[A/N: Evidently, my muse responds to positive reinforcement. Who knew? Give it some love and shower it with affection and it rolls up its belly and purrs. Sheesh. So, my muse is at times a really big kitty. Other times it’s a biotch. My thanks to Tam, who always, always comes through for me, especially when I’m really down. I guess you could say she’s not just a beta, she’s a cheerleader also. I’m soooooo glad she’s mine. Quotes and title as attributed. . . And the disclaimers are still in full force and effect.] And yes, to those of you reading this all over again, I'm a complete dope and due to fever deliriums, I somehow managed to delete the whole story from BSV. So I lost everyone. . . all those lovely reviews you all left me, all the supportive words and . . . WAH!!! I'll try not to be so dopey and do it again. Am I forgiven?

Previously: Riley ran into Xander, who relayed that information to Wesley; Willow stopped in to see Wesley and give him more information; Connor’s offered to tutor Janice; Spike and Buffy are in a holding pattern, waiting for the night’s meeting with the Initiative. This picks up right after the last installment.

Book Three

Chapter Twelve Touchstones of our characters

Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.
Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

Character is like a tree and reputation like its shadow.
The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.
Abraham Lincoln, Lincoln’s Own Stories

A man’s character is his fate.
Heraclitus, On The Universe, fragment 121

Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness.
Yousuf Karsh, Parade 3 Dec 78

Weakness of character is the only defect which cannot be amended.
Francois de La Rochefoucauld

To measure the man, measure his heart.
Malcolm Stevenson Forbes





“We’ll be landing in a few hours, Mr. Travers. Everything is set for our arrival. Why don’t you try and get some rest?” Nicholson tried to be solicitous without sounding sycophantic. Every day it got harder and harder for him to feign obedience to Travers and some of the more pompous members of the Council. He’d been recruited out of Cambridge because of his studies – he’d majored in Ancient History and Archeology, hoping for a fellowship in either Egypt or India – and his grades had brought him to the attention of the Council. Nicholson had been top of his class, obtaining his doctorate in both disciplines easily.

There were a growing number of dissidents, mostly the younger Council members, and the core group were those like him who’d studied under Rupert Giles and Edward Robson. Both men had worked every job in the Council, from librarian to Watcher of an active Slayer, and both had been proponents of more enlightened practices. Nicholson had been present when Giles made his report on the last days of Buffy Summers, and had seen firsthand how distraught he’d been. Rumors swirling about headquarters hinted that their relationship had been more than just Watcher and Slayer, though having seen Giles, Nicholson seriously doubted anything of a romantic nature had ever occurred. His suppositions had proven correct with the older reports on Summers, her propensity for vampire involvement, and the video surveillance since her miraculous return from death.

Travers dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his eyes trained on the pages of a worn book. Without another word, Nicholson returned to his seat on the private jet, worry creasing his brow. He didn’t dare attempt any further contact, not with anyone. The close confines of the airplane didn’t provide much privacy and he hated being out of contact. There was too much to organize, too many people to coordinate and he tried hard not to chafe at the enforced inactivity. Mentally he ticked off the list in his head for at least the tenth time.

Have to notify Wyndham-Pryce and Giles. Need to set up safe area for contact with the Slayer. Have to call Leslie. Insist on meeting the vampire. The last bit was because he’d always believed Lydia was exaggerating and basing most of her thesis on rumors – not cold facts – especially in light of Rupert Giles testimony on his behalf. The Watcher he knew and trained under would not have argued so vehemently for the vampire’s continued existence unless there was more to him than the drivel some star-struck trainee had cobbled together from rumor and innuendo. Then again, it was entirely possible he had information Lydia had not been privy to all.

As a child, he’d been enormously interested in his family history, to the point of spending visits with his grandmother listening to her speak of her grandmother when no one else would. She’d passed on when he was just entering Cambridge and it had somehow fallen to him to go through her belongings. Tucked away in an old trunk up in the attic of her summer home, he’d found journals written by his great-great-great grandfather. He hadn’t known until then that his family had a rather notorious past; but from that moment on, he’d devoted much of his free time to researching the family. His three times grandfather, William Gull, had been Royal Physician and it had been his efforts that had saved the Prince of Wales during his bout of typhoid fever in 1871. In his later years, he’d also been accused of being Jack the Ripper, though Nicholson very sincerely doubted that particular theory.

However, he’d found a notation in one of Gull’s journals that hadn’t meant anything to him until after he’d been recruited by the Council. In 1880, just as the Ripper murders were occurring, the Marchioness of Camden lost her second son, who held the title of Viscount Bayham, since both his older brothers were dead, though the eldest had managed to produce an heir. He hadn’t died – at least his body had never been found – and his name had been William. Digging further, Nicholson had discovered he’d attended Cambridge and graduated, with highest honors, in 1873. The Dowager Marchioness had succumbed to her grief, and the consumption she was suffering from, dying weeks after her son’s disappearance. William had been her last surviving offspring and, despite her daughter-in-law’s care, burying so much of her family had finally sapped the old lady’s strength.

Nicholson didn’t dare breathe a word of his theory – not until he had a chance to prove it to himself. If Spike was who he thought he was, Lydia’s entire thesis would be debunked. And that would be worth almost as much as getting the Council into the twenty-first century.

Spencer Whitworth sat beside him, leaning in closely. She hissed at him with vehement softness, “Is there any possible way you could get this brat reassigned to someone else?”


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


“Did you just ask for cherries?” Spike stopped, his brain unwilling to process Buffy’s last request. She couldn’t have. . . .

“Ahuh. I did.” Her smile was bright, almost too chipper, then started humming.

It took him a minute, but the tune was easily recognizable, and not one that Buffy should even know. “Sweetness, where’d you hear that?”

Buffy tilted her head to the side, thinking heavily. “Just now, in the dream I was having.”

“You were dreaming?” He eyed her, wondering if they’d shared his dream somehow. “An’ what was it you were dreamin’ about?”

“It was raining, I think. Some old woman and Drusilla were having tea and you were sitting on a wall. It was pretty, all green despite the rain coming down, and then they started singing and my mom was there and it was all . . . Wait. That was a Slayer dream.” Buffy sat up abruptly, letting a soft cry escape when the babies in her belly protested the swift, awkward movement. “Owww.”

Spike was back at her side, helping her to her feet. The look on his face was a strange one, and Buffy stared at him for a minute, her eyes searching his for his reaction. “Spike? You’re wigging me. What’s wrong?”

“Think we had the same dream, kitten.” He looked away for a moment, shielding his expression a bit. “That old lady? Did she have her hair up in a bun, all silvery-white and wearing old fashioned dress, all lacy an’ what-not?”

Buffy thought hard for a moment, then nodded, knowing he’d continue.

“That was m’mum.”

She didn’t know how to react to that information. Buffy clutched at his forearms, then relaxed her hold. Her intent obvious, she moved to stand in front of him, so he couldn’t avoid looking at her. “She looked like a very nice lady.”

“She was.” Spike couldn’t look at her, knowing the truth of what he’d done would be written all over his face, the guilt he shouldn’t feel exposed for her assessing gaze. In all his long years, that one act had haunted him, chased and destroyed his peace. He hadn’t been changed all that much when Drusilla sired him. Why, then, had his mother changed? Why had she said and done those things?

Spike turned away from Buffy, uncharacteristically silent. She knew something was upsetting him and that whatever it was might not be something he was especially proud of – or even wanted to admit to.

“Spike? You know I love you.”

It was the only thing she could think of to say, the only thing that seemed to matter. Buffy had realized, sometime after being resurrected, that she wielded so much power over him, able to destroy or exalt him with her words alone. He lived and died by her approval – not in the literal sense – though she realized he based his actions on her reactions. He was her rock, always there to support, and his love was so unconditional, it sometimes brought tears to her eyes. Spike willingly went against his very nature for her, every day. The very least she could do was try and show him she loved him nearly as much.

He was turned away, tension lining the muscles in his back and shoulders, his fists clenched at his sides. Dark lashes were lowered, hiding his expression from her, yet Buffy could feel the tense sorrow he was trying so hard to shield. Her words had eased some of the tension radiating from him, though they’d alleviated none of the sorrow. Buffy moved slowly around to face him, her hand reaching for one of his.

Unsure of what to do when he didn’t resist her, Buffy held on, forcing his fingers to open. She traced a line down the scars the Cwn Annwn had left him, the marks faintly darker than his normal pallor. Inspiration struck and she laid his hand over her belly, letting him feel the riot going on under her skin. A small foot beat against his hand, making his fingers jump, and Spike finally dared to look at her. Tears pooled in the ocean blue, his face set in harsh lines as he tried hard not to let them fall.

“I do, you know. I just don’t always say it. I know what you are, Spike, and can guess at some of the things you’ve done. But I’m sure your mother loved you.” It wasn’t until she said it, that the truth began to dawn. Angel had once told her he’d killed his whole family after he’d been turned and there had been absolutely no remorse in his tone. Spike didn’t say a word, even so, she knew he believed he was guilty.

A choked sob barked from his throat and the next thing Buffy knew, she was wrapped tightly in his arms, her face tucked beneath his chin. Harsh whispers barely reached her ears, straining as she was to hear him. “Thought I was helpin’, I suppose. Thought she’d be without pain. Didn’t think she’d . . . I hadn’t changed much.”

His words alone told her what had happened, without him having to actually admit it. Buffy stayed still in his arms, the only movement she allowed herself was the soft brushing of her fingers over his back. She kept silent, knowing it would be easier for him if she just listened, not judging his actions.

“She was sick most of my life. Consumption – what you’d call tuberculosis. I was all she had left, ‘cept m’nephew an’ my brother’s widow. But they didn’t live with us. They lived on the country estate, where it was safe for a boy to grow up.” The frantic note in his voice died off, his accent smoothing out, reverting on the cadences he generally reserved for her alone. “Mum’s name was Anne.”

He shifted, his left hand splayed across the small of her back and his right clasping her shoulder. She was leaning into his body, letting his words wash over her. “Dawnie looks a bit like her, save for the bits she got from you. She kept me close, me an’ Janet. After Da an’ Gordie died, she couldn’t stand to have us away. Had the devil of time convincin’ her I should go off to Cambridge.”

Buffy looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “I always knew you were smarter than you pretended.”

“Vamps have no need for educations, love. Darla was proof enough of that. Left that part of me behind,” He glanced away, then back down at her. “Or thought I had.”

The tears in his voice were pooling in his eyes. Twice now he’d tried to continue, his emotions choking him with their intensity. She knew whatever he was attempting to share bothered him. He was rarely at a loss for words, rarer still for him not to be able to convey his emotions.

Abruptly letting her go, Spike paced toward the front door, his back to her. His shoulders were bowed, his usual smooth gait stiff and halting. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“Fancied myself something of a poet. Mum was the only one willing to listen and . . . I was a failure as a poet. Didn’t want to run the estates or anything else.” Spike raised his head, staring at a vision long in the past. “Dru found me at the worst possible moment. Jus’ been turned down by a heartless bint, told me I was beneath her.”

He laughed, the sound bitter and harsh. “Funny thing is, m’rank was a tad bit higher than hers, ‘cept she was aimin’ even higher. Bitch.”

At Buffy’s gasp, Spike turned, eyeing her over his shoulder. “Turned me that night.”

Buffy moved, taking a step closer, but he shook his head, keeping his distance. “Wanted to take care of my mother, and since I was stronger, healthier, I thought she’d be the same.”

“Only she wasn’t.” It wasn’t a question Buffy was asking and they both knew it.

“No. She wasn’t. Demon was. . . more like Angelus. Vicious, evil. She killed three of the staff before I could stop her.” Spike looked away, shame coloring his words.

“That’s not all, is it?”

“No.” The pain and guilt shadowed his eyes. “There are things, Slayer, even I won’t do. ‘M a bad, rude. . “

He didn’t get a chance to finish, because Buffy interrupted. “No, Spike, you aren’t. You aren’t a bad, rude man. You aren’t.” She grabbed his hands before he could brush her off. “A bad guy wouldn’t have taken care of my mom or Dawn. Or watched out for me. And he wouldn’t have wanted to take care of his own mom after he got vamped.”

When he moved to shrug her off a second time, Buffy held on, pulling him into her arms. “Angel told me he killed his whole family. The Watchers’ Diaries say he slaughtered his whole village. How many of your family did you kill?”

“Only one.” He closed his eyes at the admission, finally letting the tears fall.

“Only. One.” Buffy trapped him within her arms. “You tell me again how bad and evil you are.” She rested her head against his chest, over his non-beating heart. “Tell me I could do this,” she continued, placing one of his hands on her belly. “With Angelus.”

His hand flexed over her rounded belly, then wrenched free. At a near shout, he growled, “I killed my own mother!”

“To protect her. To make her better.” Buffy caught his gesturing hand, once more pulling him close. “Okay, so it wasn’t your smartest idea, but I get why you did it. Your intention wasn’t to hurt her.”

“The road to hell, Slayer, is paved that way.”

She stared up at him. “And it just proves to me that you’d do anything to protect someone you love.”

Her smile was crooked and there were tears in her eyes, but Spike couldn’t deny the love he saw shining in the vivid green depths. “Oh, kitten, I do love you.”

“You’d better, otherwise I’ll have to hurt you.” She thumped him gently. “And I’m so not doing this whole parenty thing alone.”

He laughed, releasing the tension. “Back at you, pet.”

Their bodies flowed together and she held him close, her words seeping into his skin. “I trust you, Spike. I do.”



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


Using his natural ability for organization, Lawson checked and rechecked the reports on the Initiative soldiers. As a Navy man, he had a natural antipathy for Army personnel, which just added to his demonic hatred for the soldiers who’d experimented on his kind because they deemed them something less than human. To him, that smacked of genocidal thinking. At the time Lawson hadn’t actually understood what the Germans had been planning, though he had learned. Everything he’d heard about the Initiative’s ideals convinced him they were ripped directly from the Nazi teachings. Reports from Germany just before he’d been turned were full of the atrocities occurring in the work camps; stories that had horrified and outraged. It had appalled him then and didn’t sit any better after he’d been turned. He had only a bare history of Spike’s experiences with the Initiative but he knew from others who’d survived the incarceration exactly what had occurred in those underground chambers.

The Initiative hadn’t cared what kind of demons they captured; whether they found peaceful demons or violent ones. It hadn’t mattered. Every demon in Sunnydale had been fair game to them, something that never would have happened if Mayor Wilkins had still been in control. Twenty members of the Fire Department had been captured, tortured, some of them the subject of vivisection, and of that twenty, only six had managed to escape when Spike had. Clem, too had been an Initiative captive, though the good-natured demon spoke very little of his experiences. And Spike was so tight-lipped about it, that Lawson doubted even Buffy knew the full extent of his suffering under the Initiative’s hands.

Sam knew some of the survivors also knew the families of those who didn’t escape. Saw every day the scars crisscrossing Kevin’s back and arms; listened to him when he needed to talk. Rogan and Imelda hadn’t been captured, but their father, Jerry, was one of the ones who hadn’t made it out. Less than two weeks after they’d been introduced, she and Sam were dating and within a month, he’d moved into her apartment.

Four months later, they were still going strong and Sam was like one of the family. He worked with Rogan, doing clean-up after human crime scenes, running their business out of a shop near the Magic Box. They did jobs all over, even traveling as far as Los Angeles. Business was good enough that they had three different crews working for them. And when Lawson wasn’t working with her brother, he was patrolling with Spike

At the moment, Imelda was behind him, reading over his shoulder, her attention caught between the reports he was looking over and on the conversation in the other room. Twice now, the phone had rung with more information on Riley Finn’s movements, while Rogan and some of the others followed Finn and the other officers throughout Sunnydale.

Clem had only been willing to identify him and the other officer as being not so bad – though he’d refused to say anything further – instead telling them only that he was going to head out of town until the soldiers all left.

Sam figured that was more than enough information for him. Though Spike hadn’t given the order, Lawson knew it was only a matter of time before the soldiers – Finn in particular – were eliminated.

Not two hours past, the additional bad news of the Council’s impending arrival broke. Any of the ‘peaceful’ demons able to move their families out of town were hastily making arrangements, while others, like the Brachens and Glai-Glia were making plans to stay and fight, if needs be. Rogan was coordinating those staying, while AnnaMarie and her husband, George, were working with the evacuees. Imelda knew Sam wasn’t leaving and since he was staying, so was she.

“Wait.” Imelda reached over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“Complaint filed by some woman over on Coraline Avenue.” Sam didn’t even look up at her, his eyes focused on one of the other reports.

“I see that, but what’s the complaint about?” Irritation colored her voice and Sam flipped over the paper.

“Says the guy across the street is stealing her electricity and beaming images into her brain.”

“Not something you can overlook in Sunnydale, you know.” His girlfriend grabbed the report, scanning it twice. “Sam. Look at this.” She pointed at the bottom of the report. “See?”

“What?”

“Look.” This time she pointed at the description. “Who does this remind you of?”

“Oh, shit. The hell with reminding me. That has to be him.” Lawson grabbed the report, then rifled through some of the papers strewn on the dining room table in front of him. “Spike needs to know this.”

“Yeah, he does.” Imelda grabbed a grainy surveillance photo of the short, dark-haired male. “We know where he is.”









I hope everyone's holidays were happy, healthy and everything you all wished for. Again, please accept my apologies for the time between updates, and rest assured, the next two chapters are already done, I'm just searching for quotes. . . . Enjoy!