[A/N: I’ve been swamped, literally, at work. Under the most bizarre circumstances one could imagine in a government legal arena, or at least for my nearly twenty years of experience in the field. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons why I’ve been so behind in posting. . . and I know I should’ve had more chapters in reserve, but I didn’t. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll all forgive me. As a peace offering, I bring this chapter. My thanks again, as always to my stellar beta, Tam. Without her there’d be a huge glut of typos and tiny little grammatical errors. She makes me better. Title and quotes are as attributed and the disclaimers prove I own nothing. Especially not a boat.]

Previously: Riley’s back in town, the Council is on it’s way and Willow’s uncovered some information she wants to share. Oz and Tara have some also, but they aren’t quite ready to spill those beans.

Book Three

Chapter Eight. Nothing stands between us here

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the seasons of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Algernon Charles Swinburne, Atalanta in Calydon, chorus, st. 4



Listen as the wind blows
from across the great divide,
Voices trapped in yearning,
memories trapped in time,
The night is my companion
and solitude my guide,
Would I spend forever here
and not be satisfied,
And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear
Through this world I've stumbled
so many times betrayed,
Trying to find an honest word,
to find the truth enslaved,
Oh you speak to me in riddles and
you speak to me in rhymes
My body aches to breathe your breath,
your words keep me alive,
And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear
Into this night I wander,
it's morning that I dread,
Another day of knowing of
the path I fear to tread,
Oh into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride,
Nothing stands between us here
and I won't be denied,
And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear...
Sarah McLachlan, Possession, Fumbling Toward Ecstasy, 1993





Staring down at the date didn’t make it any easier.

Nor did avoiding the earlier pages, the ones she hardly ever allowed herself to turn to – the ones with barely more than a few smeared and illegible words. Knowing they were there at the beginning of the journal didn’t help at all.

Time hadn’t quite begun to heal the wounds. Anguish and grief still flooded her veins, tears still flowed from her eyes and just the sound of his name was enough to put a fist around her heart.

She’d started out this journal so hopefully. Given to her by Giles for Christmas, the first two pages were filled with the spirit surrounding that holiday, which, despite being without Joyce’s presence, had been a good one. Knowing and acknowledging the truth of her origins, and knowing too, that a second miracle was going to take place had almost mitigated the fear of Angelus.

Page three was the one with a single word.

Just his name.

The ink was smeared and the letters were barely visible, water marks of her tears, mixed with faint traces of blood, obscuring the almost faded black letters. Here and there were fingerprints, ridges and lines showing where she’d gripped the book with an almost feral grief. A small tear along the bottom held the imprint of her teeth, though Dawn had no memory of gnawing on the sleek leather-bound journal.

The weeks following Casey’s death had been more than difficult. She hadn’t wanted to live, blaming herself for putting him in harm’s way. If she hadn’t been dating him, he would have been safe, protected from her secret life, ignorant and blissful, but alive.

Knowing the truth hadn’t made it any easier. Yes, her head knew Willow’s spell had placed them all in serious danger and Connor’s birth had ripped away Angel’s soul – neither of which she had any control over – but her heart didn’t believe she was innocent of Casey’s death.

From the moment she’d learned – not the whole truth, but the partial truth – that monks had created her and her entire past was nothing but fabricated memories rudely inserted into the minds of everyone around her, Dawn had suspected there might be something wrong about her. Then Joyce had gotten sick . . . And Glory, who’d all but confirmed what Dawn had been thinking. That somehow the monk’s actions had demanded some sort of payment or something. Because she existed, someone or something had to die.

And her continued existence demanded sacrifice.

First Joyce, the mother the monks had created for her.

Then Buffy, the mother the monks had created her from.

And last, Casey.

Felt like every couple of months someone important in her life died, someone she needed.

The pages after – the tearstained and ripped page containing only Casey’s name – those were filled with angry, hurting words, some of them heavily crossed out, only to be replaced with even harsher ones. Dawn had spared herself not once, giving herself no pity, no sympathy. She was the cause of all the misery. Because of her, Tara had been hurt, Buffy had died, and then, also because of her Willow had gone off the deep end and damn near destroyed them all. And even though her therapist tried to help – a wonderful witch recommended by Tara – nothing she said could shake Dawn’s belief that her existence was the root of all their deep problems.

Dawn was desperately afraid now, though. Afraid something would happen in the next couple of days and someone else she loved and needed would die. The constant refrain of please, not now, not this time, kept running through her brain, her thoughts touching upon it at every opportunity.

Half the time she didn’t know how to feel and the other half, her emotions were so raw and exposed, Dawn could barely catch a breath. The memories the monks had injected into everyone had screwed with everything, especially her own emotions. Perhaps it would’ve been smarter in the long run for them to have given them correct memories, instead of making everyone believe Joyce Summers had two daughters. She didn’t know, because despite having read all the journals twice, they contained nothing about why they had chosen that particular circumstance. Maybe they’d thought she would be safer as a teenager, instead of a smaller child, but she had no way of knowing it, since they hadn’t bothered to chronicle that particular instance. Or if they had, that journal no longer existed.

Believing, even for a short while, that Joyce Summers had been her mother had twisted her insides. While Dawn acknowledged that Buffy was her mother, sometimes it was very difficult to think of her that way. Every memory she had – except for the very recent ones – said differently. That Joyce and Hank Summers were her parents. Except Hank had never even really set eyes on her and he could care less, one way or the other. It was easier to believe and accept that Spike was her true father. He loved her unconditionally, never once letting her doubt the place she occupied in his heart.

It was the other, trying to wrap her head – and her heart – around the truth of Buffy being her mother that kept her reeling. At least it kept her mind off the other . . . . the ever present and real fear that something bad was going to happen.

That someone else might die.


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


Spike had watched, standing resolutely in front of the house, as Willow tearfully walked away. He felt no guilt for making the redhead cry, for telling her in no uncertain terms that there was no way he was letting her see Buffy tonight, or any other time, unless and until Buffy said otherwise.

He also had no qualms about sending her off without protection. Willow had made her choices, done all that damage with her conscience and soul intact and of her own free will. It wasn’t his duty to protect her. She knew the dangers of roaming the streets of Sunnydale at night. It was on her own head if she got caught by one of the nasty demons calling the place home.

Checking to make sure the tin soldiers who’d been following him were taking up surveillance positions on the house, Spike shook his head and went inside. Bloody idiots, listenin’ to Finn. . . .

Once inside the door, Spike dropped his duster on the big comfy chair in the living room and sat down, taking the remote away from Connor. “Should be in bed.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Connor didn’t shift his focus, reaching instead for the chips. “Can’t sleep.”

“Doubt you even tried.” Spike kept his thumb on the channel changer, flicking through the hundreds of cable television channels faster than a human could follow. Neither of them had a problem though, and it was only after Spike slowed down when Connor showed an interest in what was on. “Spike, leave that.”

A low chuckle and then, “I’m not leavin’ that on. Don’t think Buffy’d like it much.”

“Well, she’s not watching it is she? It’s just you and me and I’m not gonna tell anyone.” Connor reached across, trying to wrestle the remote from Spike’s firm grip. “C’mon, lemme watch.”

“Pup, you should just go out an’ get a woman.” Spike’s chuckles gained intensity as Connor heard something interesting emerge from the screen and whipped his head around to watch. “This is shite anyway.”

“Who cares? Doesn’t have to be Shakespeare, ya know.” Connor leaned forward, his eyes glued to the television. “No one cares if they can act. And I’ve seen you watching it.”

“So? ‘S not like ‘m not old enough.” Spike watched for a moment, snickering and snorting at the position and the fake moans. “Bloody awful.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

A few more moans and accompanying grunts had Spike rolling his eyes. “Pup, go t’ your own room an’ watch this drivel. ‘M going up to bed.”

Connor looked up as Spike got up from the couch. “Why do I have to go?”

“Coz I don’t think either of the girls would appreciate you hangin’ about in the sitting room with your prick in hand.” Spike motioned to the lights, then locked the door. “Go’n now.”

He waited at the foot of the stairs while Connor reluctantly got to his feet. “I’m going, see?”

“Con, don’t gimme any shite. You know the girls, ‘specially Buffy, would have your head.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked up at Spike standing on the stairs, a roguish smile playing about his lips. “Gonna go upstairs and wake her up?”

Another deep chuckle barked from Spike and his answering grin was more a leer. “As if you had any doubts.”

“Just keep it down so the neighbors don’t complain again.” Connor scampered out of the way before Spike could thump him.

Shaking his head with laughter, Spike dropped down the two steps to flick off the lights, then took the stairs two at a time.

He was still laughing when he hit the door to their bedroom. Buffy was curled on her side, the body pillow Grace had recommended tucked under her with her head on his pillow. As he watched her, she shifted, her eyes slowly opening.

“Hey.”

Spike moved toward the bed, his eyes sweeping over her. “Did you sleep?”

“Some. It’s hard when you aren’t here. I can’t get comfy enough.”

A raised eyebrow greeted her statement and he once more swept his eyes over her. “Look right comfy from here.”

“It’s all an act. See? This comfy pillow isn’t cool enough for me and it doesn’t hold me back.” She rolled over slowly and struggled to sit up. “That’s the best part.”

His hands were there before she could finish moving, lifting her easily so she could sit up. “Is that so?”

“Yup.” Buffy reached out to grab his hand before he could move away. “You’re staying now?”

Giving her fingers a squeeze, Spike sat down on the bed, his back to her. His voice was muffled a bit as he leaned over to unlace his boots, but Buffy heard him clearly. “Am. It’s gone one, kitten. An’ there’s nothin’ on the telly.”

He didn’t need to turn around to see the pout forming on her lips. “So you’re only here because there’s nothing good on the television?”

“No, kitten. ‘M here because there’s no where on earth ‘d rather be.” Spike glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Buffy leaning toward him, her fingers reaching out to play with the hem of his tee-shirt. They were warm, brushing over the hollow of his back, tracing the line of his spine up, then down, dipping below his belt. Electricity seemed to flow between them, his eyes finding hers in the soft glow of a small, single lamp.

“Nowhere else?” His boots thumped to the floor, punctuating her question.

Angling his body to face her, Spike let a slow grin cross his features. “If you think there’s someplace else ‘d rather be, you’ve got ‘nother think comin’, pet.”

The hand she wasn’t leaning on trailed across his lower abdomen, teasing around and around his belly button. He brushed a few lazy, slow kisses up her arm, nipping briefly at her shoulder. “Need to shower, kitten.”

“No you don’t. You’re fine.” She leaned closer, playfully sniffing along his collarbone and across his torso. “You smell okay. Better than okay.”

“Yeah? Not too cold for you?”

It wasn’t usually something they talked about, or that she’d ever even mentioned, but understanding dawned. Spike usually showered at night, just before getting into bed and now she finally understood why. Buffy tilted her head, looking up at him from lowered lashes. “God, no. Is that why you don’t come to bed until after you’ve showered?”

Spike slid down, until she was nearly lying on his chest, his fingers sliding easily over her soft skin. “Thought you’d appreciate it, me being a bit more than room temp.”

Buffy snuggled close, letting her whole body relax into his. “Whenever Riley and I used to . . . “ She felt Spike tense briefly, so she quickly rushed through the next part of what she was saying, “I always ended up moving away from him, pushing the covers off. I wasn’t really comfortable sleeping with him.”

He was quiet for longer than she would have expected and when he spoke, it was almost as if he hadn’t heard her. “So me bein’ a bit cool doesn’t bother you, then.”

“Spike?” She started to sit up, but his strong hands held her down, gently yet firmly.

“Heard you. Di’n’t think you needed me to . . . “ He paused for a moment, obviously gathering his thoughts. “Knew the soldier boy wasn’t entirely right for you. Knew no regular joe would be. Too much strength in you. Seen a fair amount of slayers in my life, knew the moment I saw you that you were special, different. You need someone a bit more than jus’ normal.”

She waited, having learned in the almost year they’d been together when he was being serious and when he wasn’t. Spike was very serious now. “In all my time huntin’ Chosen Ones, ‘ve learned a bit about them. Uncommon birds, the whole lot, but every once in a while, one comes along tha’s just a bit more than the others. Bit stronger, bolder, better. Closer to the core, the essence of what a Slayer really is. Those are the ones gave me the most trouble, an’ a couple even had – There was this one Slayer in Barcelona, ‘round the time of the Spanish Civil War, was, well, she was like you. Strong, smart, an’ bloody difficult to fight. Went a few rounds, only to find out she was makin’ time with another vamp – one of the Corvos line.”

He lapsed into silence, letting his fingers run through the strands of her hair. “And? What happened?”

“Couldn’t kill her, so me an’ Dru headed up toward France. Were in Paris when it fell to the Nazis.”

“No, I mean what happened to her?” Buffy drummed her fingers on his taut stomach, almost digging in when he didn’t answer her right away.

“Ow.” He captured her fingers in his free hand, holding them away from him. “Heard she got killed in the fightin’, not sure what happened to her vamp.”

“That’s sad.” Buffy tried wiping her eyes before Spike realized she had teared up, but he brushed away her hand and did it for her. “So I guess we aren’t so special then, huh?”

“Wouldn’t go that far, kitten. ‘S not every day a vampire with a reputation for fightin’ Slayers meets up with a Slayer strong enough to beat a Hellgod.” One of the babies kicked, a tiny foot tapping insistently through Buffy’s skin to thump into his. “Look at us, kitten. Neither one of us should be here. By rights, I should’ve been dead more than once an’ you. . . Well, you’re a bloody miracle, you are.”

The tapping continued, and Spike nudged back. When the tapping increased, he did it again, chuckling the whole time. He knew Buffy was crying, but didn’t really know what to say to soothe her. Lately, almost anything seemed to set her off, and it was getting harder and harder to cajole her out of the mood swings. When it was just tears, he’d learned to hold her, keeping his thoughts to himself – one busted lip and a pair of bruised ribs had cured him of that quickly.

Her sniffles were tapering off, though he was suddenly too busy to remark on it, because the tapping had become something of a game. Spike eased out from beneath her, his head resting lightly against her belly, his fingers beating a tattoo on her skin. An unconscious, low humming started in his throat and it took Buffy more than a few minutes to figure out what he was humming. Once she had narrowed it down, she couldn’t stop the giggles.

“Spike?”

“Hhmmm?” He didn’t look up from where he was, instead he just lifted her sleep shirt, laying his cheek against her belly.

“What are you doing?” Buffy ran her fingers through his hair.

“Talkin’ to the nippers.”

“Is that what you call it? Sounds more like you’re trying to sing to them.”

He kissed her belly, sighing when the tapping finally ended. “Party’s over, I guess.”

His fingers traced imaginary lines up and over her belly, able to feel where each baby nestled inside her. Grace and Kait, along with Doctor Thomas, assured them there was enough room inside Buffy for both babies, but every time Spike looked at her, he couldn’t imagine how. She was still so tiny, except for the bulge that housed their twins. Her breasts had gotten just a little bigger, and her hips had filled out some, but for the most part Buffy was still small. Despite the big belly, or maybe because of it – Spike wasn’t entirely sure which – he had this insatiable urge to touch her. He couldn’t keep his hands, or fingers or any part of himself from constantly touching her. And every part of her was fair game, at any given time.

Leaving a trail of kisses across her belly and then down toward her hip, Spike got up from the bed, stripping out of his clothes. Tossing them haphazardly all over, he padded naked about the room, looking for the small tealights they habitually left burning at night. He could feel her eyes on him while he found what he was looking for, enjoying the reaction she was giving him. The increased heartrate and the shallowness of her inhalations skittered through his skin, pitching his arousal higher. His hands itched with the need to touch her, to run his fingers over the softness of her skin, tracing the lines of her veins, feel her heart pounding from his touch.

The longer he held out, the more he needed to be near her, his body reacting, his arousal pointing in her direction. Finally, the harsh electric light was out, only the dim illumination provided by the candles bathing her in soft tones. Spike stood at the end of their bed, watching her watch him. His hand curved around his erection, idly stroking from base to tip. Buffy rested on her side, the body pillow supporting her, her eyes focused on the movement of his hand.

She shifted, one leg curling over the pillow, and Spike caught himself salivating at the glimpse of thigh and ass she teased him with. A low growl of her name sounded from his lips and she did it again, giving him a clear view of her rear. He was in bed beside her in an instant, one hand sliding between her thighs, his hips nestled behind her. Without any warning two fingers thrust into her pussy, pumping her steadily. “Gonna do this slow, kitten, take you hard.”

A gasping “Oohhh” was all the answer he got until she could breathe again. His name was a low whine while her body tried to get closer.

“Don’t move, kitten, lemme do all the work.” Sliding his fingers out of her pussy, he angled her backward a bit, letting his hand take the weight of her thigh. His cock was slipping over her folds, bumping into her clit from behind, and he could feel the clenching and contracting of her muscles, mini orgasms rippling through her. The fleeting realization that her state of perpetual readiness now was behind the reason why he couldn’t keep his hands off her raced through his mind and then he couldn’t think anymore.

She was tight and slick and . . . Spike ground into her grasping pussy from behind, nothing separating them. Buffy’s muscles clenched around him, fist tight and softer, silkier, and her faint grunting mewls drove him harder into her, his hips barely moving against her. Buffy grabbed his hip, her fingers digging into him awkwardly. Spike nuzzled the back of her neck, breathing heavily through his nose, knowing the effect that had on Buffy’s nerves.

Her entire body started tremoring, muscles rippling and writhing as he steadily pumped into her. She was close, he could tell. Spike slowed down, savoring the sound of her whimpered protest, the scent of frustrated arousal playing havoc with his own senses. He bit down on her shoulder, holding her still as he thrust harder and deeper, his body almost pinning her to the bed.

Buffy’s nails dragged deeply across his hip, drawing blood in their wake and Spike growled fiercely into her neck. His teeth tightened around her skin, biting down harder, warning her without words not to move. Teasing her with shallower thrusts, Spike growled again, then whispered harshly into her ear. “What do you want, baby?”

She barely breathed out an answer, her voice high and breathy. Spike slid in deeper, then teased at her entrance. “Who, kitten?”

When she answered this time with a whine, Spike stilled his hips completely. “Say it, baby, tell me.” She couldn’t catch a breath to answer him, couldn’t breathe. Her fingers clutched at him, scratching over his skin. His voice got deeper, raspier as he demanded a response from her. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Oh, God. You. Yours, yours, Spike.” The answer bubbled up from her, her body convulsing on the last word as he thrust hard, holding her down. Buffy shrieked out his name again, her inner muscles clamping around him as she rode out her orgasm. Spike dug his fingers into her inner thigh, barely holding off his own orgasm. He lost the battle though, when Buffy whispered, “I’m so yours.”

He collapsed against her, his head resting just beneath hers. She was trembling, little quakes shaking through her body and he could smell the salt of her sweat and tears. Spike eased the hold he had on her thigh, letting it rest over his. He realized his hands were shaking when he tried to gather her close, holding her in the aftermath. Buffy burrowed into his arms, her hand reaching for his, drawing it over her side.

Spike tried to speak, opening his mouth more than once to say something, anything, but no words formed in his head. He released the breath he was holding, shifting himself until Buffy was laying beside him. Once more he tried to speak, but she looked up at him, her eyes capturing his and all he could do was stare back. She didn’t need words, knew without him saying anything how he felt, knew, too, that he could read her feelings clearly. Buffy snuggled into his arms, her head resting on his chest. Spike held her close, letting her drift off to sleep.


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


The fully loaded private plane waited on the tarmac, just like it had for the last two hours. Both the pilot and co-pilot were conferring with the ground crew chief, who was gesturing animatedly toward the right engine. Three large Range Rovers and a couple of smaller, sleeker vehicles were parked on the edge of the runway, their passengers by turns riveted or bored by the drama taking place outside.

Quentin Travers was too far away to hear the conversation, but just by body language alone, it was clear he wasn’t going to like the outcome. “Nicholson? Go find out how long this delay is going to last.”

“Yes, sir.” Without a backward glance, Nicholson exited the vehicle and headed over to the trio standing just beneath the plane’s wing. “Gentlemen? Mr. Travers would like to know how long this delay will be.”

The pilot, a Scot by birth, raised his eyebrow and smirked, while remarking to the other two. “Travers wants to know, eh?”

Nicholson hid his grin. “He does.”

“Well then, laddie, you just go toddle off and tell his lordship that you’ll no’ be takin’ off for at least another two or three hours.” The crew chief, another Scot, spoke, adding, “Though if you need for more time, we can arrange that.”

Ducking his head and shifting his body so that those in the vehicles couldn’t get a glimpse of his features, Nicholson spoke softly and quickly. “Haven’t gotten the signal from my contact yet, so we’ll need at least that much time. Four hours or more would be better. In fact,” he glanced upward, gesturing toward the engine, “As much time as you can give me would be better.”

“Right then.” Sharing a look, the three communicated without words. The crew chief finally conceded, “I can give you five hours, but any more than that and the old man will be suspicious. Lucky for you this plane has been a bit twitchy since we bought it.”

“Five hours is fine. Thanks, gents.” Nicholson sprinted back to the lead Rover, schooling his features to grim lines. C’mon, Leslie, get a move on it. Need to know if Giles has been warned of our arrival. . .





Thanks to everyone who left me a lovely review last time! You are all the best -- and the reason I keep writing. . . I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as the last!