Many thanks to Immortal Beloved for being kind enough to beta this chapter.




Chapter Forty-Three




The five other people in the room stared at Willow, clearly dumbfounded by her statement. And it was a statement. Not a question, not a suggestion, but spoken as a given. As if, at a time like this, calling Angel was the most sensible thing in the world.

Giles shook his head slightly, clearly puzzled. He parted his lips to speak; but, before he could utter a sound, Dawn beat him to it.

“Why would he be any use? How could he help Buffy readjust?” Her tone was bitterly sarcastic, her eyes hard. But Willow didn’t back down.

“He helped her before,” she said quietly.

“Oh, you mean the last time you dragged my sister across dimensions or time and brought her back an emotional cripple? ‘Cause weirdly, I’m not remembering that one.”

“No. I mean when your mom died.”

The mention of Joyce struck Dawn dumb, and for a second, she just stared at her friend. No one else spoke, just watched the young girl fumble to find a response.

“I don’t believe you,” she said finally. “He was never here after Mom died.”

“Yeah, he was. The day of the funeral…well, that night. I know because I was the one who called him.”

“You called him?” Xander echoed. Like a tempest breaking, the anger he had unleashed on Spike swiftly turned to Angel. “Willow, why in the world would you do that? Didn’t she have enough to worry about then without you bringing tall, dark, and criminally insane into it?”

“He’s not criminally insane, Xander. He’s not even evil…now.” She added the last word lamely, and Xander shook his head in disbelief.

“‘Now’ being the ultimate caveat emptor, right?”

“He had a right to know! Just like he has a right to know that she’s back now!”

Xander shook his head emphatically and jabbed his forefinger at her like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. “No! No right to know! He left, and when he did, he cashed in that card. He doesn’t have any right to—”

As if a switch had been flipped, his voice died suddenly. The complete silence in the room, the shifting of all eyes onto Willow, told him that they had all arrived at the same conclusion he had and at the same time.

“You already called him. You called him when she went missing.”

“Xander, I had to.”

“Had to!”

“He cares about her! And she cares about him. They’re friends. Plus—” Her voice dropped by decibels, and she looked off to the side as if shy or embarrassed. “I thought he could help us. I thought he might have some connection to the magical underground in L.A. That he’d know what I—that he’d know how to bring her back.”

“And?”

“And…he didn’t.”

Xander exhaled noisily and smacked his palm against the doorframe. “Well, then. I guess that proves how helpful he’s going to be.”

“Well,” said Anya, the only one brave enough to break into their argument, “at least it can’t hurt anyone...I mean, unless she has sex with him. Because then it could hurt everyone. But as long as she doesn’t…”

She looked around the room with an expression of puzzlement, clearly not understanding why no one seemed to concur, or why they were all looking at her as if she had just grown fins and a tail. “Right?” she pressed.

Finally Willow, who was the last person on earth anyone expected to agree with Anya, and who spoke with obvious reluctance, echoed, “It can’t hurt anyone…”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




For a few minutes, all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.

His eyes were tightly screwed shut, his lips parted, his muscles clenched. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t even think. All he could do, in that brief span of forever, was pant hoarsely and hope that he didn’t fall into unconsciousness. Because it was beyond extreme, that sensation. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was almost unbearable.

It felt so very good.

She seemed to sense his every thought, his every feeling. He felt her hands in his hair, gently stroking, brushing back those loose curls that fell across his forehead no matter what he tried to do to tame them. And he heard her voice, soft and low, so incredibly gentle…

“It’s all right, William.”

It was more than all right. It was ecstasy. She was sitting astride his body, naked, riding him as she would have ridden a cantering horse…riding him as she would have ridden a wave rolling onto the shore. Smooth rise and fall…slightly forward then slightly back… supple…unhurried…

Perfect.

Without realizing it, his breathing slowed to match the rhythm of her movements. He wanted his body to do the same, to follow the pace she had set; but, it refused to obey him. It felt too good. So good he couldn’t endure it…so good that, even as he struggled to resist the impulse, he found himself squirming beneath her. His hips, he just managed to keep still because he was afraid of hurting her. But his legs trembled and jerked, his feet thrusting into the soft feather mattress, his toes working against the rumpled bedclothes that lay bunched at the foot. He continually shifted his upper body, almost convulsively, as though he had suddenly been overtaken with a serious case of the Saint Vitus’ dance. He gripped the bottom sheet in both fists and raised his shoulders off the bed, almost as if he were about to sit up.

She laughed at him, gently pressed her soft palms against his chest, and held him down.

“Calm down,” she whispered. “You’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her voice was so soothing…his pounding heart eased a little at the sound of it. Then, the motion of her hips stopped, and he was slowly able to pull together his shattered thoughts enough to open his eyes. Wide, awestruck, and very blue, they stared at her, taking in every adored feature.

“I’m sorry—” he began. His voice was husky, his throat dry. She raised a hand to his mouth, covered his lips with her fingertips to block the words.

“Hush…don’t start that again.”

Leaning down, she kissed his throat. Her hands traveled from his chest to his arms, grazing lightly upward until, finally, her fingers laced with his own. And it might have appeared that she was pinning him down—or trying to—except that the pressure of her hands was barely there and certainly not restricting.

“Tell me how it made you feel when I did that. Did it feel good?”

William swallowed when she asked that question, and he felt the part of himself that was inside her throb an eager response.

“I—I didn’t know anything could feel so—”

“What?” she whispered.

“—extraordinary.”

She smiled then, and he could tell by her eyes that he had amused her. But her eyes were also full of understanding, of profound love. Her eyes told him that he was hers, and that she was, in some way, delighted by his reaction to her body…by the desperate fidgeting he could not control.

Suddenly, she released his hands in order to grip his shoulders. She rocked her body to the side and dragged him along with her; and, although it wasn’t easy shifting positions without breaking their connection, somehow it happened. Then, he was on top of her, nuzzling at her soft neck as he thrust into her. Inexperienced as he was, he went about his lovemaking with more ardor than discretion. It might have been uncomfortable for her—probably, it was—but she uttered no complaint. Instead, she lay beneath him, stroking his cheeks and his chest…the taut arms on which he braced himself. She let him experiment. She let him learn.

Then, finally, he fell into the right rhythm, one that wasn’t quite so frenzied. One that gave her as much pleasure as she provided him. She moaned and clung to him; and, to his astonishment, her sex suddenly grew very hot around him and broke into a series of intense spasms that seemed to last forever. She wrung his climax from him with the force of her own, and it was much more intense than the one brought about earlier by the attentions of her hand. He felt a fierce sense of possession as he emptied himself into her, filling her body with the very essence of his life. And in the small corner of his brain that was still capable of thought, even in the throes of passion, a voice whispered with jealous satisfaction.

She’s mine now. No one else can ever have her.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Spike moaned sharply as he drifted back to consciousness, though whether that was from the pleasantness of the memory or the extreme discomfort he felt in waking up, it was hard to say. The pain in his hands was excruciating, and he didn’t remember lying down or falling asleep. Best he could figure, he must have collapsed.

He sat up slowly, wincing. When he looked down at his hands, he saw that they were all shades of black, blue, and purple. So swollen the skin was shiny, stretched tight around them. His fingers were twisted, almost useless, and the corners of his palms were crooked; the lower part of his wrists didn’t look a lot better. He sighed at the sight and brought his legs up so that he could rest his forehead on his knees.

It hurt like buggery, but that wasn’t what was worrying him. They’d heal soon enough…a bit of blood, a few days rest, and they’d heal. But the question was: how to get his blood? There was a good stock in his little refrigerator upstairs, but there wasn’t a chance he could pick up the pints to drink them. He wouldn’t even be able to get the lids off the jars, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t even climb the stairs to get to the upper level of his crypt even if he did figure out some ingenious way to feed himself. Not to even mention what would happen to him if some nasty thing decided it wanted to claim jump on his crypt. Until his hands healed, he would be completely helpless.

As if to prove a point, there was a sudden slam upstairs—the distinct sound of footsteps crossing the floor as someone stepped through the doorway they had just flung open.

“That’s just bloody great,” he muttered. He used the wall as a brace, and pushed himself up and onto his feet. For all the fucking good that would do. He certainly wasn’t in any condition to help himself if there was a fight.

Then, a voice called his name. It was tentative, full of concern; and, although he definitely did not believe in a heavenly body these days, she sounded to him like a host of angels as she uttered a single word:

“Spike…?”

“Down here, Bit.”

His voice was shaky as he called to her, and he silently cursed himself for it. But bleeding hell, he was in pain. He could hear Dawn descending into the narrow tunnel, her cautious movements having more to do with the rickety ladder than with him. When her trainers touched the dirt floor, he heard her sigh in relief—but quiet, clearly not wanting him to hear. He smiled. Cheeky little monkey; just like her sister, she never wanted to show any fear.

He considered hiding his hands from her, but he knew it was useless. Dawn was too bright not to notice it if he constantly kept them behind his back or tucked into his coat; it would just be an insult to them both. Still, the torches had burned out, and it took her a moment to take note of his injuries. When she did, she made a little cry of alarm.

“Spike…what happened? Who did that to you?”

“Nothing, nobody. Did it to myself, but it’s all right.”

“It’s all right? All right?” She echoed. Her voice held a mixture of horror and scorn. “Did I just have a stroke, or are you completely insane? ‘All right.’ That’s a stupid statement even for you!”

As much pain as he was in, he managed a genuine grin at that. Jesus, that kid was brutally honest. A year from now, she’d have her sister running for the hills. Few years after that, and she’d be a right peng. Too bad Buffy couldn’t be like her and possess acerbic wit without being cruel about it. Not that he wasn’t accustomed to cruelty, having dispensed more than his fair share of it over the years.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Little nosh like you, running around in the dark by yourself. Somebody’s bound to fetch a nibble.”

“It’s not dark. It’s almost lunchtime…almost noon.”

“Hm. I must’ve missed the trolley on that one. But why are you here, when Big Sis is home now? Shouldn’t you two be having a tender moment?”

“She’s sleeping. She’s been…doing that a lot.”

“I see,” he said. But he didn’t really. He looked down at his mangled hands.

“Anyway, I wanted to check on you. Last night, you seemed…” Her voice trailed away.

“Well, it was a little bit of a shock…seeing her burst in like that. Seeing her”—he swallowed—“like that.”

“She’s pretty shocked herself, I think. Or, she’s in shock anyway.” She paused. “The others think she was in some kind of hell dimension.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think hell dimensions must be handing out some really nice clothes these days.”

He snorted. “You’re the only one of the lot that has a bit of sense, you know that?”

The corner of her mouth turned up with self-conscious pleasure at the praise, but her blue eyes darted to his injured hands in concern.

“Can I…help you fix them?” she asked.

Spike was about to tell her no, not to be foolish. That they’d mend on their own. But it suddenly occurred to him that she could help a great deal, and that it would speed up that healing process considerably.

“Could get some bandages,” he told her gruffly. “Not gauze…something stronger. Some tape. Something to make a couple of splints. And—and—” He suddenly stammered, embarrassed by the final request, almost reluctant to make it.

“What?” she said softly.

“I…can’t get to my blood.”

“I’ll get it for you. Do you want it now?”

He shook his head. “After. Drugstore now. I’ve got a bit of cash in my left front pocket; you can get it out if you promise to steer clear of the knackers.”

She laughed. “Pedo.”

He mock-scowled at her. “I said steer clear.”

“I know. I’m just kidding. But don’t worry about the money; I’ve got it covered.”

She did an about-face then, and left without saying goodbye. He could hear her climbing the ladder, then running lightly across the crypt floor. When the door slammed shut behind her, he allowed himself to drop back down to the dirt, sitting with his back against the wall.

After a moment’s thought, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The pain in his hands didn’t seem quite so bad now.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~






Dawn was back so quickly he knew she hadn’t stood in line at the drug store to buy the stuff; she must have nicked it. Maybe that should’ve bothered him; it certainly would have bothered her sister. But he didn’t have a soul to weigh him down, and all he really felt was a mild rush of pride. A feeling of gratitude for her efforts.

She had to set the bones for him. He walked her through it, moaned into his knees when the pain got too bad to hold back. The sight and sound of him being so weak, so wounded, frightened her. Her hands trembled as she tended to him, but she persevered and did an admirable job given what she had to work with. Afterward, she fetched him a container of blood and a bottle of bourbon from upstairs, sat with him and held the glasses to his mouth while he drank from them.

“You’d better get back to Buffy,” he said eventually. “She’s probably awake now, and you’ve got to keep those idiots from harassing the piss out of her.”

She nodded and stood up, walked to the ladder. But just before she reached it, she turned around to look at him.

“It was because of Buffy, wasn’t it?”

“What?” But he was just stalling; he already knew what the question would be. And he was right.

“Your hands. It’s because of Buffy.”

“Something like that.”

“But why would you—aren’t you happy? I mean…she’s back.”

She’s back...

“Don’t really know what I’m feeling right now, Bit.” He cleared his throat and looked away from her. “Go on. Best get on home now.”

She nodded, but didn’t move.

“Spike…”

“What?”

“There’s one more thing. Something I want to ask you.”

The hesitance in her voice instantly made him suspicious. “Yeah?”

“That dress…what Buffy was wearing when she came home last night…it didn’t look like something from another dimension.”

“Reckon not.”

“It looked like here. It looked really old fashioned, but it looked like here.” She paused, clearly waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she continued doggedly. “I thought that since you’re old—or, I mean, since you’ve been around a long time, maybe you could tell me…”

He swallowed and fixed his eyes on the wall. At first, it seemed he wasn’t going to answer her. Then, very softly: “Looked Victorian to me. Don’t know for sure—can’t exactly remember—but it looked—”

Like Elizabeth.

“—late Victorian.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“And there’s one more thing.”

“You said there was something you wanted to ask me before,” he said irritably. “Singular form.”

“I know. It’s kind of important, though.”

Heavy sigh from him. “Go on, then.”

“She—she’s wearing this bracelet, and she won’t take it off. It looks really expensive.”

She wouldn’t take it off; he could have cried at that.

Lying bitch—

Does she still want me—?

Oh, God, could she still want—

He dropped his head back against the wall, deliberately hurting himself in order to clear his thoughts so that he could talk. “Yeah…and…?”

“She’s got a mark on her chest…like a…like...” she faltered, clearly too embarrassed to go on. “Well, anyway, at first I thought that maybe she’d been…hurt or something. That someone had forced her to…”

“Anybody who tried to rape the Slayer would have his todger cut off and fed to him pretty quick,” he answered.

“I thought of that, too. And then later… when she was going to sleep…she wouldn’t let me take off that bracelet to clean it off. Do you think that maybe—”

“Maybe what?” His voice was harsh to cover up the extreme sense of vulnerability he felt. Dawn winced at his tone, but she finished her thought.

“Maybe she wasn’t so unhappy there. Maybe someone was really nice to her. Like, really nice.” Her voice choked then, as she added very softly, “Maybe she didn’t want to come home.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




With the first day of autumn just a little over two weeks away, Angel was more than ready for the end of summer. The hot weather seemed to have opened the floodgates for demonic activity, and ever since his return from Pylea, he had been working feverishly to try to stem the tide. The previous night had been no different, no less draining, than the ninety that came before it; and after he arrived home, he barely had the energy to eat before he collapsed, fully clothed, onto his bed.

That was where he was still lying, six hours later, when the telephone rang and woke him.

“Oh, damn,” he moaned into his pillow. “Damn, damn, double damn…I’m too old for this. It. Never. Frigging. Ends.”

Without sitting up, he reached his arm toward the nightstand and blindly groped for the telephone. In a voice still considerably muffled by the pillow, he said crossly, “If this is about AT&T, I really don’t want to hear it.”

“Angel?”

The voice—a woman’s—was so familiar that it seemed to reach across the distance separating them. A feeling so real it was almost like the caress a hand.

“Willow,” he said. “What—?”

“She’s back, Angel. Buffy’s back.”

Now, he did sit up. He was certain that if his heart could beat, it would be hammering his ribcage wide open.

“How did you—when did you—?”

“Last night.”

“Well, is she okay? Where was she?”

A brief silence.

“We…we don’t know where she’s been,” said Willow finally. “She hasn’t really been talking. She’s been…strange. Different, you know? Like something happened to her.”

“Did the spell go wrong when you brought her back?” Angel demanded quickly. “Did you do something wrong?”

Because if you did, if you hurt her, I will crack open your head.

“No, I didn’t do anything wrong,” Willow bit back. Her tone implied she had been through this argument before with someone else. “She just—wherever she was—it seems to have really affected her. And not really in the hugs-and-puppies way. You know?”

He knew.

“Well, what do you—what can I—?”

“You were the only one she really opened up to after her mom’s funeral. I mean, aside from Dawn. And even then…I mean, you know a thing or two about hell dimensions,” Her voice trembled slightly, and his keen ears could hear her shifting the phone from one side of her head to the other. “I thought that maybe you could…”

Angel bolted off the bed as if spurred by a sudden jolt of electricity. “I’ll come,” he said. “Right now. I’ll be there—”

His gaze shifted to the windows, to the strip of bright afternoon sun that sifted through the crack between the drapes.

“Tonight,” he amended in a voice that was husky with emotion. “I’ll be there tonight.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~