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Unchecked by Xela
 
Chapter 3
 
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“She’s doing what?” Angel growled, his eyes bleeding yellow. He barely heard the voice at the other end of the line filling him in on Fred’s unsanctioned activities regarding the bleached thorn in his side. “Keep watching her.”

Angel leaned back in his plush chair, eyes unfocused. So Fred was helping Spike, trying to recorporealize him. That was fine, as long as she didn’t succeed, Fred and her bleeding heart could poke and prod at ghost-Spike for as long as she wanted; hell, it might even keep them both too busy to bother him. A not-so-pleasant smile stole over Angel’s lips. Yes, this could work to his advantage.

***

“Daddy needs a hair cut,” Anne announced cheerfully. Dawn and Buffy froze mid-bite, staring at her precocious child in disbelief.

“What?” Anne shrank back a little at her mother’s voice, her eyes darting uncertainly from her mom to the table top.

“It’s OK, Anne-a-na,” Dawn said soothingly, shooting a glare at her sister, “Mommy didn’t get much sleep. Now, what was that about Daddy?” Anne glanced uncertainly at her mom, then back at Dawn.

“Daddy’s hair. It’s all long and part-white,” she said a little uncertainly.

“You…you saw Daddy?” Buffy asked.

“Yep! He was in this building, like where Grandpa Giles works in Engyland—“ Buffy smiled at her daughter’s inability to correctly say ‘England;’ no matter how much they tried to correct her—“but the grayness came, and he was sad and tired, and he wanted to sleep but I told him to come home, and he woke back up.”

“That…that sounds like a nice dream,” Buffy managed.

“Oh, it wasn’t a dream,” Anne said offhandedly, “it was really real-real.”

***

Fred sighed in frustration. The numbers just wouldn’t work. This didn’t make any sense. What made a ghost not a ghost?

“Not likin’ that look, pet,” Spike said, hopping onto Fred’s desk. He’d recently mastered the ability to treat large objects like they were solid…until he lost his concentration and fell onto (or through) the floor. Now they were working on his ability to manipulate smaller objects. So far, he’d managed to spill coffee down the front of Angel’s shirt, which in and of itself was worth the effort. But it was draining, and each time he taxed himself, he could see the grayness pulling at the edges of his senses. And there was something about that mist that made his skin crawl.

“You’re not a ghost,” Fred said with frustration. Spike arched an eyebrow at the wiry scientist.

“Really.” He ‘experimentally’ walked through the wall.

“You’re not a ghost, you’re just…ghost-like. Ghosty. Ghostish, if you will.” Spike was pretty sure he’d look back on this and think it was funny. Everything was funny in retrospect and when you were solid.

“Right. I’m Spike, the Master Ghostish Vampire. How do we fix it?” he asked.

“That’s the problem with the ish part. It…complicates things.” Spike just looked at her blankly. “See, normal ghosts have no mass, and leave ectoplasmic residue that generally has a positive electrical charge, allowing us to sometimes see the image of the ghost, especially when equally charged emotion allows the ectoplasmic molecules to excite and vibrate and you exhibit all of these signs to varying degrees, but you have mass which just wouldn’t happen if you were a ghost—your hair is growing which definitely would never happen if you were a real ghost, physical appearance is only alterable so far, and it’s obviously a natural rate of growth, which suggests you are, in some way, alive…relatively speaking of course—and then there’s the fact that your molecules interact on a pl—“

“Alright! Bloody well sorry I asked,” Spike grumped. He didn’t care about the details; he just wanted to get home to his family.

“I’ll figure it out,” Fred murmured sympathetically. She blushed a little when the vampire flashed her a brilliant smile, the subtlest hint of seduction behind it.

“I’m sure you will, pet,” Spike said, forcing a tremulous smile on his face. He fled the laboratory without another word; he need time and space to regroup. God, this was torture, being away from Buffy, feeling the empty place in his head where his fiery slayer used to sit, a tight bundle of bright emotions and thoughts. It was the closest he came to the sun, Buffy blazing from deep inside him, warming him with her light. Now, he thought he could feel wisps of her, bright flashed of emotions…but that just added to his ire, not being able to touch her physically or emotionally.

Spike forced down the wave of anger and sadness as his thoughts strayed to his children. Every second, every moment he was away from them was torturous. He’d glimpsed a calendar; he’d been gone for six months. So much had happened, so much he’d missed…so much he was being kept from. He wasn’t sorry he’d sacrificed himself for them; he’d do it again without a second thought. But damned if he’d ever forgive Angel from keeping them apart.

***

Buffy sat Indian-style, facing her daughter. A small candle sat between them, the flame dancing through the air.

“So…let’s go through this again.” Anne signed loudly and dramatically covered her face with her hands. Buffy had to admit, she had her father’s flair for the dramatic.

“Mo-om! We’ve been over this a million times!” Buffy rolled her eyes, wondering what Anne’s teenage years held if this was what she was like as an almost three-year-old.

“Mo-om’s slow, so let’s do this again.”

“It’s like floating,” Anne lectured, completely convinced of what she was describing. “You just float up and feel and you find Daddy’s string and you follow it to him. It’s like Hansel and Gretel when they left the bread trail so they wouldn’t get lost in the woods ‘cept it’s like the stone path but not itty bitty pieces of stone all spread out, but one big long stone that’s like a string.” Yep, that was exactly what she’d said last time, almost word-for-confusing-word. And the worst thing? Buffy knew that was all her genetic material at work.

“Right. So…float and follow the stone string path?” Anne nodded enthusiastically grinning. “Right. Easy.”

***

Everyone had gone home long ago, but Fred wasn’t even aware of the hour. She was engrossed in her latest project, trying to figure the mystery of ghosty Spike. This would be fairly simple if she could account for the variables that made Spike NOT a ghost, expect that they were all wibbly and inconsistent. Almost as if Spike was in a constant state of flux...

Fred’s eyes widened. Was that…no, it couldn’t be that simple. Well, simple was a relative term, it was actually quite complex, but conceptually, it answered everything. Pulling up the readings she’d taken from Spike over the last few days, she started going over everything from the beginning.

***

Spike felt the cold tendrils of the mist creep up him, closing in on his vision. He briefly nursed a morbid desire to find out what would happen if he just gave in and let it surround him, but a flash of something within him—maybe his survival instincts—galvanized him into action. Spike sprang up, feeling the mist tear away from him, and ran. He rand down the hall, down the twisted corridors, through walls, but the mist was still there. It followed him, dogged his footsteps, and got closer. Every time it touched him, Spike felt his strength go, little by little. It was like a poison, every touch injecting him with more and slowing his body down.

The room felt like ice. He gasped, an involuntary reaction to the coldness that filled him. His body was bowed back, his mouth open in a scream that was swallowed by the grayness. He felt his consciousness being ripped away, and there was nothing he could do about it.

***

“Mamma, you’re doing it wrong,” Anne said. Her words were filled with the endless suffering of a child wondering how adults ever managed anything at all. Buffy cracked an eye open and glared at her know-it-all toddler.

“Really. What should I be doing?” Anne rolled her eyes—something she undoubtedly picked up from her Aunt Dawn—and marched over to her mother, plopping her self firmly into her mother’s lap. Buffy watched in amusement as her take-charge daughter took the time to settle herself comfortably in her mother’s lap, snuggling her back against Buffy’s chest. Buffy’s arms wrapped around the child as she settled in.

“Kay. I’ll show you. Close your eyes, Mamma. No peaking!” Buffy laughed a little, but did as her daughter instructed, letting her mind wander into silence. She’d gotten better at meditating, her only means of finding solace in the first few months AS—After Sunnydale. Buffy felt something push at the boundaries of her consciousness. She was filled with memories of Spike playing with their new mating bond, sending her images and suggestive promises during the daylight hours; this new presence felt like that, though different. Buffy touched back, and was amazed as her daughter’s presence flooded her, filled with the unconditional love a child feels for their parents, before they grow old enough to realize that their parents aren’t perfect. It was humbling.

Hi mamma! Anne’s clarion mental voice floated over her.

Hey, baby girl. Buffy answered back.

Do you see Daddy? Buffy felt a nudge/right/look feeling come from her daughter, so she ‘looked’ to the right. She saw them both sitting together, eyes closed, breathing even. Chords of varying colors and intensities flowed from them. Buffy plucked one, and it made a beautiful sound; Dawn, Buffy thought with on. This was her…connection with her little sister. Buffy found her mother, Giles, Willow, William, and various other people that had been in her life, tweaking each of them in turn. Anne sent her a flash of bored/antsy/let’s go!/Daddy, and Buffy turned her concentration to her mate. She searched for something that resonated Spike, but she couldn’t find it.

Memories. Remember Daddy, Anne encouraged. Buffy called up the first time they had renewed their mating claim, solidifying intentionally what had happened first under a spell. It had been intense and raw and unbelievable. She remembered what it felt when the mating claim flared with new life, stronger and more vibrant. Buffy gasped as she felt an answering stir, faint but there. Buffy dove for the sound, reaching out, felling something light and wispy. Buffy opened her eyes and gasped. There, in front of her, frail and thin, was Spike. She could see him, smell him, hear him all around her. She wanted to cry with joy.

Follow! Anne said, and took off, traveling down the tenacious little connection. Buffy was right behind her, sailing over countries and seas and oceans, towards her love.

***

Spike’s back was bowed in agony. He was fighting, fighting the pull of the mist, fighting the insipid voices that tried to break him. He would not give up. He would not let his family down; he made a promise to his mate, to his Buffy, and he wasn’t about to lose. Deep inside, he knew that it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have the energy to fight the overwhelming pull of this thing that was trying to devour him. But he would fight, up to the last.

He almost lost himself when he was distracted by the faintest whiff of a scent. This place was bleak, empty; there was nothing, no sound, no sight, and no smell. But it came again, stronger this time, and unmistakable. Buffy. He strained and fought, his demon coming to the forefront, searching for the source of the elusive smell, the smell of home. Suddenly, without warning, light seared him, blinded him, called him home.
 
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