[A/N: This is really close to being wrapped up – I know I’ve been saying that for a long time, but now I really, truly mean it. No more than two chapters, I think and this is one done puppy. But rest assured, there will be a third installment. I just don’t know when I’ll be getting to it. That all depends on the muse. And my energy. My thanks to all of you who responded to let me know that you do want a third book, and the outpouring of support was wonderful. Huge hugs go out to both Spikeslovebite and Addie Logan, without whom I wouldn’t have been as inspired – they push me to be a better writer every day. Title and quotes belong to those who first uttered them and the disclaimers, as always, are in full force and effect. I own nothing.]

Previously: In a rare moment, Faith has bonded with both Summers girls; while Jenner plots how to get to her; Spike has faced all three challenges and won the right to bring Connor back home to Sunnydale. This picks up immediately following the last installment.

Book Two. Chapter Seventy-six First step home

Home is a name,
a word, it is a strong one;
stronger than magician ever spoke,
or spirit ever answered to,
in the strongest conjuration.
Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

This is my home, the country where my heart is;
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;
But other hearts in other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.
Lloyd Stone, This is my Song


Lost somewhere alone
Late coming home
No one to guide me
All I had to call my own
Are a star and a stone
They keep telling me my eyes don't see
That they are blinded
Come and be just like me
Say the star and a stone
Something keeps whispering
Nothing can stop you nothing can hold you down
And something keeps pushing me
Nothing can stop you nothing can hold you now
As I had my take my first step home
My way is shown by a star and a stone
Lost somewhere alone
Late coming home
No one to guide me
And all I had to call my own
Are a star and a stone
Robert Kimmel and Ken Edwards, Star and a Stone recorded by The Stone Poneys






Xander stared at the husked out remains of Sunnydale High School, watching the sun rise over the destroyed brick and smashed windows, wondering when everything fell apart. Five years of fighting everything the Hellmouth threw at them – demons, hell gods, and countless vampires – it had boiled down to them being isolated again. He and Willow had always been the outsiders; she the brainy geek and him the class clown. Yet they’d been best friends since kindergarten, bonding over crushed crayons, stolen lunches, and being otherwise friendless.

High school and the arrival of one Buffy Summers had changed all that. He and Willow had grown so much, come so far in those four years of schooling. Buffy’s arrival had catapulted them into a world they had been pretending didn’t exist; forcing them to take a stand against the forces of darkness. She’d welcomed them both, protecting them and letting them fight alongside her. Until now.

Dawn’s appearance had changed the dynamic of the group, with consequences they hadn’t realized until it was too late. Those last days, the last battle with Glory would be forever etched in his memory. Xander didn’t realize it then and was only coming to terms with just now, months after the fact.

They’d all known, on some level, that Buffy could die during the course of any battle. She’d died within months of her arrival, drowning in a small puddle of water; saved only by his timely intervention. But she’d survived, stepping back from the final precipice and she’d survived every battle after that. Even when it seemed like she couldn’t possibly win, wouldn’t make it through, she somehow managed to beat the odds stacked against her.

Until Dawn and Glory.

The irony of their names struck him then. Dawn; supposedly the herald of wonderful new beginnings and Glory. . . well, Glory was supposed to mean something other than what she’d been. Instead they’d been death and destruction. Together they’d caused the death of the strongest person he’d ever met, destroying forever their insular little group.

But that’s not really the truth, is it?

Xander wasn’t normally one for deep thought and reflection, though he was a bit smarter than some gave him credit for. But everything that had happened since Willow had brought Buffy back and in the last couple of days was forcing him to think.

They’d sort of managed to pick up the pieces after Buffy’s death, relying on Spike to maintain the Hellmouth. And why the hell did we trust him to do that in the first place?

Giles was responsible for that, letting Spike handle the bulk of slaying duties, and at the time Xander hadn’t considered the irony of that. The scariest vampire to ever set foot in Sunnydale had become its champion. So, because Giles and Dawn trusted Spike, the rest of them followed, whether they liked it or not.

Yeah, but the bleached wonder wasn’t really the problem, was he?

Xander had to admit that having Spike around had made things a lot easier while Buffy had been gone. And he really wasn’t the problem when she’d come back either. He’d just kept doing what he’d been doing all summer. Protecting the girls and taking care of them. Providing for them. Doing the kind of things Xander had wanted to do. He wanted to be the one taking care of all the girls, the one guy they all looked up to. He wanted to be the hero.

Staring at the charred remains of the high school, Xander faced his failings.

He wasn’t the hero.

He was never going to be the hero.

The other truth he didn’t really want to face was the feeling that deep down, he didn’t really want to be the hero.

Spike stepped up and did the right thing – because it was the right thing. He couldn’t blame Spike’s Buffy obsession for what he’d done all summer, because Buffy hadn’t been around.

Nor could he forget the look on Spike’s face when he’d stepped aside to reveal Buffy standing behind him. He should have known that night, that instant, when Buffy had instinctively reached for Spike when she’d been overwhelmed. Should have known. He might have kinda sorta of guessed it then, but didn’t want to deal with the evidence before his eyes.

Buffy didn’t need him.

Not the way she needed Spike.

Though he did get some sick satisfaction out of the fact she didn’t need Angel either.

Spike he had at least some grudging respect for, especially after all the things he’d done.
Xander left off comparing the two vampires, knowing he was just avoiding thinking about his own actions and thoughts by focusing on them. He’d been wrong. He’d trusted Willow blindly when he probably shouldn’t have. Had automatically taken her side without looking at all the facts. Had refused to look at all the facts – and flat out denied there was another side to things.

All because it was Willow.

He’d even ignored Anya in favor of Willow.

Xander stared down at his calloused hands, turning them over and over, looking at the scars and worn down skin. His hands were years older than he was, both from the construction work and the slaying activities over the years. They looked not all that different from Spike’s, when he compared them. And yet Buffy never looked to him for help the way she did Spike, always relegated him to the “safe zone”.

Maybe all Anya’s accusations about him being in love with Buffy weren’t wrong. Xander shrugged off that thought, because he didn’t want to think about that. He was tired of thinking. His thoughts kept going round in circles anyway, leading him back to the same thing.

With one last glance at the ruins, Xander put the car in gear and drove off, leaving his thoughts and memories behind him.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The two Slayers broke apart, Buffy wiping away her tears while Faith pretended she didn’t notice them.

It took her long minutes to compose herself, but when Buffy finally did gain control, she muttered an apology, which Faith just waved off. “It’s cool, B. A whole lotta shit’s been going down and you’re entitled to the tears.”

Buffy stared at her in disbelief. “Okay, you are so not the Faith I know. Are you a pod person?”

Barking out a husky laugh, Faith shook her head. “Had a long time to think while I was locked up. I guess I figured some shit out, you know? Not much else to do in lock down.”

There was nothing Buffy could say about that, knowing she was partially the reason why Faith had gone to prison.

The other girl seemed to read her mind. “It was all on me, though, so don’t blame yourself. I’m the one that killed the Mayor’s aide. I was the one outta control. You’re just the one that forced me to face it.” Faith played with one of the knives, flipping it over and over. “I was wicked pissed at you for a long time.”

Once more Buffy found herself speechless, unable to reconcile this more mature Faith with the wild and totally out of control girl she’d been two years before. “Wow.”

Faith shrugged and looked away. “I got wiser.”

Buffy stared at her, willing the other girl to look up at her. When she finally did, Buffy offered her a small smile. “Thanks for coming, Faith, I . . I appreciate it.”

Her counterpart’s dark eyes grew misty and Faith sniffed hard, fighting tears. “No big.”

The two girls lapsed into a companionable silence, at ease with each other for the first time in a very long while.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Willow glared up at the implacable expression gracing the features of the man looming over her.

“What did you do to me?”

Her choked voice was a harsh, bare whisper of sound. But it was the anger and disdain that laced through her words that demanded the attention of the gods still present in the hall. Arianrhod froze, her gaze shifting immediately to Gywn, who merely raised an eyebrow. Ceridwen, however, swiftly closed the distance to Gwydion’s side.

“Have a care how you speak, little girl.”

Willow sneered, the glare still in place, though this time it was directed at the blond goddess. “Tell me what you did.”

“All is stripped from you. The power you stole and that which was yours.”

“Why?” Tears of frustration surfaced in Willow’s eyes. “Why did you do this?”

“Have you not been listening? Have you not understood any of this?” Gwyn leaned down to look into Willow’s eyes.

“She understands.” Ceridwen’s tone was hard and her expression unflinching. “The girl knows. She is no fool, though she acts like one.”

An emotion resembling compassion crossed Arianrhod’s features and it was she who spoke next. “Mayhap we should elaborate further?”

Ceridwen cut her off. “She needs no further explanation.” She leaned down, like Gwyn had, so that her face was level with Willow’s newly pale visage. “She understands fully.”

Willow didn’t back down from the goddess’ stare. Through clenched teeth, she nearly snarled out, “I am still here, you know.”

“Oh, we know.” Ceridwen rose to her feet, dismissing Willow. “You are still here; why is that, Gwyn?”

Gwyn huffed out a breath, his gaze moving from the two females to the other male. “Gwydion.”

The other male stepped forward, responding to the unspoken questions swirling in the hall. His dark eyes flared with strange lights and for the first time since she’d woken up in this otherworldly place, Willow felt a frisson of fear.

His voice, though spoken in a bare whisper, sent shivers racing over Willow’s tense muscles, and as he spoke, the full burden of her actions began to weigh upon her.

“It was not so much what you attempted, Red Willow, so much as why and how you did it. It is conceded that the Chosen One’s final time had not yet come, but it was not for you to return her. That task was for another. . . “ He sighed. Clasping his hands behind his back, he began taking slow, measured steps around her kneeling form. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, and you were told by the Watcher what consequences there would be. You ignored him. Ignored too, the warnings of others. Your arrogance . . . “

An inelegant snort came from his companion and Ceridwen shook her head. “She’s not listening. She is playing you for a fool, Gwydion. Why do you persist in coddling this child?” Ceridwen’s temper was fraying by the moment and her fingers were itching with the need to forcefully drive home to the former redheaded girl exactly how short her temper was. “Enough of this! Have done with it and her.”

Gwydion lifted his eyes to the blond goddess, who transformed herself into an old, ragged, hideously ugly woman. “It is time and beyond that you have done with this.” A grimace heightened the ugliness. “And if you will not, I am more than happy to . .. . “

A imperious hand from the dark god forestalled her next comments. “Art bloodthirsty”

She huffed out, “With good reason. This one is not worth more of our time. Punishment has been dealt. Have done with it already!”

The two stared at each other for long moments, the others waiting for the battle of wills to end. Finally, Ceridwen returned to her former appearance, triumph sparkling in her eyes, while Gwydion let resignation flood his features.

“Geas is laid upon you, Red Willow, for your actions and thoughtless need to control aught around you.” She started to speak, but a raised finger from Gwydion bound her to silence. “You will listen, for I shall only say this once more. I am done with this and you.” He caught the smirk on Ceridwen’s face and instantly thought better of softening his punishment.

“No magic will you ever perform, no spells, nor cantrips. No mind tricks, no power will surge through your veins. No release from this will happen, until all is settled with those you sought to control.” His voice rang out, echoing through the almost empty hall. “Should you seek to regain that which does not belong to you, upon you shall be visited the full effect of your folly. Suffer you will.”

“Seek not assistance from others, Red Willow, for such will be your downfall. Eternity to wander, lost and unfriended, your sins your only companions.” Ceridwen took up the litany, her voice silky with contempt. “Look not to others of your kind for aid, for none will shelter you, no help forthcoming. Outcast, alone. . . This is your fate.” The goddess leaned down, her blond hair falling like rain onto Willow’s ghostly pale skin, eyes narrowed with anger. “And do not think to look toward modern devices, either. Try aught, little girl, and your life is forfeit, mine to do what I will.”

Her smile morphed into something that resembled a vampire’s game face, and Willow cringed away, the depth of what was happening finally registering in her head. She started shaking, and big, sad tears slid down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. . . I didn’t mean it.”

“Auuggh!” Ceridwen growled out her anger, her face morphing once more into something gnarled and disfigured. “Come with me, you little she-bitch.”

Wrapping her strong hand in the length of Willow’s hair, Ceridwen dragged her from her crouched position in front of Gwyn’s throne to the alcove housing the huge cauldron. “Enough of this! Art a willful, petulant child. Have done with the lies to yourself and to others. And most especially to me.” Ceridwen whirled on her, shoving Willow’s face close to the cauldron’s shimmering surface. “Watch what you have wrought.”

Images of moments in Willow’s life rose to the surface, some of them dating back before Buffy’s arrival in Sunnydale, but most since that time. Everything was laid out before her eyes; her actions and their effects on others. Things she hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, hadn’t seen . . . hadn’t wanted to see. Or understand.

Everything she’d done, every selfish action she’d taken to preserve what she thought best – not what actually was best – was laid bare. Ceridwen spared neither thought nor care for her own emotions, her hand holding Willow’s head still so she couldn’t escape any of the images.

“This is what your arrogance has wrought. What you have done, Willow. Your fault.” When Willow tried looking away, Ceridwen tightened her hold. “Do not hide from what you have done. Far better you admit it, learn from your misguided actions. You are not the ultimate authority. . . you are not a God, Willow, though you tried.”

Derisive laughter filled the alcove when Willow’s tears plopped into the cauldron. “Oh, how you tried. . . be thankful all we have done is strip your abilities from you. It could have gone far worse for you. . . far, far worse.”

The last of the images faded away and Ceridwen released her hold. Willow slumped to her knees, a sniveling, weeping mess, unable to fight the truth any longer. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

Ceridwen’s smile was a feral, fearful thing to see, a terrible, savage beauty. “Aye, so you should be.” Willow looked up. “And you will be for a very, very long time to come.”

Shifting her glance to the others, Ceridwen stalked away from the alcove. “Send her back. It is time she reaped the fruits of her labors.”



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Oz woke slowly, the scent of incense and something musky the first thing to register in his senses. The bed beneath him was soft, the covers fine cotton and patchwork colors. His eyes opened slowly and he stretched, his hands tangling in the dark blond tresses covering his face, chest and hands. His full body stretch brought him into closer contact with the soft curves of the body next to him and Oz smiled lazily. He had no idea of the time, but he knew intimately where he was – his favorite place in the world.

Being in this room – Tara’s bedroom – reminded him of his time in the Tibetan monastery. The deep peace invoked by the smells and colors surrounding him eased something knotted up inside him, something that yearned and howled with the chaos that always surged within him. He leaned into her back, his arms stealing around her, holding her close against his chest.

Lately, every time they ended up sharing sleeping space, this was how their morning started. One of them would be wrapped around the other, arms and legs entangled, her hair covering them both in a soft curtain. She unconsciously wiggled closer and his body reacted instantly. His hips shifted forward almost involuntarily and Oz pressed closer to Tara, his breath wafting across her shoulder.

After long moments basking in her nearness, he reluctantly moved away from her, rolling flat onto his back. Flashes of intense images whirled through his mind, the events of the day before scrolling through his thoughts. He remembered the fighting, remembered the dark-skinned vampire he’d killed, and then being attacked by a small female vampire who was far stronger than she looked. And then there was blankness, the red haze of filtering what had happened through the actions of the wolf, giving him a moment of pause. Those memories were always dark, dim, like something seen through another’s eyes, which he supposed in some small way, they were. He and the wolf co-existed, inhabiting the same body, yet not the same mind.

Wolf was wild emotion, feral, ferocious and reactive, non-thinking. It operated purely on instinct, following its emotions, which didn’t always coincide with his and therein lay the need to exert some form of control over the beast. His bones ached, he realized belatedly, the muscles of his jaw and shoulders tense and strained from the change. He always felt like this after a fight, every bone and muscle stretched and realigned twice, and it was always worse when the change wasn’t due to the moon-pull.

Tara rolled over, her arm sliding across his chest and Oz didn’t fight the smile her unconscious actions caused. Her hips angled toward him and one leg slid over his.

His erection strained against the cotton of his sleep pants and Oz knew he had to get up soon, otherwise he’d embarrass both of them. Tara was affectionate, sometimes loving, but he knew without a doubt that she wasn’t physically attracted to him. But he and wolf didn’t care. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t ogling him the way Buffy ogled Spike – for him sex and love weren’t about hot wild sex. He’d had it a time or two, but it wasn’t what he really wanted.

To him, love was more about comfort and home and well, everything Tara was coming to represent than about hot, rabid sex. Sex like that – especially when it was wolf calling to wolf – wasn’t meant to last. And Oz the person wasn’t built that way. He needed the comfort and security someone like Tara just naturally exuded.

He wanted her, he wasn’t about to deny that to himself or even to her if the conversation ever took place. But he wasn’t going to force her or push her.

And that was why, after lightly brushing a kiss on her arm, Oz gingerly slipped from her bed, heading straight for the shower.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The sounds of low murmuring voices and crockery being moved around roused Wesley from his sleep. That and the dead weight his left arm had become. He shifted, stretching and loosening up overly stiff muscles, feeling the effects of too much physical exertion in one day. His right side was sore and cramping calf muscles had him jack-knifing into a sitting position before he was full awake.

Unlike some people, Wesley never suffered from disorientation when he made the transition from sleep to wakefulness, though his body never seemed to keep pace with his mind. He was paying for that trait now, the morning after one of the toughest battles he’d ever fought. Stretching out his legs Wesley immediately regretted that decision, because instead of easing the cramps, they worsened. Hunched over and trying not to groan, he got to his feet, hoping that walking would ease the pains. That was when he realized his arm was dead weight, the pins and needles of resumed blood flow harpooning sharp little pains the length of his appendage.

His legs gave, and he barely caught himself from landing face down on Dawn, who was blissfully unaware of his currently ungainly and graceless appearance. That’s it you git, smother the girl with your incredibly awkward flop onto her sleeping form. Good show, mate. Oh, good lord, now I’m sounding like Spike in my thoughts. Wesley limped over to the Christmas tree, smiling a little at the silent reminder that this was still the season to give thanks. Maybe we’ve gotten more than one Christmas miracle? We all managed to somehow, miraculously survive. And without too many casualties.

Turning round to pace back to the couch, Wesley dared a look at the plastic and mesh contraption they were calling a Pack ‘n Play. To him it looked more like a truncated and flimsy baby cot, hardly safe for anyone’s child, much less a preternaturally strong one. There’d been no word from Spike and Lawson, though in truth none of them had expected any communication. It still worried him. They’ve been gone. . . Wesley glanced down at his watch, slightly surprised that the time read after two. So, they’ve been gone about ten hours, I wonder how Spike’s managing. . .

Though he’d tried hiding it, Spike had been injured in the battle. Not seriously, and not enough to stop him from going after Connor, but enough that it might slow him down if something were to happen while they were retrieving the baby. Spike had hidden the sword cut, not letting Buffy see the damage. Wesley stretched again, working out some of the kinks, his mind focusing on Spike. He didn’t appear too affected by the injury, and if Wesley hadn’t seen the blow himself, he wouldn’t have even noticed. Perhaps it’s all the Slayer blood he’s been ingesting. . .

Neither he nor Rupert fooled themselves into thinking the vampire didn’t indulge, though with the baby on the way, perhaps they’d toned things down. And really, Wesley, why are you thinking of Spike’s sexual practices? Shaking his head and forcefully refocusing his thoughts, Wesley continued pacing through the living room.

Well, you sot, you’re better off thinking of Spike than Dawn. At least thoughts of Spike wouldn’t land him in jail.

Or dead.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The afternoon sunlight made the room hot and Giles rolled over, unconsciously pushing the covers down around his hips. His legs and hands encountered something soft and sweet smelling. He moved closer, his arms reached around to enfold the form closer, one hand curling around the soft breast of his companion. Something tickled at his nose and neck, and he shifted, moving away from the annoyance, only to have it shift and move with him. There was a rustling beside him, then a soft exhalation of air, smacking of lips and a breathy little moan. The breast in his hand swayed and his fingers brushed over a hardened nipple at the same instant a hand stole awkwardly around his hip, pulling their bodies closer together.

He realized, a split second before he thumbed her nipple and ground his erection against her buttocks, that it was Anya in his arms.

Oh, bloody hell. . . .

At a complete loss as to how to extricate himself from this completely awkward predicament, Rupert hesitated a heartbeat too long. Anya wriggled her hips, another breathy moan escaped her and he tightened his hold on her breast. His name sounded from her, the noise doing nothing to help his tenuous grip on his self-control. Once more she wriggled and Rupert growled low in his throat and wormed his other hand down around her hip.

Anya smiled, her eyes opening slowly. She could feel the effect she was having on him; it was blatantly obvious. She was very glad she slept without panties all the time, and equally glad she’d borrowed – without Buffy’s knowledge of course – one of the Slayer’s nightgowns. It was tight and sleek in all the right places, and thankfully, it had ridden up during the night, so that it barely covered her bottom half.

And though she’d meant what she’d said earlier about them having sex that didn’t mean they couldn’t give each other mutually agreeable orgasms. There isn’t a better way to wake up in the morning, and it’ll give him something to think about.

His fingers snagged on the lace lining the bottom of the nightgown and Anya slowly angled her hips so that the very tips of his fingers brushed over her bare upper thighs. She was careful not to change her breathing and thought she had him fooled until he pulled her back, trapping his erection between them, whispering deeply in her ear.

“I know you must be awake, my dear.”

A half-giggle rang from her and she undulated against his body, her hand reaching up to cover his. She tugged on her own nipple, which he found incredibly arousing, and gasped a bit when his fingers joined hers. “Why must I be? This is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

Giles didn’t bother to answer, merely humming his answer softly into her ear. Anya couldn’t help her body’s reaction, gasping a bit when he bit down gently on her shoulder.

“You are a very naughty girl. I thought you agreed we wouldn’t do this until I was – how did you put it? Oh, right. . . I remember now, ‘When I’m not exhausted and injured’.”

“You don’t feel very exhausted.” Anya somehow managed to slip her hand between them and she squeezed his erection. “In fact, I’d say you feel a bit invigorated.”

“God, woman. Do that again.” He arched into her hand as Anya rippled her tight fingers around his prick.

Anya let go, rolling over to face him and Giles found himself with a handful of her delicious rear, his fingers connecting with completely bare skin. “No knickers?”

“Why bother with them?” She slid her hand down beneath his boxers, her hand grasping his thick erection. “Rupert, you have a very nice penis. Very nice.”

His laugh was low and in retaliation, she squeezed him. Hard. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Dear God, I’m not laughing at you. I almost said you have a nice one also.”

A half a second later she was laughing and her grip around him loosened. His hips arched toward her and she swiped her thumb over his slit. “How would you know if I’ve got a very nice anything? You haven’t touched me yet.”

“A situation I’m about to remedy, my dear.” His fingers slid around the smooth cheeks of her rear, slipping between her thighs and dipping delicately into the folds of her sex. Anya responded by bucking her hips, then sliding her leg up and over his hip.

“Rupert, you haven’t kissed me either.”

“How remiss of me.” He angled his head, his mouth opening slightly to cover hers in a soft, nipping kiss. Giles eased back, a twinkle in his eyes as he said, “You shall have to take me to task for it.”

“Later, Giles. Just kiss me again.” Anya slid her hip up further, thrusting into his hand as he pushed two fingers in and out of her core. Their mouths met again, tongues curling together as they deepened the kiss. Her fingers hooked around the edges of his boxers and pulled. Rupert rolled onto his back, lifting her up as he did, and Anya gripped his thick cock, sliding down easily. “Oh . . . oh. Yes, Rupert, a very, very nice penis.”

The worry of where they were and exactly what they were doing crossed his mind, but it fled completely when Anya ground down, clenching her vaginal walls around his pulsing erection. His hands circled around her hips, guiding her actions. Anya’s movements were almost frantic, as if she had to hurry and get to her orgasm before . . . Giles raised himself up on his elbows, stilling the thrusting motion of his hips. “Anya, it’s not a race. We have time to enjoy this.”

She slumped a bit, resting her head on his shoulder, her hands clutching tightly around his arms. “Rupert,” she whimpered.

“Sshhhh. Slow down, dear girl, I’ll take care of you.”

He rolled them over and proceeded to do just that.

Twice.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This time, when the swirling rainbow appeared in the middle of the street, little Zoe Graverman called out to her mother, who in turn yelled for her husband. People popped out of their houses all over the block, watching the lights twinkle and sparkle in front of the Summers house, oohing and aahing at the sight before them.

Except for those living in 1630 Revello Drive, everyone was out on the street.

It wasn’t until a subsonic boom reverberated in the air that the front door opened and one of the girls stuck her head out. In an instant, the door swung wide and with a shout over her shoulder, one of the blonds came outside.

Zoe was pointing at the lights when Buffy followed Tara outside with Faith, Giles, Wesley, and disheveled looking Anya trailing after her. The Slayer’s eyes were fixed on the lights and she held her breath, clutching at Wesley’s forearm. He winched and she caught the expression from the corner of her eyes and forced herself to let go. “Sorry, Wes.”

“It’s all right. Is this . . ?”

“Oh, I hope so. I really, really hope so.” The noise echoed again, and Buffy swore she could almost see the sound waves as they rolled down the street.

They drifted out to the street, everyone speaking at once in hushed tones. Oz stood in front of Tara, while Anya slipped her hand into Giles’. Faith edged away from Buffy, leaving them room to maneuver if this wasn’t what Buffy was hoping for. A third boom shook the houses and a half second later, the light flared so brightly there was nothing but flashing lights that nearly blinded all of them.

For long minutes everyone stood still, blinking hard and fighting protective tears. Buffy had covered her eyes with her hands, flinching away from the light. Her ears were still ringing.

Her vision finally cleared and there, standing in front of her, somehow protected from the late afternoon sunlight, was Spike.

A grin stretched across his face, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he quipped, “Hello, cutie.”

The giggle escaped before she could stop it. “Hello, yourself.”

Giggles turned to outright laughter when he swooped in to lift her easily in his arms.

“Miss me?”

“Ahuh.” She sobered then, tugging on his hair, pulling him away from where his head rested between her breasts. “Where’s Connor? Did you find him?”

He dropped her back down onto her feet, then stepped back. “About that, kitten.” He half turned away, motioning someone forward.

A figure stepped out of the light, standing next to Spike. Buffy glanced at Spike, a question in her eyes, and he nodded at the shadowy form.

“Spike?”

The boy was smiling at her. That much she could tell, but she couldn’t see his features clearly, only that he had dark hair and was nearly as tall as Spike. He was thin, too, and wiry. And he had something faded and bluish in color clutched in his hand. Buffy looked at him one more time and her mouth opened a bit.

No. . .

“Hi, Mom.”





Not much more left . . . but please be kind and leave a review anyway. They feed the muse.