknitting beneath his skin. Is only a matter of time now, only a matter of time before I’ll take back what’s mine… Hey, what’s this? He didn’t recognize the woman on the wall at first. Naked body covered in bruises, scratches and patches of dry blood, at first glance she appeared dead. At second glance, he realized her chest was quivering slightly with each breath, causing a slight tremulous quality to effect her breasts and blood-encrusted nipples. Her hair was matted to her head with the same said blood, making its color indeterminable, her throat torn cruelly from a vicious bite. What clued him in to her identity finally was, oddly enough, her feet. Her toes sported the chipped remnants of rather distinct pink nail polish that he remembered vividly from his last fight with the girl in question. All that was before a falling ceiling beam had introduced him to his dear friend the wheelchair. "Slayer?" He watched her closely as he wheeled nearer, checking for movement, any sign that she heard his voice. Buffy woke to silence so thick she felt like she was choking on it. And there a was a smell accompanying that silence, a stale, decaying smell, like the flesh of some animal gone sour and rotten. It’s me, she realized suddenly. I’m the one that smells like death… She tried to open her eyes, but they were crusted over. She blinked rapidly, watching tiny, rust colored flakes fall to the cement below. My blood, she thought. My blood drifting like miniature leaves in the fall. Finally she lifted her head, and found herself staring into the piercing blue eyes of her crippled rival. "Spike," she tried to say, but it was a gurgle from lack of water and the gag still cutting across her mouth and down over her tongue. She felt fear: fear that Angelus couldn’t be far behind his progeny. He must have sensed it, because he shook his head. "Shhhhh, pet. You needn’t worry; it’s just me. And my tastes never did run so dark as Angelus’." He carefully edged the gag out of her mouth; she just stared at him through half-lidded eyes. Spike leaned down at her feet, using a knife he’d pulled from his boot to slice through the ropes that held her feet to the wall. Putting the knife in his teeth, he took a deep breath and shoved himself up from the wheelchair. Unfortunately, his momentum carried him up and into Buffy’s battered body. Buffy let out a gurgled scream at the impact and Spike froze, feeling several of her wounds reopen and start leaking onto his clothes. Slowly, he lifted and hooked one hand onto the rope that held her right wrist and used the other to take the knife out from between his teeth. "I’m sorry, pet," he whispered into her ear, trembling from the effort to hold himself upright. "But I have to get you down from here." He sliced the left rope, then paused above the right. "When I cut this, we’re gonna fall back into my chair. It’s gonna hurt, Slayer." She nodded and closed her eyes; he cut the rope. They fell back hard, Spike only halfway in the chair and Buffy pressing heavy down onto him. He felt her recoil, heard the suppressed scream, and grabbed at his handles desperately. It took every ounce of strength he had left in him to pull himself upright in the chair, and he was covered in icy sweat by the time he’d finally done it. Buffy was a naked, quivering package with her head on his shoulder. It was some minutes before Spike regained the strength to move. He wheeled them slowly into the house, her added weight not so much a problem as balance. They reached the bedroom finally, and Buffy cried out as he lifted her up onto the bed and covered her shivering form with a blanket. "I’ll be back, pet. You’re dehydrated, gotta get something for that." She didn’t remembering sleeping, but woke to his voice saying her name, over and over. He had a bottle of Gatorade in his hand, and he brought it carefully to her lips. Some of the liquid went down the wrong side of her swollen throat and she coughed, her body starting violently to the agonizing movements. His hands steadied her, brushed a spot on her face that was miraculously unblemished. Then there was darkness… Again his voice woke her, angry this time, but his hands were gentle as he washed death from her flesh. "…Bloody sodding animal…" I’m naked, she realized distantly as he oh-so-gently wiped at the blood. She watched him dipping the rag back into a bowl of warm water, wring out a layer of red, and begin softly wiping again. I’m naked and Spike’s here and I don’t care... She thought he looked like the marble angel she’d read described in a poem about death. His face was dark as he worked, muttering angry words to himself. I must be hysterical, she thought, to see my mortal enemy as my angel. It was her last thought before she lost consciousness again. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Next Day... The package arrived on Rupert Giles’ doorstep via UPS, in a medium size box, wrapped in brown shipping paper. He accepted a clipboard from the delivery woman, a quite nice brunette with a nametag that read Linda. Signing rather absently, he took the package and gave her a warm smile. "Thank you much, Linda." "You’re very welcome, Mr. Giles. Have a great afternoon." Yes, lovely woman… Shall have to invite her tea sometime. Giles watched her get into her delivery truck before finally closing the door. He had passed his desk, setting the package on it to attend his steaming kettle, when it dawned on him that something was a bit... off. Returning to the desk, Giles turned the package around so that the handwriting was facing towards him. As he studied it, he flashed back on Buffy, two cards and two sketches in hand. Irritation and worse, fear, in her eyes as she told him how they’d come. "I found them by my bed… He sent it with roses… On my pillow…" And on all those notes, a scribbled Soon. Mouth gone suddenly dry, Giles ripped the paper and tape off the package, carefully lifting up cardboard flaps to see what was beneath. If only the girl who was wearing them were in such good condition. Yours, Angel Giles sank numbly downwards into his chair. He stared blankly at the bloodied fabrics, a pink cashmere sweater that he’d seen Buffy wear a dozen times, and beneath it the coordinated khakis ripped a thousand times beyond repair. His hands were trembling violently as he dialed Willow’s number. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Buffy woke in a panic. There was no familiar voice, only silence. The memory of where she was and why filled her head in a sudden swell, and she had to stop the bile from rising. When she had finally relearned how to breath, she found a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, comprised of black down to the boxers and socks. Buffy had tie the belt in a tight knot to keep the pants up. Leaving the bedroom, she followed the faint sounds of the mansion to the kitchen, where Spike was wheeling his way towards the refrigerator. He looked towards her as she came in. "So she wakes. Sorry ‘bout the clothes. Couldn’t find nothing else in the place ‘sides my things." Buffy rubbed the worn black t-shirt between her fingers. "It's fine. Thank you." A thought crossed her mind and the panic rose again. "Angelus and Dru…" "They’re gone," he said grimly, cutting off the rising terror as he cut off her words. "You’re sure?" "Bloody positive. Dru, the bint, can’t travel much without her dollies and dresses, and Angelus isn’t much better. Both their things are gone. That means they’re far and away." He wheeled over and set down a plate of crackers next to Buffy, noticing how tiny she looked in his clothes; even belted tight they looked like they’d drop any second. "They left us here to rot together." He went back to the fridge and opened it. "No," Buffy corrected quietly. "They left you here to rot. He left me here like this to shame me." He didn't say anything to that. She looked down at the plate of crackers Spike had given her and felt queasy. "I don’t think I can… My stomach isn’t up to it." He stayed silent as he wheeled up beside her again, opening a bottle of Gatorade and setting it next to her. She glanced at it uncertainly, than over to him where he was watching her with serious eyes. "Why are you helping me?" He scoffed at the question. "Some vampires have a sense of fair play, you know." Buffy just stared at him. "Alright, well let’s just say that I’m a hunter, and hunters don’t bring prey home to put in a cage. You should either eat it or you should let it go. If it's in your bloody home, that makes it a sodding guest, don't it?" "I suppose." She reached out and picked up a Ritz. Buffy had just began nibbling on the cracker when she heard a car pulling up outside the mansion. She knew the car and its owner well enough to recognize them by sound. She dropped the cracker. Spike looked at her questioningly. "Giles is here," she whispered, raising shaking hands to her face. "Good, he can see you to a hospital, get you taken care of right and proper." He wheeled towards the curtain separating the kitchen and the rest of the house. "No!" He stopped at the urgency in her voice. "No! Spike, please, they can’t see me like this. And the hospital, God, I just can’t take all the questions." She huddled in the chair, hysteria tightening her bruised face, heart racing so fast that Spike could taste its pulse in his mouth. He ignored it. "Alright, Buffy, alright. We’ll hide. This mansion’s got a few cubbies and the like. But we’ll have to hurry." She nodded and rose, putting the Gatorade and crackers in his lap and picking him and his wheelchair clean up off the ground. "Where to?" She was trembling, but Spike wasn’t sure if it was more from urgency than discomfort at his weight. He damned near drained her dry, and still she’s strong as a bloody Chilrago demon. "Down to the dungeon." Buffy’s face paled at his words. "Right, the basement I mean. The steps are in the back of the old pantry." He pointed to the rather decrepit looking door at the back of the kitchen. Buffy got them into the pantry and down the steps with remarkable speed, the stairs creaking loudly from their weight. Spike pulled out his Zippo and flipped it just as they reached the bottom; the tiny light barely illuminated their faces. "Back in the corner, there’s a part of the wall that swings out if you push it right and leads to a little room. Is where I’ve been sleeping, when I could get Dru to carry me down. " Buffy set his chair carefully down and wheeled him to the spot. He tapped the corner of the wall, and it swung out slightly towards them. She followed him inside. "I’d offer to light candles, but I’m not sure if they would show under the wall or not." "No, it’s okay," she said. "The dark is okay." "Right then. We’ll just have to wait them out." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Giles walked over to the wall, ran his fingers down dry blood and watched it flake to the ground to join its companion stain. Tugging his glasses off with his left hand, he massaged the bridge of his nose as he turned to look back at the others. They’d already made a thorough sweep of the mansion to find nothing, except this one ominous spot. "Whoever was chained to this wall did not fair well." Giles didn’t have to say what they were all thinking, but eventually Xander did. "We need to find Buffy." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

Chapter #2 - Ch. 2- House of Cards

In this episode: Spike realizes his anger at finding Angelus & Dru missing… And a post-Angelus Buffy begins to face the world again.... ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spike and Buffy waited close to an hour after the last of the noises faded before they ventured to make any of their own. Buffy had fallen asleep for a little while, propped against Spike’s chair. Her hand was resting near his leg, not close enough to touch but close enough that she felt not so alone. It was Spike who moved finally, rocking his wheels slightly to rouse Buffy from her sleep. He could hear the rush of her blood as her heart sped from waking in a strange, dark place. As she pulled back from him and he rolled to light candles, he tried to ignore the way her pulse throbbed like candy in his mouth. "You know you’ll have to face your mates eventually," he said as he lit the last of the dozen or so fat wax candles. They cast a warm yellow glow around the room. "I know. I just… I needed a little more time." She glanced around Spike’s room. There was a bed in one back corner and a bookcase in the other; a small television sat on the floor against the right wall. "I don’t understand why he would just leave, why he…" She trailed off, teeth sinking into her lower lip. "Why he didn’t just finish you?" "Yeah." Her voice was faint, and the candlelight cast her skin sallow. Spike patted his jacket until he found his smokes, lighting one with a flick of his thumb. His nostrils flared as blew the first rush of smoke out. "It was the same with Dru. Tortured her real slow like, ‘til she was gone stark raving mad. Though I wouldn’t have wanted her any other way." He grew quiet, thumbing the end of his cigarette, before taking an angry pull off it. "Yeah, well, ‘spose there’s nothing worse than hauling a cripple man. Her and Angelus are god knows where, letting you rot it out ‘til you’re weak and in bitty pieces. At least he’ll be back for you." "What are you saying?" she asked, sitting on his bed gingerly, feeling muscles bunch in protest. "I’m saying that Angelus knows you just as well as his poofter half did. Big difference, though, pet: he’ll be hurting you with it. He did the worst thing he could do: here you are, wasting to ashes with nothing to fight, no demons to kill." "You make it sound like I’m just a monster," she whispered. Touch them and I will more than kill you… "Not a monster, a protector. But in the end, you need to kill your demons, Slayer, just like we need to kill. Otherwise, your insides will get into a tangle and you’ll rip yourself apart." She forced the dark memories down, deep inside her and tilted her head sideways. "I guess I’ll just have to make a point of not doing that, then." Spike glanced at her, surprised at her jump from morose to determined. "Good, Slayer. Much too good a rival to be wastin’ away over Angelus." She gave him the smallest smile. "Thanks." He gave a friendly sneer and lit another cigarette. "Yeah well, gotta get you up to speed quick, Slayer. Nobody else in this bloody town worth fighting." He had a flash of memory and choked on his smoke. "Well, ‘cept maybe your mum. She’s wicked with an ax, as my skull can testify." Buffy actually laughed out loud at that, and Spike grinned at her. But she went sober almost instantly and looked down at her feet. "You got some hard decisions to make, pet," he said softly, reaching his hand out to her hand. Her pulse fluttered at his touch and his body leapt in response. She finally raised her head, and he felt his throat catch. Her hazel eyes were filled with the weight of her years, her power, her pain. In that moment there was a connection stretched tight between them, as if he knew her intimately, and she him. She was all the things he been searching for but had never found in life. Then she took a deep breath and he lost her. "I know. I’ll stay here again tonight, then tomorrow I’ll call them. " The night passed by quietly after that, and eventually Buffy fell asleep on his bed, curled tight into a little ball. She looked terribly pale in his dark clothes, in his dark bed, and terribly beautiful. Her sleep, her deep breathing, they were both signs of trust. He knew as he listened to the slow thud of her heart that everything had changed. She moved a bit, groaned in her sleep, and he felt his insides twist. Spike rolled his chair quickly to the bed, and reached a hand out to stroke her soft blond hair. "Shhh… Pet, ‘s okay. I’m here." She quieted down at his touch, and he kept at it, whispering softly to her and stroking her hair. When he finally fell asleep, his hand stayed gently entangled in her hair. * When Spike woke the next night, Buffy was gone from his bed. He felt a surge of something close to panic, but as he sprung open the door his ears picked up the sounds of life upstairs. It was Buffy, he was sure: he could tell by the pattern of footfall. He relaxed and went back into his room and flipped on the telly. Passions was only just started when she came back down. The look on her face had him flicking the telly off again in a hurry. "I’m gonna call Giles. Is there a phone somewhere I can use?" "Yeah, pet, sure. It’s upstairs; I’ll show you." She lifted him and the chair, and they went up the stairs. When they came to the living room he pointed out the antique rotary phone, and watched as she spun a number out. "Giles? It’s Buffy." Spike could hear the Watcher’s relief if not the words; Buffy was fingering the edge of his shirt, phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder. She was quiet, then she whispered, "Yes, it was Angelus. No, no, tell them I’m okay. I’m at the mansion right now." She looked at Spike, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. "Angelus is gone, Giles. He left with Drusilla. Okay. Yeah. I’ll be here." She hung up the phone and avoided meeting his eyes. "Giles is on his way." "Right then. We best go out and wait for 'em, then." * Giles came in first at a full out run, stopping in the middle of the courtyard as he caught sight of her. "Buffy… Dear god." The others were right behind him, and their reactions were much the same. "Buffy!" Willow was at her side in a second. Buffy, torn between hiding again and hugging her, gave into the latter. She squeezed so hard she felt the healing gash on her side tear open again. Willow went still against her and then pulled back, reaching her fingers out to the wet shirt. "You need a hospital, Buffy." "No. Too many questions. My body will heal, Willow." Buffy avoided the question in her gaze and focused instead on Spike being cornered by Xander and Giles. "You wankers better get your bloody hands off me! Slayer, tell ‘em to back off!" "Wait!" She hurried over and put herself between them, feeling the blood leaking faster at the rushed movement. "Don’t hurt him." Giles’ eyes darkened at her words, and Xander’s mouth gaped; Willow’s expression remained the same. "Just don’t." Spike was stuck in the furthest corner of the courtyard, using the mansion’s shadow to protect him from sunlight. "Buffy, we were going crazy worrying about you. Were you here the whole time, with Spike?" Xander’s face grew hot as he realized the clothes she was wearing. "Xander, please." Buffy could feel the room grow smaller, tighter, until it choked. Her decision to call them so soon was already starting to ride her skin. "But-" Giles stopped him. "Not now, Xander. Buffy’ll want to rest." Buffy felt her panic grow stronger. "I- I hafta go. My mom, she’ll be worried." Then she started to leave the mansion. Xander went after her. "Wait! Buffy let me drive you back to your house. You shouldn’t be walking." "Xander, please-" her voice broke mid-sentence, and she looked at them all with shadowed eyes. "I just can’t do this right now." She left them in silence. "Hey Watcher man- you better tell the boy git here to back off the Slayer." Giles turned in fury, bringing his fist in tight against Spike’s face. Spike showed no reaction. "This is none of your concern, Spike. The only thing that doesn’t stop me from staking you this very instant is Buffy’s word. Your role in all of this might get you staked yet." "It bloody well is my concern. I took care of her, man." "I find it difficult to believe you would ever do such a thing without an ulterior motive." Spike glanced down at his legs and up again. "Let’s just say I’ve got a bit of understanding on the subject. And the last thing the Slayer is needin’ is your jealous nancy boy here preaching at her. It’s gonna be bad ‘nough without that." "I am not-" "Shut up, Xander," Giles said, backing away slightly from Spike. He was seriously taking in the chaired man, anger faded down to curiosity. "What exactly do you mean by bad?" "I mean Angelus bad, Watcher. If you and the Slayerettes here think this is ended, you need to reread your fancy books." All three of them were silent, focused on his words. Willow looked deathly pale. He pulled out a smoke and lit it with a slightly unsteady hand. "He’ll be back, alright. Always finishes his work, he does. Not like me, straight to the point, kill ya bloody but quick. He draws it out and calls it art." "He’s gonna try and make poetry out of that girl, and you all…" He jabbed his smoke hand towards them, "Need to be ready." Something unspoken passed between Giles and Willow, and Spike caught the edge of it; Xander seemed oblivious. "We’re taking all the necessary precautions, Spike." "See that you do, Watcher man." He began to wheel back towards the mansion, away from the creeping sun. He heard Giles whisper something to Xander and Willow, and then a single pair of footsteps following him. He twisted his chair around with a quick swivel. Giles stood staring down at him. "Yeah, mate? I don’t fancy turning to ashes, so let’s get this over with." He was about to try to stand, but Giles shook his head and he stopped, confused. "I get the sense you without good intentions towards Angelus, and your inside knowledge of him might prove critical to our plans." "So that’s the way of it, huh?" He put out his cigarette on the arm of his chair and flicked the butt. Finally he said, "I’ll help, Watcher." For her… "Yes, I had a feeling you would." Giles reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather wallet, flipped it open and pulled out a card. "Both my school and home numbers are on there. I already have your number from when Buffy called my house. If you think of anything of importance, let me know." "Yeah, I’ll do that." He played with the card as he watched Giles leave the courtyard. Watching seems to be all you’re doing these days, mate… He scowled and with a jerk of his wheels made his way into the mansion. * Buffy had walked within two streets of her house when it dawned on her that she was going to have to tell her mom everything. Four days disappearance and hospital worthy gashes and bruises would not be easily explained away, and she was tired of having to fight everyone in her life. Buffy ended up knocking on her own door. Her heart raced as she listened to the hurried footsteps of her mother approaching. She lowered her head to gather strength against her racing heart as she heard locks untwist and the door fly open. "Buffy! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? The police have been looking everywhere for you and Mr. Giles…" Buffy raised her head from the shadows and Joyce fell silent. "Oh, Buffy." Her arms opened, and Buffy fell into them. It was a long time before Buffy pulled back from the surety of her mother’s arms to the shaky present. "Mom, I have to tell you something." The words came difficult at first, and then it was a spill, a rush, of being Called and the two and a half years that followed, of nights of violence and necessary lies. It was everything she could tell: all but the story of the last four days. "I’m sorry," Buffy said finally, at last meeting her mother’s wounded gaze. They had made it inside to the kitchen, where Joyce had made them both hot chocolate. "I didn’t know how to tell you. So many times, I tried, but I just couldn’t. I thought it would be easier for you not to know." "Buffy, you’re my daughter. I love you no matter what." "I know." There was a pregnant silence. Buffy stirred at what was left of her mini marshmallows. "I know why you shouldn’t, but I would still feel better if you went to the hospital and had them at least look at you." "They would ask too many questions that I can’t answer. just need sleep, Mom." The worry in Joyce’s eyes only increased. "I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m healing." She reached her hand out and squeezed her Mom’s hand. "Just give me a week or two, and I’ll be fine." "Haven’t you tried, with all these things, not being the Slayer?" "It’s not that simple. Nobody else can survive the things I do, nobody else can keep the world safe." "But you’re only seventeen, Buffy." The pain in her mother’s words wrenched at her. "No, not really." The hot chocolate was cold. Buffy stood up slowly, because it hurt and she didn’t want her mom to know. "Goodnight, Mom." Her mom rose and hugged her, and it was excruciating, but Buffy was silent and hugged back. "I love you Buffy, so much, no matter what." "I know, Mom. I love you." The walk up familiar stairs seemed to take forever. Her room seemed untouched by all of the horror of the past few days, as frilly and pristine as ever. She went to her foreign bed alone, wishing she had someone to share the darkness with. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Buffy came back the next day just as dusk fell. Spike had been practicing walking, but was back in his chair with a jerk as soon as she appeared, coming to stand within a few feet of him. He wondered if she realized she’d been wearing nothing but black since the day he’d given her some of his clothes. Today it was black jeans with a hemming of red and a black sweater. She even smelled darker to him, a musky scent spicing the smell of her blood, instead of her usual floral fragrance. Despite his fancy, he felt his anger rising. "Couldn’t stay away, Pet? Manacles and big wheels all your thing now." His Zippo and a smoke were out with a jerk of his hand and a flick of the wrist. "I’m sorry I had to leave like that, Spike." He inhaled his cigarette with a rough breath. "The hell you are. I know how your head works now: you can only stand to be vulnerable on one front at a time." Her eyes darkened. "I came here to thank you." Instead, she changed the subject. "You’re walking," she said, wrapping her arms around her waist. "I didn’t know." "Just a bit. Been trying a few steps at a time. Its harder, without the blood Dru was…" He sneered then, angry at himself. "I’m in this sodding chair ‘cause of him, you know, for her. And she leaves with him, tramping off like a bitch to the fairest owner of the moment." He glanced away tensely as he took another drag on his smoke. " Is difficult is all." She looked as if she were thinking hard to him, and then came to kneel in front of him. "I can help with some of it." Spike looked at the pale stretch of her wrist, the smooth peach skin with its pulse beating a rush right beneath the skin, felt things over than his forehead ridges begin to grow. A growl rose to his throat, but he pushed it down as he stubbed out his burnt-down smoke. "You don’t know what you’re saying, Slayer. Blood like crack for vampires is what you have. You don’t wanna be givin’ me any of that." "I just want to help, Spike." "You’re shell shocked, pet. Can’t hear anything but the big noises now, and want me to make some for you. I won’t." Her wrist stayed where it was, the arm trembling slightly as he gazed at it. "I already told you, I’m not like him." He looked up to her face, as blank as a statue waiting for his fangs, and hatred filled him, hatred towards Angelus. "Not even for you." With that, he spun hard in the chair and wheeled into the mansion, away from his lust, and away from her hurt face. After he left, Buffy turned her attention to the wall where Angelus had left her hanging. She slammed her fist into the solid stone, and it gave with a shudder and a short cloud of dust. She pulled her hand back and looked at her bloodied knuckles, and then to the wall. Her blood was visible as only a slight dark spot among so many others. It hurt. Such a small thing, that pain. A reminder that she was alive, and not just in some sort of hell. No, hell would never be so empty. She felt the tears then and choked on a dark laugh. * From the safety of the mansion, Spike watched her laugh, the overflow of emotion, until she was laughing hysterically. She bent over with it, clutching at parts of her stomach he knew were bad off from having tended them. Get it out, Slayer, he thought. Don’t let him beat you. As she went to her knees, he wanted to go to her, but didn’t. He watched as she sobbed, shook and screamed and his insides stretched in empathy, dark memories rising from his mortal days. William… No, he thought firmly. Those thoughts are for another time. And he forced his attention back to her. Finally it seemed she had cried herself out, and she got to her feet, rubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands. She seemed to pull herself together, grow taller before his very eyes, and a sense of wonder began to fill him. Buffy turned then and looked directly up to where he sat at the window. Her eyes were glowing as she smiled at him before turning and walking head high from the courtyard. Spike could only stare after her. * The next evening he found her in the mansion’s kitchen with a glass of nuked blood in hand. She was back to being quiet, and was still decked out in black. Whatever had come over her the night before seemed to have worn off. "What’s this?" "It’s pig’s blood, fresh from the butcher. I didn’t know how much, so there’s a few extra quarts in the fridge there." "Merit delivery service, now, do I Pet?" He took the glass and swallowed a cautious mouthful. "Lived off worse. Cross sea voyage of me and Dru’s, and all we had to drink off was rats. ‘Course, spoiled bit that she was, she had to go and eat one of the bloody sailors. Almost finished us, weren’t for the fact I managed to off the only witness." "Those were good times, me an' Dru." Buffy raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, times done passed." He fooled with the cup of blood, swirling its contents until the entire inside of the glass was coated. "What’s it like?" The question was so soft he almost missed it. "You really curious, or just wanting to know…" To give your pain reason. "Never mind, then." He cleared his throat. "The question isn’t so much what it’s like, it’s why we’re like this. Do you know why I’ve spent so much of my unlife trying to kill you and your Slayer kin? You Slayers are all we vampires want to be when we’re turned. You’ve got the power, the danger, but you’ve still got the thrills too. Getting tossed with your mates, whining over stupid mortal things. The threat of death, it makes life sweeter. Makes the blood sweeter." "I wanted to taste it, Pet. I still want to taste it. Run my fingers through your hair, bury myself in you ‘til I’m alive again." "And why don’t you then? Why didn’t you when you had the chance, chances?" "Because once isn’t enough. Not with you. Is why Angelus couldn’t turn himself away, always craving another taste. You don’t resign yourself to death: you defy it." A traitorous hand, traitorous words. "Take it all! Please, end this, oh god, please end this." "Death isn’t what I’m afraid of." Not anymore. "Yeah, well you better get over it fast, Pet, whatever it is. If you don’t, he’ll use it against you ‘til you scream for it. Did it on Dru enough. Mind fuck crazy, Angelus is." "You’re telling me all this, but are you trying to help me or make me afraid?" "He’ll be back when you least expect it. You need to understand that you’re bloody candy to us vampires, Slayer, especially to his type. You need to know it so you can win." Her eyes were set hard in her mottled face. "I don’t think you need to worry much about that." She was leaving again, and he watched her thin form until she turned the corner and was no longer visible. He wanted to be angry at her show-and-go act, but he had a feeling she would be back. And he had a lot of work to do before that happened. So he got out of his chair and began the slow, painful steps all over again. * Spike went hunting the night after he spent a whole day wheelchair free. It was an old haunt of his in Sunnydale, a run down housing district that smelled sour and never slept. He wasn’t sure about the daytime hours, but at night the place was hell on wheels: local teenage elite buying their candy fixes, whores using their dollars to buy stronger fixes, and those who sold whores, candy fixes and stronger surfing in and out of doorways and cars. All of it was in the shadows, but Spike had never had a problem seeing into shadows. That night he saw one little whore, a petite blond, and tried not to let himself think about why he was picking her really. She had her arms wrapped around herself, bare as they were in a slinky black tank top. A scrap of fabric bravely riding taut butt cheeks led down to pale, slim legs. Too young to be playing for fixes, he thought, nostrils flaring as he scented her blood. But sweet beneath her quivers. He stubbed his cigarette and swaggered over to her, his coat flaring out behind him with the evening breeze. It was almost comical to see the hope-anger-lust cocktail that ran through her eyes before she slapped the plastic pout on her face, dropped her arms and cocked a hip. "Hey handsome, you is looking awful lonely." "Just looking for the right bit of goods, pet." The accent caught her fancy, he thought, watching her face closely. When she lowered her eyes, so did he. He stared as she ran her hands down over high set breasts, trailed them down her stomach, and peered at him through her lashes. "I got a nice set of goods for you right here, British man." "What’s your name, pet?" he asked as he reached his hands out to catch her by the elbows. "Star." His hands tightened on her arms and her brown eyes widened; he knew it hurt. "Your real name. I don’t take to fakery with my fucks." "I… it’s Meghan." He relaxed his grip, and she smiled sugar sweet at him. Her hands reached beneath the edge of his tee shirt to stroke at the planes of his stomach. "Nice, British man. I like my fucks… hard." Spike had his lips on her jugular, well on his way to dinner, when he heard the man flick his knife open. He was walking quiet, a creeping of planned attack Spike knew well. He stopped his lip’s caress, face sliding into a fanged grin, tossed Meghan aside and spun with a whir. The man tasted like a good whisky, and the blood was a warm path down his throat and a glow in his stomach. Spike heard his heart thumping a terrific beat, felt it in his gut, too. It had been too long since he’d drunk human blood. Meghan’s screams didn’t register until the man was dead. Incoherent babbles, the man’s name, Roger! and begging not to be killed. He lifted her and smacked her hard into unconsciousness, watching her head loll back and expose her throat in the process. The pulse there fluttered and sang to him, but she fell like a bag of bones and he dropped her. "Sorry, pet. Your eyes are all wrong." He tossed some bills to the ground beside her as he left. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Review me, pretty please!

Chapter #3 - Interlude- Dances with the Devil

London, 1777 The baby was born with a scream, little fists waving madly at being shoved from uterine bliss. Tiny brown curls clung wetly to his reddened face, and it wasn’t until the soothing voice of his mother reached him that he first opened his big blue eyes to the world around him. "Shhh, sweet precious. You’re to have all the things I never did." A maid took the baby from her arms to clean him up. "What’ll ye call ‘im, mam?" "He’s to be called William. And he will do great things." She rubbed his miniature fingers with hers, awestruck by how tiny they were. "Yes, my William," she murmured. "Great things." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sunnydale, 1998 When Buffy saw him again, he was walking. It was barely dusk, the last traces of daylight casting the sky a smoky gray on its way to black. He stood at the far edge of the courtyard, his coat framing him dark against the paler stone wall. She thought as she grew closer that he hadn’t been as tall in his chair, that he had been a man on equal footing with her for once in her life, instead of just towering over her. He had the advantage now of making her vulnerable by sheer height. The words that first left her lips were a half-hearted attempt at being intimidating. She leaned up against the right wall of the courtyard, opposite of where she’d been chained, and folded her arms over her chest. "Spike, I don’t want to have to kill you. Please tell me I won’t have to." He just looked at her with those crystal blue eyes of his, eyes that seemed to see right through her defenses, to all the cracks and thin spots beneath the surface. She felt her heart speed up and licked her lips quickly. His eyes darkened at that, and after flicking his gaze to her lips, he finally looked away. "You needn’t worry, pet; I’ve already decided to change my game. No more killing for Spike." "And why would you decide a thing like that?" But she already knew, really, had known since she’d caught him watching her that night in the courtyard. "Was always a rebel, Slayer. You should know that." He started coming slowly towards her, lazy speed amplifying with each step the slight thrust of his hips, the casual cockiness that made his every movement sensual. "I was slow to realize I couldn’t kill you, and not because I couldn’t, mind you." He raised his hands and lowered his eyes, tapping his palms against his leather-clad chest. "Big Bad here, eh? But I had to wonder why Drusilla always was quick to despise you, that you bothered her dollies so. She saw it and it worried her, my dark angel, that I couldn’t kill you like the rest of the bits. That my obsession for you wouldn’t stop." "That I can’t stop." He halted a few feet from her. She watched as the layers fell away, the vampire’s cockiness, the abandoned lover’s rage, until there was only him, a smooth, peaceful presence: the man who had cared for her when she was so ill. His eyes were saying things to her his words only hinted at. "Why do you keep coming back here, pet?" His voice had dropped to soft, caressing. She closed her eyes to it, to the feelings it invoked in her. "And don’t say it’s for the weekly death match, ‘cause we’re well past that." "Do I have to have a reason?" She let her eyes come open, to rest on his watchful face. "I think its about time for a little sharing from the Slayer, since her pet vampire Spike has already done his spilling." She was silent to that and he smiled, pulling out a smoke and putting it to his lips. "You’re frolicking with ghosties, pet, coming here." He lit the smoke, blew the stream to the right of him, away from her. Then he waited. "I wanted it," she whispered finally, not meeting his eyes. He stayed silent, until finally she turned and looked at him and it all came out in a rush. "I mean a part of me wanted it. There had only been that one night with Angel, and then he was gone, and my body just couldn’t tell the difference. He tasted the same, smelled the same, looked the same. He only felt different. The way he touched me…" Buffy clenched her jaw as the pain came, but she didn’t cry. "And now, I feel hollow inside, all-the-time empty." She came closer to him and he froze as she ran her hands down the leather front of his coat, his cigarette dangling from his lifeless hand. "But even that is changing. The only time I feel close to alive is when I’m with you. A killer, my enemy, and of my terrorizer’s bloodline." Spike clenched his jaw at her words, could feel his muscles along his jaw twitching in time with his agitation. "Where’s that leave me, pet, when you’re done getting filled. I’ve lost something here for you, and you’re not done taking yet." He backed slowly away, leaving her hands grasping at air. "I’m changing, too, pet, but I’ll not be your puppet on a string, parading in step to your whims." He flicked his dying cigarette across the courtyard. Buffy dropped her hands and stepped back, confusion and pain warring inside her. "Slayer, I’m not trying to hurt your bloody feelings, but you’re coming up here, all high and mighty telling me I’m a killer, then switching your game to tell me I’m your bloody salvation." His voice got softer, and he reached out to touch her cheek briefly. Buffy felt warmed by the gesture, and her confusion faded. "You’ll daze a man with such up and down talk, pet." "I didn’t mean anything by it… I’m just trying to figure things out, Spike, deal with things. And you’re a part of that." A big part, apparently, she thought. A monster who’s not so much a monster… Who without a soul chose to give up evil for me, while Angel just lost his. "Look, it’s Friday night, and you’re spending it chattin’ up the undead here. Your Watcher mentioned you were back on patrol, but said you were teaming up with your mates for a relaxation bit tonight." Buffy went instantly cold, icy rage chilling her just warm system. "You talked to Giles about me?" "No, no," Spike said hurriedly. "He, uh, just wanted to know if I’d seen Angelus back yet. I heard your friend bits and he apologized for the noise and told me the nights plans, is all." "Oh." He watched her anger fall slowly away, unfortunately taking with it old sparks that had flared only temporarily in her eyes. "I told them I wasn’t up to going," she said just a touch sullenly. "There’s always time to tell them otherwise, pet. They may be a bit poncey, but they’re yours ‘till the end." "Yeah, maybe." The light was almost completely gone, but it wasn’t a problem for either one of them. Really it was more of a comfort. And Spike saw with his night vision Buffy’s hunched shoulders and sad eyes, and felt pain for his earlier words. "’Member what I told you, Slayer: shake it off." She smiled at him, and though it was a small smile, it gave him hope for her. "I’m working on it," she said softly, smile holding. "And I think I will go to that ‘relaxation gig’ after all. I’ll see you." She turned to go, and Spike wanted to curse himself for sending her away. "Hey, uh, Slayer!" He finally gave in and called her attention. She paused and looked back at him. "Yeah?" "You, uh, mind if I go patrolling with you tomorrow night? All this violent potential shouldn’t be going to waste, you know?" "It doesn’t bother you, dusting other vamps?" He gave a sneer. "Nah. After dusting the Master’s promised vamp brat awhile back, I got kind of a taste for it. And ‘sides… it’s a territory thing." And Slayers are my territory… that’d be making you my territory. Spike tried to ignore that last thought. She barely even hesitated before nodding her head. "Yeah, that’d be okay." Spike let out the unnecessary breath he’d been holding and hid it with a smirk. "Good then. Meet here ‘bout this time?" "Ok. I’ll bring weapons." "Right, weapons. For the killing." She looked at him. "Of only demonic creatures, o’ course," he amended hastily. "Non human only, pet, I promise." This time when she left, it was for real, but Spike felt calmer, because he knew she would be back the next day. "I don’t even need to sodding breath," he muttered to himself as she finally disappeared from view. Then he spun around and went back inside his cold mansion. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- London, 1802 By the time he reached her, she was beyond help; the man she had called master had seen to that. William stood in the door to her bedroom, and a terrific rage filled him. This death was for him. She had sold herself for years, to lord after lord, to ensure his education, his chance at real life, freedom from obligation to any man. He could go from cursing, street-wise William to eloquent, Cambridge William at the tip of a hat. "It was Lord Covington, wasn’t it?" He kept his voice soft to shield her from the rage screaming inside him. "Now, my William. Mustn’t go… looking for trouble." Her eyes reflected pain and, miraculously, the humor she always wore for only him. "Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten so bad, Mother?" "It was well, my William, until I told him… I had gotten a better offer from another patron." Guilt flooded him; there had been a jump in his schooling expenses this year. Her maid Mary came forward to pat her forehead with a dampened cloth. William caught her by the arm as she went to leave them. "How bad is it," he whispered, watching his mother’s shallow breathing, the trembling and shivering. "He threw her down the stair, messir. The doctor says she’s only got a little while." Rage was blackness, suffocating him, oozing from pores of skin, the taste in his mouth so terrible that he wanted to vomit it out. He brain was screaming one thing, in sync with the pounding of his blood: REVENGE! He could not look back, could not face the whispered ‘Williams,’ the dying voice begging him not to do anything rash. "Tell her I love her, if she’s going before I get back," he told Mary. His hands were trembling with fury. "I have some business needs attending to." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spike was thinking hard on recent dreams. They were more like reenacted memories: vivid in color, surround-sound story telling of his human past, focused on a limited period of time. Those were the days leading up to his eventual turning by Drusilla; his descent to darkness fueled by the love of a crazy woman, the path to her arms paved by the grief over his first love: his mother. He had always walked a fine line, one foot in heaven, the other in hell. And while heaven had its angels and gold-paved streets, hell kept a man’s interest for much longer, its dark beauties much more satisfying to the tastes and needs of a worldly man. Buffy was such a beauty in that she existed in hell. But not since his mother had he met a woman so surrounded by evil yet so untainted by it. Affected, yes, but not tainted. Buffy was a light in the darkness, an angel who had dared to brave the depths of hell, only now she was flickering. And it was bothering the hell out of him. Just as the thoughts of her rose in a maddening swell, the phone broke through the crush with a wailing ring. Spike walked from where he’d been pacing in front of the fireplace to the old fashioned whirl-a-dial and picked it up. "’Lo?" The upper crust accent immediately identified the caller. "Spike? It’s Rupert Giles again." "Yeah, Watcher. ‘Cause I got so many Oxford boys ringing me at the mansion that I’m taking firs t and last names." Spike could practically hear Giles miffed, and an evil smile spread across his face at the thought of the other man’s irritation. "Be that as it may, I’ve called you to talk about Buffy." Spike sat down on the couch closest to the fire, instantly serious. The phone line was stretched out taut, and he was careful not to pull it much more lest he lose the call. "What about Buffy?" "It seems… Well, to be honest, her despondency is a growing concern of mine, and for whatever reasons it appears she’s reaching out to you. For all our love of Buffy, I fear that we may be simply too close." Spike thought about his hand on her cheek, her hands caressing the front of his jacket. ,i>Oh, we’re close. And gettin' closer. "Yeah, mate, I can see how that could be a problem. But I’m William the Bloody, the Slayer of Slayers. ‘Member, or did all that slip past your Watcher brains somehow?" "Oh yes, Slayer of Slayers. Indeed. But before that, you were someone’s son." "What are you saying, Watcher?" asked Spike, wary of where the conversation seemed to be headed. "I’ve done some deeper digging into your past, Spike." Giles left it hanging. Spike was silent for a good bit, centering in on the flames that licked golden red at the stone hearth. "How deep?" he asked finally. "Back as far as your pre-vampire days would go. I gathered a good bit of pertinent information that took me by surprise. Cambridge?" Spike let out a bitter laugh. "I was a street urchin turned civilized, mate. It wasn’t too much of a stretch going back." "You were among the most educated men in London at that time, with only a year to finish. But you dropped it all, your bright future, for a woman, your mother. Then you went above and beyond for Drusilla when she fell ill, nearly dying in the process." "I have some business needs attending to." "I was raised to take care of my own, and I remember it well." "And now again, here you are for Buffy, and I can see that much is the same. Where she is concerned, I… accept that you have good intentions." That gave Spike another serious pause. "Oh?" "Talk to her, patrol with her, whatever you feel with help. I just need to know she’s letting someone, anyone, help her." Spike could feel the older man’s frustration at feeling useless, and suddenly hated him less. "Yeah, Watcher. I’m your man." "Good, that’s good. Thank you. Oh, we’re having a sort of meeting about Angelus, Willow, Jenny and I, on Saturday and we’d like you to come. We’re grouping around 9 o’clock." "The boy ponce won’t be there?" "No, no, he’ll be in LA that day with his parents, attending a cousin’s funereal." "And the Slayer?" "I’m going to have her patrolling. Just don’t agree to go with her on that day." "Right mate. Will be at your place?" "Yes. It appears my flat is going to be the center of operations from here on out." "Right then. Saturday it is, Watcher." Once the niceties were said and done, Spike got up and put the phone back. Closing his eyes, he twisted sideways and a bit closer to the fire. Like a snake lying on a rock out in the sun, Spike basked in the glow of the flames, absorbing heat he could get from only one other source: blood. He was hungry, and dangerously close to being dehydrated. Better go about feeding the fangs. Getting up, he walked the span of the living room and into the kitchen, pulling the refrigerator door open and looking inside. Only one bag was left, and from first impressions, the blood was gone rotten. "Bloody hell." The blood bank had closed over four hours ago, and getting anything from them required a day’s advanced notice anyway. "The butcher shop it is for Spike the whipped bitch," he said in disgust, slamming the fridge door shut. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The nightmares were getting worse. Nightly they came, black reminders of Angelus twisted with other horrors of her Slayer past. When she got home from the Bronze and dancing with the gang, she fell to a fitful sleep plagued by a particularly brutal nightmare: The bed she was on was angelic white, and she was lain out on it like a sacrifice. Her hands and feet were bound with chains, mimicking Angelus’ bedroom restraints. She stared down at her spread thighs, looking so pale and so thin, fragile, trembling from fear and something darker she dared not contemplate. Thighs of the Slayer quivering so? She felt him come up beside her, would always know his presence, an echo of terror that left a chalky taste in her mouth. His breath on her neck, cool with the under stench of ancient blood, and that sing-song voice calling her name… "Slayer…" The scar on her neck tightened, itched. It felt like the skin was trying to jump off of her throat; that skin was always alien anyway. "You are damned, Slayer. I will win, and taste your death with my teeth." She shivered as his lips caressed puckered white flesh. "Just give over to it child…" Mutely, she twisted her head, looked up, and saw a legion. Here in front of her bed was the army that was every demon she had ever killed, lined up in militant fashion with their yellow eyes glowing. The trembling grew until the chains rattled with it. "Where are all your friends, lover? Why aren’t they here, protecting you from me?" Buffy jumped against her restraints, looking down to the voice, seeing the dark head between her legs. She felt Angelus’ tongue run a cool wet line up her thigh; it was the one violation he had spared her that night… "Yes, I did overlook this little treasure trove, didn’t I, Lover? I was too busy trying to stick you with other things here. But my fangs are just begging for a taste." She closed her eyes to them, the demons that were everywhere, always, shadows in the back of her mind and now suddenly solid. But with eyes closed, the voices only grew stronger. "Slayer…" "Lover…" The Master’s bloodstained mouth on her throat, Angelus’s wicked tongue on her thigh, and legions waiting their turn at vengeance. It was enough. "NO!" The chains snapped and she swung them out towards her demons. They faded with their grins and wickedness intact and… Buffy woke gasping, the sheets drenched in sweat and tears. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!" She rubbed at her goose-pimpled arms, ignoring the tears. She felt as if she would never be warm again, and the air around her reeked of death so strongly she could taste it. There would be no more sleep tonight, she knew, and the echoes of her nightmare were choking her. There was only one person who would understand this, who had seen the worst and not recoiled in fear or denial. And she needed to see him. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- London, 1802 William the Bloody’s first mouthful of blood was his own. Face down on the reeking cobblestone ground, drops of it dripped down and over his split lip, cast eerily black from the gas lights overhead. "Foolish William, thinking yourself above your station. You are nothing more than the son of a whore in gentleman’s clothes." William let out a bellow and leapt back up, charging like a bleeding madman towards Covington. As he clashed with him, he felt a line of cold enter his gut and looked down. Covington’s hand was clenched tight around the handle, and twisted it viciously as he pulled it out. "What a shame, I cut my suit," he said as the knife shred the side of William’s coat. "Bastard," William managed. "No, son, that would be you." Covington turned to his laughing men. "Dump him in the alley, boys." Eyes closed, he felt himself roughly lifted and thrown down into the dirt alleyway. It was growing so cold… Even in his death, William felt her presence, a slow tremble of a thing. He opened his eyes, and saw her coming, swaying sweetly as she did with each step. She bent over him, with her sweet mouth and black curls falling prettily around her face, and he fell in love with his last moments of life. She reached down, picked him up and cradled him to her like a child. "I heard your pain like a pretty monster. It screamed of desperate things, and giggled in my ear." William struggled to open his eyes and see his dark angel. Her voice was a lifeline. "Do you want it, my pretty? To be the shadow that makes the nasties quiver?" "Yes," he whispered, and tasted her blood mingling with his own. He swallowed it in salty gulps that would have had him vomiting, had he the strength to do so. "Sweet William. Swallowed up in blood and rage. What a killer you will be…" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sunnydale, 1998 "No!" Spike came awake on a roar, throwing bed clothes, pillows, anything that was touching him violently away. He was twisted sideways on the bed, supported by trembling forearms slicked with sweat. He smelled her first, that musk she’d started wearing, it stood out over the blood-tinged smell of his own sweat. At first he thought it was his imagination, but raised his head and saw otherwise. She was sitting in a chair in the dark corner of his room, legs sprawled out carelessly in front of her, watching him. Her face was gray from nighttime shadows, but they did little to hide the puzzled expression on her face. "Buffy." He struggled to sit up right, grabbing for the tossed sheet to cover his nude form. "What’re you doing here, pet?" She ignored the question. "I didn’t know vampires had nightmares." "Occasionally. But that still doesn’t answer the question as to why you’re here." Spike made an attempt at wrapping the sheet into some sort of cover, but finally reached for his pants. He glanced up, hesitant, and saw Buffy gazing at him through slitted eyes. He turned around to pull them on, feeling the heat from her gaze the entire time. Buffy stared at the unblemished alabaster skin before her: sinewy thighs leading up to tight butt cheeks, uninterrupted flesh extending to a beautiful back and wide shoulders. His back muscles tightened deliciously as he slid his pants on, and she caught the backside view of his balls hitting his thighs. She let out a little sigh. Spike whirled around at that sigh, barely having zipped his pants. "Buffy, what in the hell is the matter with you?" "I had a nightmare," she said calmly, aware that in his presence it didn’t even bother her anymore. She stood, and the shadows slid away. "What’s it mean when heroes have nightmares, anyway? Who do they think of to protect them from the monsters?" "Well, I don’t really know, pet." Spike struggled to focus on her words instead of his prick. "And what, tell me, does it mean when one monster makes the other ones go away?" "I…" Spike stared down at her, with her flush cheeks and pink lips. Her blood was screaming in his ears, and he had never wanted anything so much as he craved her. Instead he turned away, turned his voice cold. "What you got right, pet, is that I am monster. I could rip you apart, you and your soft flesh and your crack blood running in my ears every time you’re bloody near. I am monster, and you best not forget it." "Not so much." She went around him and gathering up the pillows and blanket, putting them neatly back on the bed. Then she folded down the blanket on one side, pushed her shoes off, and climbed under it. "Coming?" she asked pointedly. He clenched his teeth. "Fine, but if I bloody eat you while I’m sleeping, don’t say you weren’t warned." He climbed into the bed, laying awkwardly next to her. He fell asleep with Buffy curled up in his arms. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Let me know what you think. :)

Chapter #4 - Ch. 3- Revelations

Mexico City, Spring 1999 The colors were starting to fade again. He could feel the darkness rising up, a slow burn that was growing: the wait was becoming suffocating. It had been four months, long enough for her to heal… and long enough for her to rot in her doubts. As he stalked down a littered street, he caught Drusilla’s scent mingled with a touch of something that sent his frustrations over the edge. Going around the corner, he saw her standing outside of a neon lit bar, kissing the cheeks of an enormous slime covered demon. “Silly monster,” Drusilla cooed. “Shall I dress you up to sit with my dollies? I shall put you on a leash and make you cakes.” They were in one of the squalid sections of the city, where the people were so despondent they thought nothing of seeing demons among them. It will be nothing to them, he thought as he felt his face slide and contort, letting his demon self come to the fore. The air smelled of death, but even that did not sooth his fury as he came up on his quarry. Dru had her back to him, carrying on with laughing frenzy. He watched the demon notice him, and saw his eyes go wide as he realized he was prey. He sidestepped Dru and caught the demon by his dripping antlers, tossing him to the foul earth. One of the antlers let out a sickening crack as he let go, and it came away in his hand. Disgusted, he tossed it away from him. From below, the demon clutched his antlers and howled, screaming curses, wishing death and damnation down on him. Angelus just smiled. “You should tell your pet to use caution, Drusilla. Speaking to Angelus like that’s cause for disembowelment. Or worse.” The demon turned pale and ceased his cursing. “Well… these don’t grow back easy you know!” he yelled up as a final shot. His broken antler lay dripping of ooze and blood beside him. “A chaos demon, Dru?” he asked in disgust, turning from the pathetic creature on the ground. “I give you your silly dollies, lush girls to torture, and you’re consorting with a chaos demon? I’m hurt.” Dru rounded on him, and he felt a flash of something akin to worry at the rage on her face. “You whisper lies! You wear her all around you, the Slayer, and scold me for my pleasures. The Slayer witch steals souls and gives them back; the stars tell me she kills my William without even a stake, and you wear her like a crown.” She turned from him then and helped lift the slime coated demon to his feet. He gave a pitiful groan and leaned onto her, and again she was kissing on his dripping face, some of her mirth returning. Angelus backed away and let them pass. “I must have damaged you more than I thought,” he muttered as they went around the corner. He briefly thought about following and decapitating the bastard for sport, then dropped the idea. Dru’s rageful face stayed fore in his mind. Then suddenly, on a stray breeze that should have reeked of garbage and decay, he caught a scent of vanilla and sweet young flesh. His nostrils flared and once again his world was color incarnate. “Buffy…” he breathed. He turned, a dark smile spreading across his face, Dru all but forgotten. “It’s time.” * Sunnydale, Spring 1999 “Just because I’m not Angelus doesn’t mean I don’t have darkness, pet. If your mates had any idea that you were crawling here every night once past lights out, there’d only be a pile of dust left to visit and-.” “How many times do we have to go over this, Spike?” Everyday, it seemed, since that first night three months ago when she’d crawled into bed with him. They slept together in every way but the sexual, and not from her lack of trying. Damn the vamp for going all honorable on her, anyway. But Buffy just sighed her frustration and sat down on the couch. “Spike, I need that darkness, your darkness. It matches all the darkness in me.” “Don’t say you’re darkness, you’re not darkness, pet.” He sat down on the couch next to her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin warm the chill of his own flesh. “I’m realizing that,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “But I’ve got spots. I did even before Angelus.” Spike ran his hand over her hair, smelling her. He could taste her scent in his mouth, had memorized it long ago. The nights of the last three months ran through his brain: all the subtle touches, almost encounters and shared nightmares. His hand was shaking by the next downward stroke to her hair. “Slayer…” He ran his hand down her cheek, into her golden hair. She twisted her face up to meet his, and his next words were a whispered brush across her mouth as he finally gave in. “Who’ll take care of you, pet?” She tasted like sunlight when he kissed her: forbidden but worth it. Her hands curled tightly around his shirt collar, pulling him even closer towards her. He felt himself vamp out, his face changing from angelic to horrific. He tried pulling away from her, but she jerked him back, unafraid. “Spike, it’s okay. We both want this.” He wanted to laugh with the irony of it, her reassuring him. But he was silent and let her embrace him. She reached her hands out and traced his cheekbones with her fingertips, up his temples to his forehead. She caressed his demon form gently, lovingly, before firmly taking his face and leading it back to her own. It was like kissing razor blades. Her tongue brushed slowly over his fangs, chancing the edge for a taste. But behind the fangs, the face of a monster, she felt the tenderness of the man she was starting to fall for. He was being careful not to knick her, controlling the pace of the kiss with slow, long thrusts of his tongue. His demon half screamed defiance against his human caution. But he pushed the blood lust back with his other growing lust. He slid his mouth down the column of her throat, kissing the scars Angelus had left. “Bastard,” he whispered between kisses. Buffy closed her eyes to the passion in his voice, both rage and lust. And she craved to be closer to that passion. Reaching down, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and tugged it over her head. Spike saw peach flesh arch up in front of him, felt Buffy’s arms going up, then back again to settle around him. He ran his hand down to where jeans met flesh. Using his thumb and forefinger, he popped the button of her pants open and slid the zipper down. The hiss of the metal made Buffy’s heart lurch; she felt nothing but Spike’s fingers caressing her hipbone. Sliding his hands along her hips to her back, Spike grabbed the back of her jeans. Buffy lifted her hips to accommodate him. Her pants and the small slip of fabric beneath them came off with one swift tug. Spike stared down at her, blood rushing to his face. She was a mosaic of contrast: satin skin stretched over sleek muscle, such tiny hands clutching at his arms with such strength, the quivering of flesh as he slid his hand down the flat planes of her belly. He saw, and for once knew a craving stronger than blood. “Beautiful,” he breathed, tracing a line from her collarbone, up her throat to her mouth. Running his thumb over her bottom lip, he followed it with a soft kiss. His gaze devoured, roaming over every inch of her skin. This was personal, an intimacy so much more than what she’d shared with Angel. His eyes ate up every detail: every curve, every freckle. The intensity left her breathless. “Your bra, pet. Let me see all of you.” His voice came out husky, British accent coated with lust. Slowly, Buffy reached her arms up behind her and unsnapped her bra. Spike watched her ripe breasts come into full view, the dusky nipples centered in surrounding, paler flesh. She was a goddess made flesh: beauty, power and grace packaged into perfection. He let his rough hands trail tiny circles on that perfection, amazed to be able to touch. “You’re still dressed,” she said, almost shyly. Her words broke the spell in Spike’s head. He smiled and shook his head a bit, trying to focus on words. “Sorry, pet.” Reluctantly, he dropped his hands from her and stood to strip. Buffy watched eager as the clothes fell to reveal a body that gave the appearance of fine white marble. Streamlined muscles ripped with the smallest movement, the sensuality hinted at clothed was magnified a thousand times in bare flesh. The pants fell, and she dropped her eyes to where he lay hard and swollen against his hip, balls resting gently between his thighs. Spike stepped out of his pants and kneeled down next to Buffy on the couch. He said nothing for a moment, content to watch her eyes memorize his body. When her gaze came back to his face, he leant down and began kissing her. She felt his mouth trace a wet path down her stomach, slow and lingering forehead ridges following in kind. When his mouth reached her thigh, she felt her breath catch. “Please…” His mouth found her with a groan. She tasted like heaven, liquid honey hot to his cool lips, already wet to the touch. It sent him into a frenzy of movement, tongue twisting and darting as fingers followed rapid suite. Buffy was writhing. With each lick, each thrust of tongue and fingers, she felt heat coil tighter and tighter inside her, seconds from exploding. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, the muscles straining and trembling as she watched sweat break out on his pale shoulders. Spike felt her heat against his cheek, felt the tremors and releases, and finally wetness against his skin. He gave one last thrust with his finger, drawing the wave out just a bit longer. Then he rose to look at her. She was sprawled like decadent sin, hands clenched tight on the couch cushions and tears of passion falling down her cheeks. Her golden skin was coated with a sheen of fine sweat, and her bottom lip was trembling violently. “Buffy…” He whispered her name against flesh like a prayer. In her eyes he found his answer. He was up and over her then, pulling her close to him. She grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him down into a wild kiss that tasted like salt and desperation. He thrust one hand into her hair and brought the other one down between them and positioned himself against her. Buffy closed her eyes at the sensation. It was so different, this, the tenderness, the aftershocks of brilliant pleasure. Spike was not Angelus; yet still she fought back the shadows he’d left in her mind. Spike looked down at her, saw her close her eyes and war with herself as he held himself above her. “Buffy,” he whispered, until she opened her eyes and looked at him again. “Stay with me, love. I’m here.” She opened her eyes and nodded. On that nod he slid in, watched her lips quivering and her eyes daze with him rather than Angelus. Then he let himself go. This was pleasure for a different kind of face, too much of everything for him to hold onto his demon half. He lost it, and she was kissing him as he did, holding him close as the bumps and fangs receded to smooth skin. Together then rose, climbed a peak, fell back, only to climb again. Limbs strained against limbs, flesh against flesh, the war between Slayer and vampire being forever redefined. Spike gritted his teeth as Buffy clenched a final time around him, muscles squeezing to abandonment. He came so hard he was screaming, and it was one word, one name… “Buffy!” Buffy held him against her as they came back down. His cool skin was warmer than usual, his mouth in her hair. She felt the shadows fall away in the arms of a man once her sworn enemy, and felt light enter her heart. The tears came suddenly, slow streams that were hot on her face. They were the first tears she’d cried since the incident that didn’t come from a place of rage. She felt an incredible peace go through her and, closing her eyes, lost herself in the feeling. “Slayer?” she heard Spike ask, then felt his callused thumbs wiping at her tears. There was a pause, and then a quietly uncertain, “Buffy? You all right, love?” “I’m fine, Spike,” she whispered, and tightened her arms around him. “I feel better… Like me again.” “Good, pet.” His voice was throaty with the echoes of passion and relief. Dropping his hands, he pulled her closer to him on the couch. He relaxed as he felt her lips curve into a soft smile against his chest, and taking a great breath, inhaled her deep. He knew then that his world would never be the same. Buffy felt herself drifting off, but just before she did felt his lips tickle her ear. “You’ll be all right, love. I’ll make sure of it.” * * * * Buffy sighed and rolled over towards Spike. Sometime during the night she had woken up in Spike’s arms, on their way to the bedroom. He had lain her sweetly down on the bed, and when she had held her arms out to him, he had come into them with a passion that had ran a fine line between tender and wicked. She had loved every minute of it. Opening her eyes, she found Spike staring at her and stretched lazily before his intent gaze. “Good morning.” She smiled, blond hair falling around her face as she came closer to him and gave him a warm kiss. “Has anyone ever told you,” she asked as she pulled away, “what a delicious bottom lip you have?” He chuckled, and ran his fingers down her cheek. “Not recently.” Then his eyes turned serious. “Feeling okay, pet?” Buffy felt a slow smile spread across her face as she reached her hand and slid it down Spike’s chest to his stomach. “What do you think?” she whispered against his ear. And let her hand drop down even further. An hour later, Spike lay sprawled out on the bed watching Buffy gather her clothes. “Mom is probably worried. This is the first time I haven’t been home in the morning since…” She trailed off and her face went blank for a moment. “Well, you know,” she said, pulling her shirt on. Then she walked to the bedroom door and turned around to look at him. The smile came back to her face as she studied him, pale sculpted flesh lain out so casually. She dashed back and gave him a drawn out, reluctantly ended kiss of tongue and fangs. “Thanks for remembering my clothes. See you later.” Then she was gone. Her scent stayed after her, musk with an edge of sweet. Spike waited awhile, then rose and drew on a pair of jeans, intent on getting a meal from the kitchen. The blood thirst that he’d repressed on Buffy’s behalf was raging now, tearing through his system in a red crush. It felt surreal to him that he’d had Buffy. That the tortured girl he’d rescued from the wall only four months ago had been in his arms, unafraid and passionate. That she had begged for his mouth and had given back so eagerly. His hand shook from the memory as he poured blood and then lifted it to his lips. It took the edge off his hunger as it went down, but the hunger for Buffy remained a thing unto itself. He had a feeling no blood, human or animal, would be able to quench it. Buffy hadn’t been gone ten minutes when the phone rang. Spike set down his half finished glass of blood on the counter and picked up the extension he’d only recently added to the kitchen. He listened to the voice on the end of the line and felt the joy of the day slip like sand through his fingers. “Yeah,” he mumbled when the man had finished. “Thanks, mate. That’s what I needed. Your check’ll be there tomorrow.” Then he disconnected the call and dialed a number he’d committed to memory three months ago. There was a click, a rustle of papers, and then a crisp, “Hello.” “Giles. It’s me. My contact from Mexico just rang. Angelus is on the move.” * * * Later that day, after the last traces of sunlight had finally released Spike from his daytime prison, Spike, Giles, Willow, and Ms. Calendar sat in a circle in Giles’ living room. It was not the usual day of their weekly meeting, usually on Saturdays, but then circumstances were not normal. This was their 20- something meeting, each one an adventure in urgency. The planning, the strategy, all without Buffy’s contribution, had them all edgy. When Spike had mentioned her absence once before, Giles had quietly given him thought to chew on. “She is contributing Spike. She’s learning to heal, so she can fight the man she loved. And we’re here fighting so as to not let her down again.” Even now, Giles’ words swam close to the fore of his mind, as he sat on the couch. The strain of recent news showed hard on everyone’s face, and Spike could practically taste nervousness in the smell of sweat that rode the air. “Ms. Calendar and I have been working on something,” Willow began, than paused. “We’re going to use the Orb of Thessala to re-ensoul him.” The announcement caught Spike unaware. He leaned back, shaking his head. “But the translation for that incantation ritual has been lost for centuries, mate. I know, as Darla had us looking for it to figure out how to reverse Angelus’ bloody curse. She didn’t want her boy soiling his hands with the niceties. Got to be top-‘o-the-line killers of men and queens of dementia in her line.” Ms. Calendar leaned forward to explain. “Yes, and though my people lost the translation to the re-ensouling ritual a century ago, I’ve been working on translating the texts since Angel lost his soul five months ago. I just now finished the program. It was the least I could do.” She glanced at Giles, who was watching her with a smile crossed between sad and warm. Jenny had confessed her exact reason for being in Sunnydale shortly after Angelus’s vanishing act, and things between them had been… tense ever since. “Just in time,” Spike muttered, feeling the rising threat of Angelus’ soon return pulsing through his blood. His thoughts were stuck on Buffy, out scouring cemeteries for minor evils. “It’s going to take a day or so to finish getting ready, but I’m pretty sure we can pull it off.” “That’s good then,” Spike said. “It should take him at least that long to get here, travelling by night.” He glanced between Willow and Jenny. “How we gonna know if this kicks in for sure? Are they’re gonna be bells and whistles, trumpets and the like?” “Well,” said Willow. “If it doesn’t we’ll know, on account of the trying to kill us and stuff.” “Right. It’s just waiting, then. I’ve got an ear dropped to the demon crowds. If Angelus is back, I’ll know.” They continued on with logistics and spell requirements awhile longer. The meeting ended with everyone vowing to keep Buffy under constant watch. “Spike,” Giles said as Spike headed for the door. Jenny and Willow were in the kitchen getting tea. “Yeah, Watcher man?” “I wanted to speak with you.” He tugged his glasses off, giving them a swift wipe. “Buffy seems to have grown increasingly more herself… Whatever is between the two of you, it has strengthened her, perhaps enough to see her through what’s coming.” “Thank you.” There was an awkward silence, and then Spike spoke. “Should we like, hug or something mate?” “Oh, god no.” “Right, ‘course not.” They shook hands instead. Spike headed towards the door, then paused and looked back at Giles. “I just want you to know, Watcher. Angelus isn’t gonna win this time.” Then he was gone, with a soft click of the door closing. Giles stood, looking after him thoughtfully. “No,” he said, softly British. “I should say not.” * The next evening, Buffy stared at herself in the Spike’s mirror, tracing over the pink puckered scars that marred the once smooth column of her throat. She’d come to the mansion and, finding it empty, had decided on a shower. Now she stood wrapped in a towel examining the leftovers of violence. It looks like I got ate by a mad dog, she thought. A really, really hungry mad dog. She turned a bit in the mirror, looking at herself from both sides, and resigned herself to the fact that makeup would only make the scars stand out more. I wonder if the Watcher’s Council would spring for a nice trip to a plastic surgeon. In the interest of Slayer secretiveness and all. “Probably not,” she said aloud. “You’re damned to be Buffy the Battle Scarred in the pages of history.” “Talking to yourself is a common sign of lunacy, Slayer.” Buffy jumped and spun around in attack mode. Spike held his hands up and took a step back to avoid her swinging. “Whoa, pet. I’ll make a note not to wander in anymore on self loathing Slayers, alright?” She relaxed, and let out a short laugh. “I was just thinking Cover Girl isn’t gonna cut it this time.” “I was always a Cliniqe type, myself.” She laughed, and this time it was real. “You don’t think my scars make me ugly, though?” The wistful tone of her voice bit into him, and he went completely serious. “You’re a fighter, pet. Your scars are proof of that, and that you’re still alive to fuss over them is enough for me.” Her answering smile made him wish he had a heart to thump wildly. The worries seemed to drop from her eyes, and her cheeks seemed to glow. Spike reached a hand out, but then hesitated. Buffy watched his blue eyes gleam just before he followed through, tugging her towel away and pulling her into arms of smoke and leather. She breathed him in and let herself go. * Spike woke to find the sheets cool, and a jasmine scented breeze blowing in from courtyard below. He rose, pulling on his jeans and walking out the open doors and out the verandah. It was there he found Buffy, wearing only his t-shirt and staring off into the starless night. “He’s coming, isn’t he?” “Yeah, pet.” “How soon?” The wind blew her hair into a riot around her face, and Spike saw in her eyes the fear that was creeping back in on the edges of her soul. “Two days, three at most.” She nodded silently and reached out for him. Slender golden arms capable of superhuman strength gently encircled him to hold him close. The smell of fear tickled his nose, but for once it didn’t arouse him. She breathed heavily against his neck, then pulled back and stared up at him, searching. “I know, you know,” she finally said, softly. “About all the meetings with Giles, I mean.” Spike blinked, wanting to look away, but couldn’t. “I just wanted to tell you that I understand. And that I’ve been recording all your phone calls.” Spike felt an edge of panic. “Does that mean…” he asked huskily, warring with anger that she would be so untrusting, and amusement that she’d fooled them all so well. “Yeah. I listened to the last one while you were sleeping.” “Right,” he said slowly. “See, the thing is pet, we wanted to give you some time to get the edge off, to heal and the like, ya know? And all the times I wanted to, an’ Angelus-“ “Sssshhh,” she whispered, cutting him off with fingers to his lips. “I know. But Angelus isn’t here now. You are, and that’s all the matters to me.” Buffy lowered them both slowly to the floor, splaying out on top of him. She tugged the t-shirt off and arched her back, her outline defined by the fragile twinkling of stars. High set breasts tightened as he reached his hands up to caress them. She helped him wiggle out of his jeans, and he found relief only when he covered her warm skin with his own. She ran her hands down his back in long, slow strokes, her breasts hot against his chest. Settled on top of his hips, she guided him to her, eyes wide as he rubbed along her wet slit to ease the passage. She pressed eagerly against him, and he slid thickly into her. Buffy was all around him, her scent, her flavor, her pulse in his mouth, her sweet voice in his head. The past months ran by like a re-run in his head: all the moments together, all his sleepless nights with her tucked to his side, small smiles. He felt himself drowning as she rocked above him. But if he was going down, he couldn’t think of any better way to go. * Xander Harris was aware that something was off. For the past five months, ever since Buffy’d vanished and then reappeared at the mansion, people had been keeping secrets from him. He could sense it in way sentences trailed off when he came into a room, in the way Buffy was avoiding him, how Willow was always off helping Ms. Calendar. He’d spoken to Cordeilla about some of his concerns, but she’d only shrugged. “Buffy’s brawn, Giles is the books, and Willow’s the brains. You’re back up, Xander. They’ll call when they need you.” Still, it hurt to be on the outside. Especially since he had a gut feeling something was about to explode. That something just happened to explode while his hands were full of groceries. Too drunk to drive, and craving potato chips and waffles, his dad had handed him the keys and a rough looking twenty. Xander had just gotten back to the worn out Ford pickup his dad sometimes used for work when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Well if it isn’t Xander Harris.” He spun, and found himself facing fifteen or so vamps with Angelus at their head. Rage overtook him where caution might otherwise have made him flee. Potato chips crunched angrily beneath his shaking hands. “You sonnof-“ Angelus’s fist came flying out to interrupt his tirade, connecting with a sickening crack of his jaw. Xander dropped hard, and hit the ground with a thud. “There now, that’s enough of that, my boy.” Angelus kicked him once in the face then pulled his leg back once more to land a vicious kick to his chest. He smiled as he felt ribs crack. “Shouldn’t we kill him, boss?” “No, I don’t think so. I think doughnut boy here is gonna be a little message to the Slayer.” He grinned as he scanned the empty parking lot, his mind on a battle yet to come. “Time’s up.” * Giles was pacing his kitchen, tense with worry for Buffy, and honestly, all of them. His bottle of scotch was empty, and it was dark so he didn’t feel comfortable leaving the house to get another. The phone rang in on his dark thoughts. He picked it up with a snap, putting it to his ear almost violently. “Hello?” “Mr. Giles? Am I talkin’ to Mr. Giles?” “Yes, who is this?” “This is Mrs. Harris. I decided to call you, Mr. Giles. He wouldn’t let ‘em drug him ‘til I said I would.” Giles felt his heart skip a beat. “Rupert, please. What’s this all about?” “It’s Xander. He got hurt downtown, near the supermarket. He was beaten half unconscious when they found him, and they said he was screaming something over and over when they tried to put him in the ambulance.” Giles felt his blood go cold. “Is he ok, Mrs. Harris?” he asked softly. “He’s sleeping now, and I wouldn’t be calling, but it was so specific. He was still screaming it when I got to the hospital. They had four orderlies and still couldn’t get him down. I don’t wanna see the bill I’m gonna be gettin,' I’m telling you.” “What exactly was he screaming?” Giles asked, trying to refocus the woman. “He kept sayin,’ “Tell Giles about the angels. Too many angels to fight! I have to tell Giles!” Over and over and over. So I promised to tell and they finally got a needle in him.” She paused, then said, “Hello? Mr. Giles?” Her only reply was the hum of the dial tone. * Thirty minutes later, Jenny and Willow were both crammed into the back seat of Giles’ convertible, trying to organize their spell items as he whipped the car around a turn. “Tried phoning the mansion, but there’s nothing. Mrs. Summers says Buffy’s been gone since nine.” The tires scream and the smell of burning rubber filled the car. “We’ve got everything here, and this should work at stopping Angelus,” Jenny said as they took another, particularly violent turn. Giles set his jaw and pumped the accelerator. “Let’s pray we’re not too late.” * Buffy sang off key as she hopped down the stairs, on her way to the kitchen for an after-shag snack. She was down the hallway and into the living room before she realized there was someone inside. A very familiar someone. Gasping, she whipped around, and raised her arms. “Hello, lover.” “Angelus.” Buffy prayed, and heard Spike charging down the stairs, the muffled thud of fighting, until finally he came tearing into the room to take up position at her back. She could smell smoke and leather at her back, and it put the steel back into her spine. “You fucking bastard,” he snarled, trying to step around Buffy, but she held him back with an arm. He felt her tremble, and his rage was instantly tempered by concern for her. “Ah, Spike! Good to see you up and about.” As he got closer to them, his nostrils flared. “I thought you killed Slayers, Spike, not fucked them. She reeks of you.” Buffy punched him in the mouth. It rocked him back on his heels and blood shone cherry red on his lip. His answering laughter echoed terrifically and made Buffy’s blood chill. “Where’s Dru?” Spike asked as Angelus wiped at his mouth, more out of curiosity than concern. With her powers back, Drusilla would be more than fine on her own for a bit. Until she found or made a new pet to love her to madness. Angelus shrugged. “Left her down in Mexico. She was having a fling with some Chaos demon and didn’t wanna leave him. Seems after you got cut down, she doesn’t like her demons with balls. Too ‘fraid they’ll lose them like you did and leave her all shades of disappointed.” Spike felt rage filling him again, but restrained himself. Angelus wasn’t his battle to fight. Instead he focused on the young vamp that had just come in to his left, elbowing him in the face as he came forward to attack. The copper smell of blood filled the air and he vamped out as he whirled in black leather, sinking a stake into the chest of the howling vamp. He tried to return to her side, but there was another vamp after him, forcing him to defend himself. They crashed back into the hallway, and Buffy was left alone with Angelus yet again. She struck first, a shot that skimmed his stomach and spun her around. She twisted, but he was already at her back. “We know where this lead before, don’t we, Love?” he whispered into her ear, snapping an arm tight around her waist. Chains snapped. “Take it all…” “No!” She flipped him onto his back and he laughed again. “God, such spirit.” He flipped back onto his feet. “You’re gonna make a hell of a vampire.” “I’d die first.” “Oh, you’ll definitely be dying.” His fist sailed out and she avoided it barely. He stalked forward, and she felt fear flood her system. Relief came in the voice of her Watcher. “Buffy, catch!” She looked up and caught the sword he had gotten off the living room wall. She glanced over briefly to see Willow and Jenny in a corner setting up and Giles holding the vamps off of them. Chanting filled the room and added to the mayhem. But then Angelus demanded her attention again. He had stopped coming towards her, but the look in his eyes told her it was only temporary. “Your friends aren’t going to save you, Lover.” His voice was cold, and it hardened her heart. “Who says I need them to?” She charged, and he laughed, jumping over furniture to get to the other sword still hanging in place. He swung it back around with such force that her sword went flying from her hands. She raced around him and picked up the sword from where it had fallen to the ground. Just as she turned she saw him charging with the other sword. There was a tremendous clang as the two blades met, and the worst of it began. Spike heard a snarl and side stepped his attacker. From the corner of his eye he watched Buffy fight Angel, but every time he went to help her, another vamp jumped in his path. And then Angel got a particularly close blow in, slicing a line down Buffy’s arm. “Arrrrghhh!” He slammed into the last vamp in his way, using his hands to rip his opponent’s head clean off. The skull collapsed to dust in his hands. He was almost to Buffy when the room flooded with light. The Orb of Thessela was glowing a furious white, Willow and Jenny’s heads snapping back violently. Their voices clashed in the thick tongue of ancient Romanian. The light from the Orb jumped suddenly upward into blinding bluish shades and vanished. Buffy saw light come into Angelus’ eyes and watched as he dropped to his knees. Her sword came to a halt an inch from where his shoulder connected to his throat. It fell from her hand with a loud clash on marble floor, and she backed up from him as fast as she could, standing behind Spike as her old lover returned. “Buffy… I… What’s going on?” The desperation in his voice was haunting, and Buffy struggled to hold back her tears. But she made sure to keep Spike between herself and Angel. From where she stood, she could see the tears pouring down his face, the daze of confusion that made his dark eyes shine feverishly. These were not the eyes of the man who had raped her, but they were tearing into her all the same. “I can’t… I can’t do this.” “Buffy!” Angel fell forward onto all fours, still sobbing. “Angelus was being a ponce.” That was all Spike needed to say, and then he walked over to help a stirring Giles to his feet. At Spike’s words, Angel slowly dragged his gaze from Buffy’s retreating form to where Willow was huddled in the corner, being comforted by Jenny Calendar. He saw Giles, rising groggily from another corner, and he understood. Spike found Buffy outside in the courtyard, staring at the wall she had once been chained to. She remained silent as he came to stand beside her. “Everyone’s alright inside, pet. Willow’s got a nasty bit of a nosebleed after doing that spell, but your Ms. Calendar is fixing her up nice and proper. Giles told me he’d talk care of soul boy and for me to get you home.” “He doesn’t even remember, does he?” she asked, finally turning to face him. Spike studied her profile, pale cheeks and bruised circles under her eyes from her recent re-retreat to sleeplessness. She looked like a haunted angel, and he wanted to kiss her shadows away. Instead he replied, “No, I don’t think so, pet.” She turned slowly and looked at him. “Its what I wanted, for nobody to know. But now it’s like, the pain is make-believe because there’s no one to hate for it. Its like all my fear, all my anger, was for nothing.” Reaching his hand out, Spike trailed his fingers down her cheek. The chipped black polish on his nails was a coarse contrast to the smooth peach of her skin. He wanted to taste her flesh, like always, but realized suddenly that he wanted much more from her that where that would take him. “If you need to hate somebody pet, you can always take it out on me.” She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. What I feel for you, it doesn’t go down to a place that dark. That’s somewhere I’m gonna have to go on my own.” Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, and blindly slipped her hand into his. His hand tightened around hers. Miraculously, instead of feeling overwhelmed, she felt suffused with strength. She opened her eyes to find Spike staring hard at her, with such an intense look on his face that she couldn’t help but sooth him. “But you’ll be there when I come back up again.” “Always, pet,” he said, almost savagely. Until the end of time… “I’m counting on it,” she said, and turned her back completely to the wall. She felt a smile spread across her face with the knowledge that she was no longer alone. “Take me home, Spike.” Hand in hand, they walked out from the mansion’s walls into the quiet Sunnydale night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Finished. Possible sequel in the future... once I get other projects done.