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.



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Finished. Possible sequel in the future... once I get other projects done.