Chapter 3

The almost total loss of LA, while not a complete surprise—it seemed fitting somehow—still had them all in a daze. Illyria, of course was the only one among them who seemed rather pleased at the grim news. While she wasn’t able to wreak it, at least her vengeance had been done. She was rather put out, however, over the fact that the television had been commandeered so that they could all watch the reports on the half of the city that remained and was still burning.

Buffy drew Dawn aside, quietly trying to explain to her sister what had happened in L.A. and where she stumbled in her explanation, Spike filled in, providing a few choice details, earning himself alternating looks from the petite blonde, thankful glances or eyes silently threatening the well-being of his nose. Afterwards, Dawn clutched desperately at his arms as he’d held her once more; her tears quiet this time and while he murmured soothing words into her hair, Buffy dialed Headquarters in London. She smiled faintly as she got through to Giles, Spike hearing the Watcher’s wearied voice over the line, as well as the faintest sounds of a BBC reporter detailing the events on the US West Coast. He was thankful for his heightened sense of hearing as Buffy nodded her gratitude to him and rounded the corner to begin discussing a plan of action.

The girl in his arms snuffled and stirred, her lithe limbs unfolding from around his waist as she looked up at him with those violet-blue eyes that would undoubtedly be some poor sod’s undoing one day. He brushed at the salty tracks running down her face with the pads of both thumbs and offered her a soft smile even as he heard Giles prattle on about evil vampires working for evil law firms sticking their evil noses where they didn’t belong.

Illyria drifted into the kitchen. “A great deal of time has passed since Angel left with Gunn. Could there be news?”

“Dunno, Blue, I just figured he’d come back when he knew something.”

“I will find him.”

“The infirmary’s on the fourth floor.” Dawn offered, ducking her head when the former god narrowed her ice-colored eyes at her. Spike felt her tense, near to her as he was, and his arm tightened reassuringly around her shoulders.

Illyria surprised them both, though, by simply saying “Thank you” and walking from the room.

Spike heard Buffy end her conversation with Giles, and as she returned to the kitchen the phone rang in her hand. Willow was awake.

“Well, bit, sounds like you’re headed to London.”

Dawn heaved a sigh. “Great. More baby slayers and pompous watchers-in-training. Not to mention the end of the world—again.”

He cocked his head at her, a dark brow arching. “What happened to wanting some excitement?”

“That was before you described in full-blown Technicolor detail the seven million different demons we’re facing.”

“The Horde? Pfft! Come now, Bit.” And he flashed his trademark grin complete with a single upraised eyebrow. “There were only about 3 million of the ugly buggers and most of ‘em probably drowned in the Pacific. Who knows what’s coming next…”

“I gotta pack.” Dawn gulped out as she retreated from the room.

‘Balls. Add $5,000 more to that therapy bill.’ As soon as Dawn had left, Buffy came back in to hang up the phone.

“Where’s Dawn?”

“Packing.”

“Good. I’ve gotta do that too. Keep an eye on the news for me?”

“Sure thing.” He watched her walk away from him, listening as he heard a door close quietly somewhere in the flat before he raised his balled fists to his head and let out a noise half between a snarl and a sob.

He was fully certain that he couldn’t do this. He had been ready in that alley to face down death again, but now, after he’d seen her, spoken to her, smelled her again—he just couldn’t do it. Not with her, not again. They were headed to London, he would stay here. Or better yet, he’d hop a flight back to the States. Time it right, he’d never have to smell dawn, let alone worry ‘bout kissing it. Find his way back to the West Coast, maybe, pick off what was left of that demon horde. Had to be some of them bastards could swim.

He hated himself for it, but if she came to him this time with that damned amulet—he’d run screaming into sunlight before he went through that again. Before she looked him in the eyes and told him what he wanted most to hear just so he would go peacefully, lamb to the slaughter. He couldn’t be her lamb. He’d tried; lord knew how he’d tried to be man and beast, lion and lamb, all for her, whatever she needed. They had sinned plenty together, and he could never be a saint, but he did the best he could in those final days of Sunnyhell. He was fully well and buggered, had been since he saw her dancing in that strappy blue number. Every moment since then had only served to bring him closer to his second death. Until that death, of course. And now?

Now he couldn’t be so sure that it was all for her anymore. He wanted like hell for it to be, but she wasn’t his girl, had never really been his girl. When they were together, either he died or she died, or they were killing each other. So really, he should just step away, let her live her life, as had been the plan over a year ago.

So that was it.

Buffy sailed into the living room again and sat on the couch.

“Any change?”

“Nope. You know California, always did have a helluva time puttin‘ out fires.”

She smiled grimly in acknowledgement of the macabre joke, eyes still fixed on CNN. Thank god for Council-provided satellite TV.

“Buffy!” Dawn called from her bedroom. And she was up, moving swiftly and out of the room. Spike resumed his pacing and started the internal argument all over again.

“Now, mate, you were decided twenty seconds ago.” He was always decided, until she breezed past in search of her sneakers, or on her way to answer the phone, or if he caught her scent as he pummeled one of the couch cushions into submission or looked at the pictures on the mantle…then he had to convince himself all over again of what was best.

This went on for some time, until finally he didn’t have a chance to re-convince himself, because she came back in less than a minute, resumed her spot on the couch, pulled her knees up and tucked her feet under her bottom. And then, something wonderful: she patted the cushion next to her.

“Sit. The pacing makes me dizzy.”

He sat like an obedient dog, only there was no proffered treat. Just Buffy, tantalizingly warm and near, her scent wrapping around him like bonds of the softest silk—he was dangerously close to becoming lost in the scent of vanilla mixed with Buffy. He could reach out a hand to touch her if he wanted to; how he wanted to! His fingers actually tingled at the thought. He still wasn’t sure, after all, if this wasn’t some sort of hell dimension…

He watched as his arm extended, hand stretched towards hers where it rested on her thigh. He couldn’t stop, had to make contact, There! Her hand was warm and solid and soft.

And moving!

It shifted, she shifted it so that her palm was now facing up and her fingers slipped between his and closed over his knuckles. Buffy was holding his hand!

Spike was completely undone. He could imagine that, if he were alive at this moment, his blood might be rushing so loudly in his ears that he wouldn’t be able to hear the news anchor blathering on about destruction and fires and it being a possible terrorist attack. His heart might be clenching erratically as his temperature sky-rocketed. If he was alive, his body might be reacting exactly the same way he could tell Buffy’s was.

Bugger what was best. He’d follow her to hell and back just to hold her hand along the way, to know that once in a while he could still cause that sweet riot in her blood.

It looked like he was going to London, after all.

*********

It took Angel two hours to pry his fingers from around the twisted metal that had been the top of the chair frame. Then, he sat heavily in it, still unable to wrench his gaze from the images that were being played in a continuous loop by the BBC. Los Angeles burning, cars jamming the highways as thousands tried to escape, looting of the remaining shops, the dark shapes that occasionally blurred the screen ominously. Somewhere there, amidst the chaos greater than any riot the LAPD had ever dealt with, Nina was dead. Why hadn’t she left like he told her to do? She was dead and possibly her niece was and her sister, too, along with half the population of the greater Los Angeles area. Angel’s hands were drenched with the blood of the city he’d spent the last five years protecting.

“Angel.” The voice of the former god stirred him from his stupor. He turned to the blue being standing regally behind him. She was scrutinizing him, as usual, and for once he was grateful that it wasn’t Fred in that body anymore. If she were here now, looking at him after what he’d done, he couldn’t bear it. At least with Illyria he knew she wasn’t judging him for the atrocities he’d caused.

“You have caused much bloodshed today.”

Angel gaped at her. “What…there…you’re not supposed to care about that.”

She shrugged, the gesture causing her to resemble Fred more than ever before in her god form, and it cut him. “You cannot presume to tell me what I may have concern for.” She moved closer to him, her sharp gaze never leaving his face. “You feel…anguish.” Her head was cocked at an extreme angle, a move so singularly Illyria that it soothed his discomfort a minute amount. But then the meaning of her words hit him, and it worsened again.

“Yes.”

This answer seemed to satisfy her briefly. “And this anguish, it is great?”

“Illyria, I caused the deaths of thousands of people, including my girlfriend because I was trying…”

“And Wesley,” she interjected, her cool demeanor betraying no emotion.

“Wesley knew what he was getting into. I can’t be held responsible for something he chose to do.” He sighed, running a hand over his mouth and chin.

“He chose it at your behest.” Illyria’s hands began to clench at her sides.

“No, he chose it to serve the mission. Wesley hasn’t done anything at my behest in a very long time.” Angel’s lips twisted as he spat her words back at her. He was responsible for Wesley’s death, at least partly. But he’d be damned—again—if he let the ex-god freak make him feel even worse right now.

“I will not suffer this insolence! You will accept your culpability for his death, Angel,” she sneered back at him, advancing so that she encroached on his personal space. Had he been a lesser man, he might have cowered at the blind rage that showed in her steel blue eyes. “You must. I will not allow any other result. I have not the power that I once wielded. Yes, if I had, I could take up the temporal folds in one hand and annihilate Vail before Wesley even considered it. But I cannot do as I once could. I am left to these…these mortal feelings. I have a sense that I should have arrived sooner, that there was more to have been done on my part, that I share the blame. But this is illogical. Irrational. You requested this of him. You bear the responsibility. You must admit it, so that I no longer have to…to feel…”

Angel’s eyes sparked in recognition of what she was rambling about. “Survivor’s guilt. Illyria, you’re feeling survivor’s guilt.”

Her agitation seemed to calm as she considered what he told her. “That emotion has never existed for me before. Guilt is not suited to gods.”

“You’re not a god anymore.”

“A fact you never fail to remind me of.”

“Mr…Angel?” A man in scrubs asked timidly, obviously he had some foreknowledge of the two beings in the waiting area. “I was asked to give you news of your friend.”

“Gunn? How is he? Could you…” Angel was on his feet in an instant, and then towering over the man almost as quickly.

“Yes, yes.” The male nurse, used to dealing with far less imposing baby slayers, shut his eyes briefly in fear before he continued. “We were able to stabilize him enough for transport. Our facilities aren’t equipped to handle long-term care of a person with such issues as he has, so we’ve fueled up the Council jet. He’ll be in London in an hour, and the staff there is better suited to handle his case.”

“Ok. London, fine. But how is he?” Angel asked, fighting the urge to grip the nurse by the shoulders as he thought that might cause the obviously frightened man to faint.

As if he were able to read minds, the nurse took a step back before replying, “It’s as though he was pulled from the bottom of a fifty-car pile-up, Mr…Sir. I’ve never seen anyone with such extensive injuries.”

The hope that had suddenly buoyed Angel’s shoulders left and his posture sagged. “Well, thank you. We’ll follow him to London as soon as we can,” and he turned and strode hurriedly away.

*********

Buffy remembered the pleasantly unpleasant awkwardness of a budding relationship, having had a few herself. She remembered the sweaty palms and dry lips and the unstoppable running commentary in her head worrying about the state of her hair and her outfit and her breath. None of that compared to the exquisite torture that Spike, alive as she’d ever known him to be, inspired at the present moment, sitting next to her on the couch and holding her hand as they watched the news.

Then Angel walked through the front door.

When she thought about it later, on the plane to London, Buffy remembered the moment slowing down. An imaginary camera panned to where her hand was joined with Spike’s between them as she wrenched it from his grasp in super slow-motion. Then they filled the screen of her mind’s eye, both of them, the faces of her two vampires wearing nearly identical masks of hurt and confusion. It was almost funny to put them side-by-side and study them; Spike and Angel were much more alike than either one would ever care to admit. It made everything just that tiny bit more difficult than it already was. Because, in that moment, Buffy realized that, whatever the outcome of this battle, she would have to make her choice. For them. They deserved it, and she felt like she just might be ready. But now, on the plane, they all sat as far away from each other as possible.

Back in Rome, when Angel had returned to the apartment, she’d panicked, because this had all registered all at once, and she didn’t have an answer. Looking from one vampire to the other, she had absolutely no clue who to pick if they demanded it right then. Perhaps she could consider herself lucky, then, that Spike had leapt up off the couch when her hand had jerked from his and stormed into Dawn’s room and that Angel had simply averted his eyes and assumed broody-face as he moved to the opposite end of the room. She would, in fact, think she was lucky for avoiding the sort of mess that could have spilled over if either man had chosen to call her on her actions, if Illyria hadn’t swept in behind Angel and seen all that transpired.

*********