In this episode: Spike realizes his anger at finding Angelus & Dru missing… And a post-Angelus Buffy begins to face the world again....


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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.


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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.

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