“I just don’t think I can do it” Buffy’s tearful voice almost broke his heart, in an instant he forgot that he was angry with her, forgot that she had humiliated and belittled him in front of everybody.

“Course you can pet” he reassured her gently, “I’m not sayin’ it’ll be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you” he placed a tentative hand on her knee offering comfort and support. She brought her eyes to meet his, deep blue and soulful, it was a ridiculous notion, of course, but she could swear his eyes where a different shade since he came back from Africa, a deep cerulean warmth replacing the glinting shards of pale ice.

She leant her head on his shoulder with a sigh, “I’m sorry” she murmured “about earlier, I just…” she trailed off, unable to find the words to express how scared she was, how lost and desperate she felt, how alone.

“’T’s okay pet” he whispered, barely resisting the urge to kiss the top of her head, “I guess most of us deserved it”

Another shuddering sigh and they both settled into silence, together on the back porch like so many times before, looking out into the deceptively peaceful night.
…………….

“We’re getting nowhere” Willow grumbled in frustration, “seriously nowhere, not even round in circles on back the way we came, just nowhere.”

Xander and Dawn looked up from their dusty tomes, to see the redhead push her laptop away with a disgusted snort. “We know nothing.” She stated almost angrily, turning to face the others, “Buffy is relying on us and we have nothing”

“Calm down Wills” Xander tried to placate her, his hands coming up in a calming gesture. “We’ll find something.” He paused giving her a half smile, “we always do”

“I know” the redhead conceded wearily, “its just after what Buffy said yesterday.” She ran a hand over her face, “she’s right you know, she can’t carry us, we have to help”

“We are helping” Dawn stated petulantly, “we’re doing our best, she doesn’t have to be such a bit…”

“Dawn” Willow admonished the teenager.

“Well she doesn’t” with that the teenager was flouncing out of the room.


…………………

“Giles” Dawn greeted excitedly as she opened the door, “Buffy” she screeched as she gestured for him to come in, “Giles is back”

“Giles” Buffy gave her watcher a tired smile as she met them in the hall, “got anything?” straight to business, no time for niceties, she had to know if her watcher had managed to salvage anything from the once encyclopaedic archives of the council.

“Not a great deal I’m afraid,” he told her regretfully, placing a large, heavy looking bag on the floor at his feet, “most of the library was destroyed, I only managed to find a handful of books on The First.” He gestured vaguely at the bag, “maybe they will be of some help, I haven’t had a chance to study them as yet.”

“Well then, lets get on it” Buffy picked up the bag effortlessly and deposited it on the dining room table. “Dawn, find Willow and Kennedy, Xander too, we need to get started on this right away”

Dawn narrowed her eyes at her sister’s harsh authoritative tone, but didn’t comment, just turned and walked up the stairs tossing her hair over her shoulder as she went.

“Spike and I’ll patrol with some of the girls,” Buffy said turning back to her watcher, “We have a fairly strong group now”

“Ah” Giles looked thoughtful for a moment, maybe even a little nervous, when he spoke Buffy realised why, their favourite topic; Spike, to trust or not to trust. “Do you think it’s wise that Spike patrol with the girls?” he asked her, eyes serious and questioning.

“Giles” she replied, exasperation colouring her voice, “we have had this conversation, Spike is part of the team, a very important part of the team. We need him”

“The First still has power over him Buffy” Giles began, moving over well-trodden earth, “in spite of himself, he cannot be trusted around the girls” he paused concern etched on his suddenly tired looking face “or around you”

“Let me worry about Spike okay?” Buffy stepped away from her watcher, putting space between them, “you just worry about getting some info on The First” she turned her back striding towards the basement door, ending the conversation. After a few steps she turned and offered him a wan conciliatory smile, “It’s good to have you back” she told him sincerely before disappearing into the basement.

………………………..

Even between the two of them the Turok-Han had taken a lot of killing. Buffy looked at Spike, he was panting, his breath coming in short unnecessary gasps, one hand stifling the bleeding in his shoulder, the other hanging limply at his side.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes travelling over her body, distant, almost professional, looking for damage. Inexplicably she found herself almost missing the times when his challenging gaze would have raked suggestively over her body. He would have offered to check her over with a lascivious leer and smirked when she got angry, or horny, or both.

“I’m fine,” she told him, more concerned about his badly wounded shoulder than her own minor bumps and bruises. “Let’s get back” she turned to the watching potentials, whom she had order to stay back while she and Spike dealt with the Neanderthal vampire. “Come on” she barked, moving to Spike’s side, he brushed off her attempts to help him, swaggering away from the group, his stride long and swinging, despite his obvious pain.

She sighed; she regretted what she said to him, she really did. Regretted that her own fears had made her lash out at him. Just like old time’s she thought ruefully. Although she was sure she had rarely done as much damage with her fists as she had with her tongue last night. The old Spike could take it, all the beatings, all the abuse, he could take it, but souled Spike? She sighed again as she followed him out of the graveyard, the potentials on her heels talking excitedly about the fight. Spike stumbled ahead of her and she rushed to his side, he pushed her away roughly and quickened his pace.

“Spike” she pleaded trotting to catch up with him, “you’re hurt, let me help you.”

“I’m fine slayer,” he told her in a poor imitation of his soulless persona’s disdainful drawl, “don’t worry your pretty little head about me”

She frowned at his retreating back for a moment before plodding after him. It wasn’t a bad act, she had to admit that, anyone other than her would probably be fooled. Fooled by the cocky swagger and sardonic comments, fooled by the long black coat and feigned relish of the fight with the Turok-Han. But it was her, and it was Spike and she wasn’t fooled at all. She knew why he did it of course, put on his carefully crafted act, because she had asked, no demanded it. Demanded that he embrace the demon he had crossed hell and earth to repress for her sake. Demanded he pick up the sword and fight in her bloody war when his gentle poet’s soul craved only peace.

With a quick shake of her head she banished her maudlin thoughts. There was nothing she could do. She had no choice but conscript the darker side of her ex-lover she had a war to fight, and precious few soldiers to fight it with

…………………….

It had been Xander’s idea, sweet reliable Xander, to take the girls to the water park for the day. Leaving the core of the Scooby gang back at Revello drive with their books and some much-needed peace and quiet. He had left early, leading the excited girls down to the bus station. Buffy had listened to their happy chatter as they got ready to go, and had thought perhaps the excursion would do their morale some good. Not that morale was any kind of weapon against the army of Turok-Han the shadow men had showed her, but still it couldn’t hurt.

Willow placed a cup of steaming coffee next to her and she smiled her appreciation at the witch. She looked around, Giles hadn’t had many books, just one each for her, Spike, Anya, Dawn and himself to trawl through, while Willow fruitlessly searched the internet on her laptop.

“Ooh” Anya cheerful voice grated on her nerves but she looked up anyway, perhaps the ex-vengeance demon had something this time. “I think I have something”

“Yeah” Spikes drawled sarcastically, “like last time when you where so certain The First could be defeated with celery”

Buffy felt her lips twitch in response, and glanced at the vampire where he lounged in his chair, on leg thrown carelessly over the arm, a large book open against it. She caught his eye and he looked away, just like he always did these days. She frowned and turned her attention back to a grumbling Anya. “Well?” she prompted.

“That was just a mistranslation” she told the vampire haughtily before giving Buffy a reproachful look “It’s called ‘The Scythe’” she told them, turning her book on the table so that Giles could study the open page. “It seems to be all tangled up with Slayer lore and power. I just thought maybe it could help” she gave Spike a nasty glare “But obviously I was wrong”

“No Anya” Giles broke in peaceably “I think you may have something, Willow see if you can find anything on the ‘Temple of Areathan’”

Willow nodded and turned to her computer while Giles read aloud from the text “’It is not for you, it is for her alone to wield’ it seems to be an ancient weapon of the Slayer, lost for many centuries.” He pauses, lifting his glasses and squinting at the aged writing “Housed now in the ‘Temple of Areathan’”

“I have it” Willow exclaimed excitedly, eyes riveted to her computer screen, “Oh, oh dear”


..........

A/N
I Like reviews, I write fast when I get them, I'm slutty that way, so if you like, tell Thebear or she'll get all growly

A/N I have just aquired the beta reading services of April 'The Grammer Nazi' who even understands semicolons. So huge thanks to her for helping me out, BearVerse Buffy can also thank her for suggesting I tone down the blondness a tad. xxxx

“Oh dear?” Buffy asked nervously. “That’s not good, right?”

Willow ignored the Slayer’s comment, reading avidly from the screen, her pretty faced screwed up into a troubled frown.

“Willow?” Giles prompted after several moments.

“Oh!” The redhead jumped as if startled by the presence of others in the room. “The Scythe is in the temple, but the temple is sealed,” she told them, eyes flicking back and forth between the questioning looks of her friends and the disturbing images on her computer screen.

“Sealed?” Buffy asked. “Sealed how?”

“Mystically,” the witch answered distractedly.

“Surprise, surprise,” Spike drawled as he placed his book on the table and sat up. “So I guess we can’t just break in then?”

“Er, no,” Willow agreed. “Not even magically. If we want into the temple, we have to pay the toll.”

“The toll?” Anya asked impatiently. “Well, what is it? What does it want?”

“I’m guessing it won’t take a shinny new penny, hey Red?” Spike asked. Walking round to look over her shoulder, he grimaced slightly at the images on the screen.

“So, what?” Buffy asked, feeling her impatience rise. “Blood?”

They looked startled as they focused their collective attention on her, as if surprised by her perception. “It’s always the blood, right?” She looked at him and for once he held her eyes, his own filled with a strange regret as he shook his head slowly.

“Not this time,” Willow corrected, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen. “It wants a human sacrifice, yes, but not for blood. It wants a soul.”

…………………………

"I don't get it. Why can't we just bust in there, dice up the guards, break down the door, cast a few spells, we’re good at that?" Buffy’s frustrated voice made the others roll their eyes. She flopped down in her chair with a loud huff and looked at Spike pleadingly. “I don’t get it,” she whined again, pouting slightly. All right, so she’d zoned out once or twice when Willow had explained, but who could blame her, she loved the girl, but whew, talk about long winded.

He gave her a half smile. She was adorable—really, truly adorable—and she was looking to him in her frustration. Not Red, not the Watcher, him.

“It’s like this,” he said, squatting in front of her, trying to break the witch's complex description of transdimensional mystical and physical equilibrium into plain English for the bemused Slayer. “If you owned something valuable, you'd put it in a safe, right?”

She nodded slowly, watching his eyes. “Right” she agreed firmly.

“But a safe can be cracked. Enough time and patience and any safe can be cracked. So whoever wanted to keep this Scythe safe didn’t just put it in a safe, they put the safe in another dimension so that no one could ever crack it.” He paused, studying her eyes to make sure she was following.

“So,” he continued, “if you want to cross over into the other dimension, you have to pay the toll.” He didn’t want to reminder her it was a human soul. “Nothing for free, right?”

“Right, and the toll is a soul. But why the torture? Why not just make the sacrifice? It’d get its soul then, wouldn’t it?” She frowned a little, mentally pushing aside the surprisingly graphic drawings she had seen on Willow’s screen depicting the unspeakable agony of the sacrifice.

“Because the price has to be paid willingly,” Willow said, taking up the explanation. “The priests torture the victim until they beg for death, then the soul goes willingly.”

“Goes where?” Dawn asked curiously.

Spike glanced nervously at the witch before turning back to look into the Slayer's beautiful face. “Hell.”

………………………………

It hadn’t even been discussed further. Buffy had sighed, muttered that, “the Scythe's out then. Back to the books,” and the topic had been closed. Forgotten and abandoned by one and all. Well, nearly all.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The low, lazy drawl startled the Watcher from his musings and he turned to face the vampire.

“Do you?” he asked guardedly. “And what might that be?”

Spike ignored the hostility in the old man’s tone; he was looking out for Buffy, after all, and that was something the vampire could never condemn.

“You’re thinking,” he kept his voice neutral as he answered, “that we got nothing else.” He tucked his thumbs in his belt loops and advanced on the Watcher. “You’re thinking that without the Scythe, Buffy’s gonna lose, the First’s gonna win and then it’s 'hello, hell on earth.'” He paused again, tilting his head slightly to one side. “You’re thinking maybe we should pay the price.”

For a moment Giles thought to deny it, to tell the vampire he was wrong and end this insane discussion. But Spike wasn’t wrong. He had killed Ben for the good of Buffy and the world; he knew he would kill again, if he had to.

“We both know you did that ponce of a doctor in,” the vampire continued, as if reading his thoughts. “The others never twigged, but I know a thing or two about killing and I knew right away. You killed him, all cold blooded and what all.”

It wasn’t an accusation; his voice held no hint of reproach. It was merely a statement of fact. Still, Giles felt compelled to justify his actions. “I had to,” he told the vampire defensively. “Glory could have come back if I hadn’t.”

Spike simply nodded. “But this is different, Watcher, and you know it.”

“I know, but what choice do we have?” So very different. To take a life was one thing, to knowingly condemn a soul to an eternity of torment was quite another. Oh yes, this was very different.

The silence was long and heavy, as if the very air anticipated the words that would disturb it. It was Spike who spoke, and his simple offer surprised the Watcher more than it should have.

“I’ll do it,” he sighed and looked heavenwards. “There's plenty of blood on my hands already; what’s a little more?”

“Spike—” Giles began to protest, but he was cut off.

“I’ll find someone who’s already bought their ticket,” he told the Watcher. “A murderer or a rapist—” He seemed to choke on the word. “Someone who’s got it coming.”

“Spike.” Giles did protest now. He didn’t like or trust the vampire, but to expose his already remorseful soul to such an iniquitous task would surely destroy him. “You can’t do this alone. Perhaps, together—”

“No!” Spike stopped him, his voice too loud in the quiet night air. “No,” he repeated more softly, but no less vehemently, “You ain’t got it in you, Watcher: the torture, the blood—you couldn’t go through with it. Me, well, it won’t be nothing I ain’t done before.”

Giles dropped his head, further protests dying on his lips. Spike was right. For all his current resolve, the reality of the act would surely be beyond him.

“Let me take care of it.” The vampire’s voice was low and soft, almost pleading. “Let me do this.”

“Very well, Spike.” Giles sighed heavily, shaking his head in defeat. “Very well.”


A/N (again) Welcome back to my Spuffy tinted world, thanks to the 42 of you who clicked in and gave the story a chance.

More thanks to the 2 who bothered to review, I'm not telling the others off, just saying, ;-)

Cali - Hello, was hoping to see you here again glad you like the start and wish i coulda seen your little dance. Grrrrrrr Growls loudly and playfully, feeling like she's had her tummy scratched

Hel-lo Lara, you fiesty thing you! (Turns off sleazy drawl and continues in her normal voice) So touched you rate What you wanted so highly I shall write as fasts as my stubby little fingers will allow, hope I can please you with this one too.

xxxx for all

A/N As always thanks to April for being such a great help with the grammer.
...........


“We need a plan.” Buffy’s statement was greeted by blank looks. “A plan,” she told them again. “We have to think of some way to attack The First; we can’t just sit here waiting!” Her voice held anger as well as fear, desperation making her tattered nerves jangle.

“We’re trying,” Willow told her softly, “but we haven’t got much to work with, and it’s not like you can go out and just kick its ass. You know—incorporeal and all.”

“Could we maybe make it corporeal,” Dawn asked, “with magic? Like you did with that thaumogenesis demon that came back with Buffy. Then Buffy and the potentials could kick its ass.”

“I think that would be a mistake,” Giles told the teenager gently. “Who knows what damage it could do if it were given form?” He glanced nervously at the vampire seated opposite him: he looked pensive, distracted, his fingers drumming a quiet but relentless rhythm on his knee. Obviously, Spike was finding this charade as distasteful as he was, pretending to be working with the team. Playing at planning when they both knew the real planning would come later when the others were finally asleep.

Dawn yawned loudly and the watcher leapt on the opportunity. “You’re all tired; perhaps it would be best to get some sleep. We’ll resume this in the morning.” He made his tone casually authoritative and it seemed to work. One by one, they trudged off to whatever cramped corner of the crowded house they had claimed as their own.

Finally only three remained: just Spike, Giles and a rather agitated Buffy, who seemed eager to draw Spike outside for a private conversation. Giles couldn’t help wonder again at her reliance on the vampire, how when things got difficult or frightening she instinctively sought out the demon’s company, finding some reassurance in his presence. Was she right—could she really not do this without Spike’s support? Giles prayed she could, because soon, one way or another, she would be losing that support.

Buffy finally gave up, grumbling slightly that she wished them both goodnight, and climbed the stairs to her room, turning back only to issue a half-serious command: “Don’t kill each other, okay?”

It was a long time before either spoke. Eventually, Spike tired of the silence and wandered into the kitchen, reappearing moments later with a half empty bottle of scotch and a pair of tumblers. “So,” he began, setting down the glasses and pouring a generous amount into each, “tell me what I have to do.”


“Once inside the temple,” Giles began, glad to be focusing on something other than the terrible act Spike would have to perform to get that far, “you’ll face what are described as the ‘three Areathan tasks.’ These will be challenges—tests of strength and commitment—perhaps physical, perhaps not. If you successfully meet the challenges, you will be granted access to the Scythe and returned to this dimension.”

Spike gave the watcher a cocky look. “Right. Well, challenges I can do,” he told him. “Faced one or two out in Africa.”

“Er, quite,” the watcher conceded, uneasy at acknowledging the vampire's audacious quest for his soul. “There are also a few incantations you will need to perform at the, er, entrance to the temple. Just a few phrases when you offer the...” He looked down, troubled by the topic, “the sacrifice.”

“Right, let’s have ‘em.” He held out his hand for the watcher's notes. “I’ll leave tomorrow as soon as the sun goes down. You need to cover for me with Buffy; can’t have the Slayer running after me.”

“No, of course not. I’ll make sure she’s, um, occupied until you have time to reach the temple.” He removed his glasses, rubbing them distractedly with his handkerchief.

Spike poured healthy shots of whiskey, and Giles smiled his gratitude to the vampire. “I’ll try to make her understand,” he said suddenly, causing the vampire to look quizzically at him.

“Buffy,” he clarified. “I’ll try to make her understand why you had to do it.”

“‘Preciate the sentiment, Watcher,” Spike replied, his voice holding an unmistakable note of dejected acceptance, “but you won’t have to.”

He didn’t explain, and Giles didn’t ask, merely sipped his whiskey and watched the vampire retreat into the basement.

……………………..

“Does this count as a plan?” Buffy asked, annoyance colouring her voice.

“No,” Giles told her patiently, quickening his pace to match hers as she stormed through the woods. “This is reconnaissance. We have to follow every possible lead, and my source reported unusual activity in this area.”

“What area, Giles?” She stopped, turning to him. “Where are we going? We’ve been walking for miles. Do you even know where we’re going?”

“Of course,” the watcher told her, hiding his guilt with mock offence. “It’s just a little farther,” he picked a direction at random and pointed, “that way.”

“Well, come on then.” She set off purposefully. “I don’t like leaving Spike chained up for too long.”

He followed her, watching the tense set of her shoulders, wondering if she would ever forgive him for what he had done.

“I’ll see to Spike,” he had told her as she prepared for their ‘reconnaissance’ mission. “You collect some weapons, just in case.”

He’d gone to the basement, the key to Spike’s chains in his hand. “Spike,” he’d whispered as he descended the stairs, “Spike, are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” the vampire's strained voice had sounded in the darkness. “Just keep Buffy busy tonight.”

“Do you have an idea of where you will obtain a, er, a sacrifice?” He’d stumbled on the word, pushing the reality of Spike’s mission out of his mind.

“Got a couple of options lined up.” Spike’s voice had held a strange hint of wry humour and for a moment Giles had doubted his decision to trust the vampire.

“Don’t worry, Watcher, I’ll take care of it,” the vampire had assured him, stepping into the pool of light shining down the stairs, his expression pained and sincere. “I’ll do it right, don’t worry.”

………….

Spike had slipped out of the house as soon as he was sure Buffy and Giles were far enough away. He wouldn’t be missed; no one but Buffy checked on him. Dawn had come down once, when he had first moved into the Summers’ basement. She had stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared reproachfully at him, hurt, betrayal and mistrust coming off her in angry waves. He hadn’t said anything and neither had she. Eventually, she’d just left and he had watched her go without protest. He’d wanted to call out to her, to try and explain, to beg her forgiveness—anything—but he hadn’t. What do you say to the ones who used to love you when you’ve tossed their love aside so negligently? What do you say to a girl who thought you were a hero, when you’ve tried to rape her sister?

He shook off his maudlin thoughts as he mounted his stolen motorbike. He remembered a poem by Frost, whose last lines had swum in his mind for weeks after reading them: "I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep."

He kicked the engine into life, feeling the bike vibrate with contained power. One last glance at the house where he had once dreamt he would find happiness and he was gone, speeding away from all his dreams and false hopes, with promises to keep and miles to go…

……………………….


A/N Thanks Caroline, I hope I can continue to please. Reviews and encouragment help.

A/N If this doesn't make sense you may have missed chapter 3, I posted two at once (Do I get a biscuit?)

P.S. April cannot be thanked enough xxxx

.....


“Giles, there’s nothing here,” Buffy repeated, exasperated, her hands planted firmly on her hips and an annoyed expression on her face.

He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Spike had already had more than enough time to get to the temple, but perhaps another hour or so, just to be on the safe side. “Maybe I made a mistake with the location.” He tried for a sheepish, apologetic smile. “Perhaps if we try over there,” he pointed to his left, calculating that that would take them further away from Sunnydale.

He turned and began to lead the way when her voice stopped him, cold and suspicious. “Giles, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He couldn’t hide his guilt now—busted, as his young friends would say.

“Giles.” A warning now, maybe even a threat in her voice. “What is going on?” She drew the question out emphasising each word. “Giles?”

…………………..

The Temple of Areathan was a disappointment: small and ugly with grey walls and poorly carved gargoyles along its roof, it could easily have been mistaken for one of those tasteless mausoleums erected by nouveau riche families with far more money than they would ever have class.

He pushed the door, rolling his eyes at its theatrical horror movie creak, and stepped into the flickering torchlight of the temple. He wondered idly who kept the torches alight. Did the temple have priests that tended to it, or were the flames sustained magically? He shook his head, not really the time to come over all Discovery Channel.

Looking around the dusty room, he recognised from Willow’s drawings: the high stone altar, with its granite slab and smooth channels, obviously designed to carry the blood of whichever unfortunate was bound upon it.

On the wall to his left was an array of implements of torture; he stared at them for long pensive moments, wondering if there was one there he hadn’t had experience with. Nope, he’d used them all. He could still hear the screams of his victims echoing in his fragile mind.

He closed his eyes, willing away the voices in his head. He couldn’t weaken now; he had to do this. For Buffy.

……………….

Buffy ran, her feet pounding on the tarmac, breath coming in harsh gulps. Giles had led her so far away from the house before she'd realised—realised that he was playing her, keeping her out of the way.

She hadn’t wasted time trying to get an explanation out of her watcher; she’d just run. Giles never did anything with Spike unless she asked him to, but tonight he’d volunteered to ensure the vampire was safely secured in his basement. Why would he do that?

Fear gripped her. Giles had made no secret of his mistrust of Spike, and any mission to dispose of the vampire would certainly not be lacking in volunteers: Xander, Kennedy, probably Principal Wood, maybe even Dawn. She quickened her pace as she rounded the corner of Revello, her mind chanting denial with every step. No, he would be okay. He would be okay.

………………………..

He thought about the watcher as he retrieved a wickedly sharp blade from the extensive collection. His offer to come with Spike, to share in the responsibility for torturing a human being to the point of begging for death, had not been a great surprise, and if that had been Spike’s intention he probably would have been grateful for the support.

But the vampire’s plan was slightly different, and he was fairly certain the watcher would not have afforded him the trust he had shown that evening—when he left the chains undone—if he had known it.

He stepped toward the altar, watching the play of the torchlight on the blade. “You wanted a soul,” he muttered to the ancient slab. “I’ll give you a soul.”

……………….

“Where is he?” Buffy demanded furiously as she emerged from the empty basement. The blank looks of her friends fuelled her anger. How dare they play games with her? “Where is he?” she asked again, taking a threatening step forward, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“Buffy,” Willow tried to calm the irate slayer, “what are you talking about? Where’s who?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. They looked genuinely perplexed: Xander and Willow wore matching expressions of questioning concern, Dawn was looking at her like she’d finally gone off the deep end, and Anya just looked bored by the dramatics unfolding in front of her.

“Spike,” she insisted, her voice going from angry to pleading. “Where is he?”

“He escaped?” Xander jumped to his feet, his chair scraping noisily on the tiled floor, fear written on his face. “We have to find him, Buffy. He could be killing again.”

“No, he didn’t escape,” she said, shaking her head. “At least I don’t think he did. I think Giles let him out.”

“What?” Willow’s voice sounded shrill and alarmed. God, even after everything he’d done, even after the soul, they were still so afraid of him. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” Buffy shook her head, her mind searching for a logical explanation. She frowned a little. They had stayed up together last night after she’d gone to bed. Maybe Giles had talked Spike into leaving for her own good. No, Spike wouldn’t—he didn’t make decisions for her. He wasn’t Angel.

…………………..

The Latin words fell easily from his lips as he made the first cut; he’d memorised them as he’d lain awake on his cot that day, focusing his mind on anything but what he planned to do here in this temple, the sacrifice he was about to make.

The blood trickled sluggishly down the smooth channel making its way inexorably towards the carved seal beneath. A second cut and a third quickened the flow. He watched, mesmerised, as the cold stolen blood began to drip onto the carved image of the Scythe.

Another Latin rhyming couplet and it was done: the sacrifice was made. Then there was only pain.

……………………

Giles didn’t want to go back to Revello, but he knew he had little choice. Buffy needed to know what they had done. She’d be angry—furious at the deceit, disappointed in their iniquity—but surely she’d see why they had chosen this path. Part of her would surely understand.

He pushed the door open tentatively and crept towards the kitchen, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation until he’d at least had a drink. His throat was raw from breathing hard as he’d hurried after the fleeing slayer.

“Giles.” No such luck. Buffy’s cold voice turned him around; for a moment her expression was like granite, then her eyes began to water and her face crumpled. “What have you done?” she asked him tearfully.

“Oh, my dear.” He made a move to touch her but she drew back, suspicion and reproach in her eyes.

He sighed, indicating that they should sit down. “I let Spike go,” he told her after they had settled on either side of the dining room table. “I let him go because there was something he needed to do tonight. Something terrible and terribly important; something you would never have agreed to.”

She was freely crying now but her voice was strong and steady. “What?” she asked.

He took a deep, fortifying breath. “He’s gone to get the Scythe,” he told her, watching her face for reaction.

Disbelief first, then slowly horror, crept over her features, twisting her pretty face and filling her huge green eyes with frightened tears. “No.”
………………..

Perhaps he screamed, perhaps not—he wasn’t sure. Probably did; it hurt like a bitch.

He had wondered during the long sleepless day if he would be glad, if the demon would rejoice in its renewed freedom, if, like Angelus, he would revel in his restoration. He didn’t.

He knew the precise moment the soul left his body, felt the burning pain as it was ripped from him, and for moment he mourned its loss. He had fought for it and it was his, it was being taken from him, and, yes, he mourned its loss.

He saw nothing as he dropped to his knees, face buried in his hands. He didn’t see the carved seal glowing with golden light, or hear the hissing whirr of air as the vortex formed around him. He heard nothing but the bitter disdainful voice sounding in his mind: “Evil. Disgusting. Thing.”


................

A/N Because I love Spike souless and so should everyone else, including Buffy

A/N As always thanks to April for the proof reading, God knows I need it.

..............

“He wouldn’t,” Buffy denied hotly, shaking her head. “Not now; he has a soul now. He wouldn’t...”

“Buffy.” Giles kept his voice low and calm, trying to reach through his slayer's disbelief, “He—we—felt there was no choice.”

“No.” She was pacing now, wringing her hands together nervously. Her voice rose, shrill and insistent: “He wouldn’t.”

“He would!” Giles cursed himself for shouting. “He would,” he continued more softly, “and he has.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “And if he had not, then I would have.”

He lip was trembling now and she bit down on it in an attempt not to cry. This just could not be happening. There was no way Spike would torture someone to death, not now; his soul wouldn’t let him. Every time she looked at him she could sense the regret—the guilt—radiating off him. How could he do this? “Why?”

“Buffy,” Giles chided gently. No need to ask why Spike would lay down his new-found morality. Hadn’t she told him just days ago that she needed him dark and dangerous? Why would Spike damn the very soul that should have redeemed him? Simple, really: for her. Always for her.

“It’ll destroy him.” Was that her voice, so hoarse and weak?

“Yes,” Giles agreed, gently taking her hand as she slumped back down in her chair. “Yes, I suspect it will.”

……………………..

It was gone, and he was nothing. But if he was nothing, there should be no regret, no crushing sense of loss, and yet he felt it, felt the anguish of knowing that he was once again dirt beneath her feet.

The crack of a whip sounded in the silence and a sharp sting burned his cheek. Looking up, he took in the demon: she was tall and slender with ebony hair and lily-white skin. In her right hand was a leather bullwhip and in her left a jewelled rapier. She could have been mistaken for human if not for the shining violet ovals of her eyes.

He felt his own demon rise in response, unrestrained and gleeful. He came gracefully to his feet and gave his challenger a cocky smirk. “Well, hello there, cutie.”

……………………….

“Buffy, where are you going?” Giles asked, coming to stand between her and the door.

“I’m going to stop him,” Buffy spat, trying to step around her watcher.

“It's too late, Buffy. He would have reached the temple hours ago.”

She looked ready to argue when Willow’s sleepy voice turned them both around. “Hey guys, what’s going on?”

Buffy shot a murderous glance at her watcher. “Giles sent Spike to the get the Scythe.” She knew that wasn’t entirely true, but fear, anger, and a growing sense of guilt made her lash out at the watcher “I have to stop him before he does something he’ll regret.”

“And I’m telling you, Buffy, you’re too late,” Giles reiterated, not moving from his place by the door.

“I don’t care,” she insisted, glowering at him. “I have to try.”

“I could find out for you,” Willow offered, interrupting their staring match. “I could do a spell, a spell to see if he’s still in this dimension.”

With one last murderous look at her watcher, Buffy turned to the redhead. “Do it.”

……………………………..

He roared with delight as he felt the captured blade penetrate its mistress’s flesh. Twisting the sword to stop it sticking, he tugged it out of her belly and swung for her neck. Beheading was a pretty safe bet; worked on most things, anyway.

Her heeled boot pushed him away before the edge made contact and he stumbled back. Tough chick. With an expert flick of her wrist she had the whip wrapped tightly round his throat, crushing his windpipe when she jerked hard on it.

Did she know what he was? He wondered, as she pulled the leather cord tight around his throat. Perhaps she had been expecting a human. He feigned choking when she yanked on the whip, bringing his free hand to his throat as he lurched forward.

Another strong jerk, another theatrical stumble, and he was right in front of her, gasping and choking for breath as he clawed at the garrotte. She laughed a loud victory laugh and he could have crowed with delight: got ya. She pulled again on the whip, frowning in confusion when instead of stumbling forward he straightened up and winked at her.

Surprise gave way to comprehension on her face, her violet eyes widening with the realisation that she had been tricked; then her head rolled across the dirt-covered floor and the bright discs faded to black.
…………….

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” Willow told her, a troubled frown creasing her porcelain brow. “He’s gone. He must have done it.”

Buffy brought her fist to her face, biting down on the knuckle. “Oh God,” she whispered, her voice small and broken, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Oh God.”

“Oh, Buffy.” Willow felt her heart constrict at the sight of her friend's pain. Opening her arms, she pulled the small slayer close, gently stroking her back and murmuring meaningless platitudes into her hair.

………………

“And here I thought there were gonna be challenges,” Spike called into the empty room. He kicked the decapitated body at his feet. “Miss Whiplash here doesn’t really qualify.”

He looked around, impatience and adrenaline thrumming in his body. “Come on, now,” he challenged, stepping over the body and spreading his arms in invitation. “Show me what you got.”

A loud grating sound was his only answer. He turned around, looking for the source. Louder then, a rushing and hammering as sand began to pour into the suddenly smaller room.

“Bloody hell.”

………………….

The ceiling needed painting. Perhaps she’d redecorate the whole room. She’d been planning on doing it for ages; she’d told Spike last year that she wanted a change. He’d started to say something. "Well if you want, I can…" What would he have offered? Suddenly it seemed important to know. Would he have come round and helped her? She pictured him with bright paint on his black jeans, could almost hear his teasing voice mocking her choice of colour.

She closed her eyes, trying to sink deeper into the domestic fantasy. He’d have dabbed at her with his brush, leaving pink paint on her nose. Wait, why was she painting her room pink? Right, to annoy Spike.

She smiled at the scene she’d created. Maybe when he got back they could do it, take half a day off from saving the world, pack the girls off someplace and paint her room. She closed her eyes again. She’d try and retaliate, waving her dripping brush at him threateningly, but he’d just laugh and dodge her feeble attempts. Funny how in her fantasy her slayer speed had deserted her. She’d lunge clumsily at him and he’d grab her hand, turning her around easily and sending them both to the floor giggling.

He’d turn serious then, holding her eyes with his, bright and blue and intense. Then he’d kiss her, gently at first, until she pushed harder against him, making him growl and grind against her, pushing his tongue roughly into her mouth, demanding she accommodate him. She’d push back, flipping them over and taking control—ooh, Slayer strength makes its return—kissing him passionately, teeth clashing as their tongues battled.

She could almost feel his hands on her, rough and demanding one second, gently caressing the next. So complex. So unpredictable. So Spike.

A lone tear broke the confines of her closed eyes and trickled unchecked down her cheek. If he did this, he would never be Spike again; she was sure of it.

…………….

Dirt filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes as he clawed his way upward. Sand and soil worked its way down his throat to clog his lungs. He was blind and deaf, but he was calm: he’d done this before. It wasn’t so bad.

He remembered the first time, how scared he’d been, panic and terror fuelling his desperate struggle through the wet, heavy earth of that dark London cemetery. He remembered how he’d tried to spit soil from his mouth as he’d dug, how he’d clamped his lips shut as he’d struggled towards the air he had yet to realise he didn’t need.

Breaking through the surface, he spat sand from his mouth with casual distaste. No gasping for breath this time, no falling to his knees coughing up dirt and gulping in huge lungfuls of drizzle-filled air.

A glance upward revealed his escape route, and he jumped for the opening, pulling his body up through the hole with graceful ease. Challenges? He wasn’t even tired yet.

………………..

She wasn’t sure if she’d slept at all. She’d spent the night in that strange rest state the body adopts when the mind won't let it sleep, limbs heavy and immobile, eyes closed, mind racing with images and scenarios.

And, in each one, the starring role went to her vampire. Her souled ex-lover. In her mind's eye, she saw him taking a human life, condemning a human soul to hell. She should have pitied the faceless victim but she didn’t. Spike was all she could think about: his pain, his fathomless guilt, his soul.

The soul that was already drenched in blood—would it drown now? Go down in a sea of red and never surface again? She pictured him on his knees covered in his victim’s blood, insanity creeping again into his remorseful eyes.

She shuddered. He didn’t deserve this. Giles should never have let him go; she should never have demanded this of him, however indirectly. God, she was to blame, not Giles. He’d done this for her. It was all her fault.

……………………….

“As challenges go,” he addressed the empty room in a conversational tone, “yours really need some work.”

He wandered around the featureless room looking for an exit. “Maybe I could help you out,” he smirked, catching sight of a change in texture of the brickwork. “Sort of a consultant.” He paused; pushing on the brick, he felt it move and smiled. “How about you work in a guy with flaming fists, or a fight to the death with a two-headed demon. Or everybody’s favourite, the swarm of beetles.”

One firm push and the false wall swung open with a loud creak of protest. He stepped into the room and glanced around, frowning slightly as he inspected the venue for the final trial. “Well” he muttered, “this isn't what I was expecting”



......................

A/N Writers block has me by the throat and I can do nothing to defend myself. Had meant to put all three challenges in this chapter but I got so bogged down I thought I'd just post what I had.

The plots all there in my head I'm just blocked on some detail. If nothing comes to me I may just do something really lame to get around the bit I can't write, but it may take a bit of time. Please all be patient with me, I will update again one way or another.


Thanks so much for the encouragment



Caroline - I don't want to make Spike's choice in Africa amount to nothing, without it he wouldn't have been able to do this for Buffy. But I want Buffy to have to think about Spike soul or no soul he's th esame, he loves her and he'll do anything for her. She needs to get over this 'He has a soul now' mentality and appreciate him as he is. Just like I do.

Hey Shadowsbabe, that's a new name in my review world, so pleased you're liking the story and thanks so much for taking the time to review. You're right if Spike can see the 'best and the worst' of Buffy and still love her so much, maybe Buffy could learn a little about love from the souless monster.

Cali, hey babe, so you saw through my obviously not so surprising twist. Damn it it was supposed to be a shock surprise. Never mind as long as you liked it. How will Buffy react, well we know Buffy so I doubt she'll welcome souless Spike back with open arms. Not immediately anyway ;)

A/N The beast had me by the throat, it’s taloned hands choking the life from my fragile body. I felt the darkness approach and welcomed it’s release my flagging spirit finally ready for the shame of surrender

Then she was there and in her hands my flaming sword and a spear of righteousness. She drew the beast, called it out with the challenge of her golden spear. She threw me my sword and it felt good to hold it again.

We fought the beast together, for days the battle raged, then there was silence and the beast lay slain at her feet.

She was April

My wonderful proof reader who helped me through a terrible bout of writers block. Really could not have got past chapter 6 without her, she must also take all the credit for the basic idea for the final challenge. Thanks April you’re the best.

..............................

Giles approached the kitchen warily, listening to the slayer's barked orders.

“Kennedy, you’ll be in charge of training: two sessions a day, weapons and hand to hand. Ask Giles if you need any help.” She sounded determined, business like, a slayer in charge just as he’d asked her to be.

“Willow,“ she continued as he entered the room, quietly observing her back. “It’s up to you to protect the house, wards and barrier spells. I know you can do it.” Any protest the witch might have offered was silenced by the certainty of Buffy’s tone.

“Xander and Anya, I’m gonna need you to look after the girls, make sure they’re fed and everything. Draft Andrew in to help you, okay?” She paused, waiting for a response.

“We got it,” Xander assured her, ignoring Anya’s petulant huff.

“Great.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, hopefully I’ll be back in a day, two at the longest.”

“And where exactly is it that you are going?” Buffy spun around, startled by her watcher's question. When she faced him, his expression was a study of neutrality just as his voice had been.

“I, er, I--” she floundered under is calm scrutiny, “I was going to the temple.” Giles raised an eyebrow in casual invitation for her to continue. Suddenly the carefully crafted reasoning the scoobies had accepted so easily deserted her. “I was just going to have a look,” she finished feebly.

“And what is it you expect to find?” he asked as he removed his glasses, his tone hiding just the hint of challenge beneath the careful evenness of the question.

She wanted to turn away, distract herself and him with activity, but his almost indifferent gaze held her in place. She shrugged. “I guess I’ll know when I find it,” she ventured, trying to make her tone light and casual. She could feel him out-manoeuvring her with his dispassionate questioning.

“And in the mean time you will leave the girls unprotected?” He dropped his eyes, focusing on the glasses in his hands as he circled a soft white handkerchief over the lenses.

She frowned, deep lines appearing on her tanned forehead, and fidgeted slightly. “It’s only a day or two,” she told him. “You guys can handle it. I just wanted to go and see if I can find…” she trailed off when he met her eyes again, his own full of compassionate reprimand.

“Spike,” he finished for her, sighing and running a hand over his face. “Spike is nowhere that you can find him, Buffy. Willow’s spell revealed that much. He has passed into the Temple of Areathan and you cannot follow him there. He must face the challenges alone.”

“I know that,” she protested weakly. “I just thought I might be able to find something out. About what happened to him.”

He nodded his understanding, but when he spoke his words where damning. “You have a house full of young girls who desperately need your protection. I hope you will not endanger them, but the choice, of course, is yours.”

She watched him turn and leave, her expression as blank and hollow as her voice. “Kennedy, get the girls ready for patrol.” What choice?

……………..

The room was well lit, ornate chandeliers hanging from its high coved ceiling. The walls were painted the colour of old wine and the floor was polished marble. It reminded him of the plush drawing rooms and reception halls of the fine houses that had hosted the most stylish parties during his human years.

The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of ticking emanating from the multitude of clocks that adorned the walls. Ornate grandfather clocks, primitive water-driven clocks made from beaten brass. Elegant carriage clocks polished to a bright finish shared shelf space with the ostentatious glass domes that displayed the clocks' intricate workings flanked by gilded cherubs. Mounted on the walls were simple wooden clocks with their brightly painted porcelain faces, their heavy pendulums swinging lazily beneath.

Directly in front of him was a raised platform, curved, with three marble steps leading up to it. The wall behind was painted with a Daliesque mural depicting distorted hourglasses and cracked clock faces. Upon the platform stood four full length mirrors, each one framed in dark wood, carved with intricate swirling patterns, the glass highly polished and sparkling in the crystalline light of the chandeliers.

He frowned, disturbed by the room's extraordinary elegance. He had expected something a little more gladiator style. Looking around, he understood that his fierce animal strength would not help him here, that a hundred years of picking fights was no preparation for whatever test the room would hold.

The ticking of the clocks broke rhythm, some speeding to a frantic clicking while others slowed to a languid pace. The great grandfather clock to his left chimed loudly, its notes hollow and distorted, echoing around the walls. Before him the monochrome images flowed in a hypnotic twisting dance across the smooth surface of the wall.

The chiming of the great clock reached a booming crescendo, then suddenly all was still and eerily silent. The glass of the mirrors turned to liquid before his eyes, each one shimmering into a frozen image, a point in time, a pivotal moment stilled before him.

In the leftmost mirror he saw himself. He had his back turned and his head tilted down as if watching something below. In the foreground crouched a uniformed figure, its face obscured by a knitted mask, in its hand a futuristic weapon.

The second mirror held a scene so instantly recognisable he felt his heart twist and tear in his chest. Buffy, clutching her sister's forearms, her beautiful face calm and tender, resolve, love and courage shining in her emerald eyes. Behind them, a bright tear marred the night sky, and in its light was the dark and unmistakable silhouette of a dragon. The tower. The setting for all his nightmares.

For a moment he couldn’t identify the third scene. Willow kneeling in the woods, her head thrown back in a silent scream of agony, her pale arms held out before her decorated with ragged bracelets of blood. The scoobies flanked her, candles clutched in their hands, their eyes filled with confusion and fear. Of course, the resurrection. No one had spoken about it—at least not to him—but he recognised the redhead's dark dress as the one she wore the night of Buffy’s return. Just as he remembered every other detail of that night, that single happiest night of his life. The night that the all the pain and grieving had ended, the night she came back to them.

To anyone else, the last scene would have been innocuous, just a man laying his coat on the banister as he started up the stairs. But he knew better; there was no innocence there, for it was a prelude to the single most shameful act of a life that had spanned over a century. He could hear the water running even now, smell her sweet scent wafting down the stairs, calling him to her as it always did. It would only be moments. Just a handful of steps and a few badly chosen words later, he would have her pinned against cold tiles, squirming and pleading beneath him.

He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to focus on the present. He studied the mirrors: a choice then, a chance, with hindsight’s elusive counsel to put right a wrong, to do something differently. To make a better choice.

He discounted the moment before his capture by the initiative without a second thought. No promise of freedom or circumvention of heartache was worth sacrificing his time with Buffy.

The tower. He swallowed hard looking at the scene. She would be dead a moment later, her body lying on the ground below, his beautiful slayer, graceful even in death, her thick golden tresses fanned out on the dusty ground, her back bowed over the rubble, one leg bent as if poised for the next steps of their dance. He bit his lip, focusing again on the scene. What choice was there? Dawn’s ancient blood was already tearing down the walls of hell and only blood could stop it. What then? Sacrifice Dawn in exchange for her sister’s life? For a moment he was tempted: step forward, fling Dawn into the waiting portal and let Buffy live. But she wouldn’t live, not really. Not if her sister took her place. Oh, her heart would go on beating. She would go on fighting, but live? Knowing her own sister had died in her place? No, Buffy couldn’t live with that.

Stop Buffy’s resurrection? Unthinkable. Leave her in the cold ground to rot away to dust? No. He recalled that awful summer, the worst in a century. He and Dawn lost in their grief, her small broken voice when she had come to him for comfort he didn’t know how to give. Her hot tears under his thumb as he wiped them away, pulling her close with meaningless murmurings. "It’ll be okay, pet. Just give it time." Time. He had an abundance of that, and he knew he could not spend an eternity in mourning, could not condemn himself with the ceaseless torture of reliving her death night after night into forever.

It was easy then. Go back to that fateful night, stop yourself from hurting her, keep her safe. "For how long?" his mind asked. How long would she be safe? A year later she would face the First. He’d be there to help her, really help her with no soul to hamper him, and she’d trust him because he wouldn’t have hurt her. At least not that night. He quashed the thought. No, he wouldn’t hurt her. It was just that night, that combination of events at that moment of weakness; he wouldn’t hurt her again. Oh, really? He heard his own scathing voice in his mind. Could he, without the knowledge of that terrible night, guard against the possibility of repeating history?

He ran his eyes over the mirrors again and was suddenly tempted by the first. He could be free of all of it, of her and his all-consuming love for her, of the emasculating torture of the chip, of Dawn and the scoobies and the unwelcome pressure of responsibility that came with them. Persuade himself to head back to Dru and never think about Buffy again.

Buffy. As if he would ever be free of her. She had shone her light into the darkest recesses of his being long before he had acknowledged his love for her. Bright, beautiful Buffy. He sighed. Perhaps there was another way to avoid her death. Perhaps he could die in her place. No, the portal had no thirst for his blood. Only she and Dawn could stop it. He could not keep her safe from that fate.

His eyes went again to the third scene; her voice drifted into his mind, her first confidence. A secret they had shared before he became her secret and lost her confidence. "I was warm ... and I was loved ... and I was finished. Complete." He shook his head, not liking the direction of his own thoughts. "I think I was in heaven." No. If she… if they didn’t bring her back, there wouldn’t be anyone to fight the First. Memory pricked at his mind: she’d saved him from the First, she was cleaning his cuts, telling him softly about what he’d missed, about her fight with the uber vamp, the girls they’d lost. He was out of it, barely able to stand, but his sensitive hearing had picked up something else, voices from downstairs arguing in hushed whispers.

"There’s nothing we can do about it now," Giles had hissed, his voice tired and exasperated.

"So we don’t tell her?" Anya had questioned in kind. "This is all happening because of we brought her back to life."

Beljoxa's Eye. They’d seen the oracle. Been told that the slayer’s resurrection had caused their troubles with the First. He glanced at the third mirror. He could let her rest, leave her in peace, save her all the pain of that year. The pain of living again that had driven her into his arms, his bed. He couldn’t give it up, wouldn’t swap that awful abuse-filled year for anything, except perhaps her happiness. "I was Happy."

With a roar, he leapt at the mirror, throwing himself through its liquid surface. He landed just feet from her headstone. Looking over Willow’s shoulder, he saw an ancient urn, could smell the animal blood within. He didn’t give himself time to think, to back out, to be persuaded by the scoobies or his own heart. He ran to the centre of the circle, ignoring their alarmed voices, and brought his booted foot down hard on the fragile pottery, shattering the urn into a thousand pieces.

He fell to his knees, ignoring the shouts of the people around him, Willow's agonised cry as the flow of magic through her body smashed against the broken conduit, the backwash of energy melting her insides to liquid. Tara was crying, reaching for her lover's lifeless body. Xander pushed him down, rage written on his face, “You son of a bitch!” he hissed angrily, a stake appearing in his hand.

All Spike could think as he watched the slow motion arc of the stake towards his chest was that for once in his miserable life he’d actually done the right thing.


........................

A/N Finally i managed to get something written and posted. So sorry for the delay, I just couldn't get anywhere with the final challenge.

All the wonderful reviews helped keep me going.

Thanks for your patience caroline, you like the Spike I like that's why I keep taking his soul away in my stories, he doesn't need it.

Glad you like it yvonne soory for the wait, hopefully I'll get my rhythm back now I've got over this chapter

A/N As always April is credited with keeping my wayward grammer in check.

....................

Everything stilled. Xander’s stake frozen in mid strike, Tara’s pretty face contorted with pain, her arms wrapped around Willow's limp body. Spike frowned in confusion as the scene began to shimmer like a reflection on broken water. Had he failed, had he made the wrong choice?

The world fell away and he found himself standing, surrounded by soft golden light, so bright and sacred that for a moment he almost stepped back. Almost covered his demon eyes to shield himself from the shining goodness of it, but he didn’t. No light, no matter how bright or benign could shine more brilliantly than his slayer’s golden radiance. He wasn’t afraid of the light, not anymore.

“You have done well, my child.” The voice was soft and affectionate, drawing him with its almost maternal pride. A slender figure stepped out of the light, her arms spread in welcome, her comely face open and tender. And confused. “What?”

“Hello, pet,” he greeted, his lips quirking in amusement at her evident surprise. “Expecting someone else?”

He regarded her with interest as she studied him. She could have been any age between forty and sixty. She seemed timeless, as if she were beyond anything as mundane as the ravages of age. She was undeniably beautiful, even with soft lines etched around her bright blue eyes and wide, shapely mouth. Her hair was honey brown and streaked with grey, falling in loose waves over her shoulders, its soft lines enhancing her high cheekbones and the elegant line of her jaw.

She frowned, deep creases appearing across her pale brow. “Vampire?” she asked, with a disbelieving shake of her head.

“Last I checked,” he responded, titling his head and locking eyes with her, ignoring the almost unnerving comfort of her gaze.

She regarded him for another long moment, her lips turned down at the corners, her bright, intelligent eyes boring into his. Then she laughed—a tinkling, youthful laugh—and held out her hand to him palm down. He surprised himself by taking her offered hand without reservation and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Come,” she invited, linking her arm through his and guiding him down the gleaming corridor of light through which she had appeared. “I hope you will forgive my rudeness. I am the last guardian of the Scythe.” She glanced at him as they walked. “I must admit to being greatly surprised by your arrival. We had expected a different champion to come and claim the Scythe.”

“I’m here for the Scythe, pet,” Spike replied, feeling himself sinking further into the easy pleasure of this woman’s company. Still he felt compelled to correct her, “But a champion I ain’t.”

She didn’t reply, just paused for a moment to study his eyes. Then she gave him a half smile and shook her head, whether in agreement or denial, he couldn’t say. He changed the subject, curiosity making him bold, “You were expecting a Slayer.” It wasn’t a question. The challenges had been designed to test a human, that much was obvious, and what human could face them if not a slayer?

“Yes,” she answered, her free hand coming to rest on his arm. “The Scythe is destined for a slayer. But only a slayer capable of facing the challenges is worthy of it.”

It was Spike’s turn to halt their progress, turning her gently so he could look into her face. “How’s that then?” he asked. “Nothing here the slayer couldn’t do blindfolded.”

She titled her head and gave him an enigmatic smile. “You do not truly understand the nature of the test,” she told him, her melodic voice like balsam in his mind.

…………..

“Buffy!” Giles called urgently as he burst into the kitchen, a large dusty book open in his hands. “Willow,” he addressed the room's only occupant, “where’s Buffy?”

“She’s putting the potentials through their paces in the yard.” Willow gestured to the door with her sandwich. “Is something wrong?”

He ignored her question and went to the door, calling the Slayer inside. His voice must have betrayed his worry, because she came hurtling through the door only moments later. “Giles, what’s wrong?”

“Buffy. We’ve made a terrible mistake.” He deposited the book on the counter and perched himself on a stool. “With regards to the Temple of Areathon.” He paused, taking a deep breath before locking eyes with the agitated slayer. “It seems the text we used is deliberately misleading about the nature of the temple and its trials.”

Buffy shook her head briskly, twin lines appearing between her eyebrows. “Misleading how?”

“According to this book, the information we found is a deliberate falsehood designed to deter or mislead the unworthy. The true nature of the temple is described here,” Giles explained, placing his hand on the open text.

“How do we know this one’s telling the truth?” Willow asked, abandoning her lunch and moving to read over the watcher's shoulder.

“We don’t,” he conceded with a tired sigh. “However, if you will allow me to explain the description, you will understand my concern.”

“Okay Giles, let’s hear it,” Buffy prompted impatiently. Her mind was racing. Giles had sent Spike to the temple based on this misinformation. God, what if? No, don’t panic yet. Just listen to what Giles has to say.

“According to this book, the temple holds the weapon of the Slayer, and it is for the Slayer to retrieve it.”

“What?” Willow broke in with a horrified gasp. “They expect a Slayer to torture someone to death?”

“Not exactly,” Giles continued. “The soul gifted to the seal is the soul of the Slayer herself, given willingly in exchange for entrance.”

Buffy shook her head disbelievingly. “No slayer would give up her soul,” she told him adamantly.

“Perhaps if the situation were dire enough…” Giles trailed off, letting the inference that the current situation fell into the "dire enough" category hang unspoken in the air.

“The slayer is required to give up her soul at the entrance to the temple. The trials that follow are to test the Slayer’s worthiness. Trial of skill, trial of strength and trial of heart. The trials test the resolve, courage and morality of the soulless slayer. Only after completing the trials will she be rewarded with the scythe and reunited with her soul.”

“Does it say what happens to the ‘unworthy?'” The tension in her voice was palpable, anger and fear just beneath the surface.

“Any who attempt to enter the temple without paying the proper price will be destroyed.” Giles watched her face harden and close up, defensive barriers slamming down around her emotions. “A soul taken by force ‘will be avenged, the evil act punished. A life for a life.’”

Her eyes seemed huge and scared, but she set her expression in stone as she asked, “So he’s dead?”

Giles nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Buffy.” He touched her shoulder, looking to comfort her, but she stepped back, her face a schooled into a mask of indifference.

“I have to train the girls.” With that she was gone, leaving him alone with the worried redhead in the suffocating silence of the kitchen.

…………………

“So how come you let me in?” Spike asked as they approached a heavy wooden door, dark and incongruous at the end of the bright corridor. “Pretty sure I fall into the ‘unworthy’ category.”

She frowned at him, but her lips quirked in amusement, “And why on earth do you think you would be unworthy?” she asked, her hand coming up to brush his cheek with almost maternal care. She reminded him of Anne, his own gentle mother, with just a pinch of Joyce’s sass. “A pure soul freely given, a brave spirit to face the challenges, and a strong heart. The test was set and you passed, it is not for me or any other now to deny you your prize.”

She pushed open the door and gestured for him to enter, following him in and standing at his shoulder. “It is beautiful, is it not?”

All he could do was nod. It was beautiful, in the way a lioness is beautiful, or an eagle. Beautiful and deadly all at once, like Buffy. Its axe blade glinted silver against its crimson handle; a polished wooden stake formed the other end. It was beautiful in its ruthless efficiency: not for the weapon of the chosen jewels and precious metal, just a razor-sharp blade and a hardwood point, everything a slayer needed to execute her calling.

“It is yours now,” the guardian told him, and he tore his gaze away from the scythe to meet her eyes. She was smiling again, the amused enigmatic smile of one who knows much more than she could possibly know. “Although I have a suspicion it is still for her to wield.” She smiled again and stepped forward to retrieve the prize, presenting it to him laid across her upturned palms. He took it with almost reverent care, feeling its perfect balance, its vibrating power.

“Now,” she continued, her tone businesslike, “all that is left to discuss is the matter of your soul.”

……………………..

“Buffy.” Willow found the slayer sharpening a cruel looking sword on the back porch, her eyes focused on her work, her face an impassive mask. She looked up and met the redhead’s worried gaze with flinty eyes.

“What’s up, Wills?” she asked, her voice too carefully toneless to be believed.

“Buffy, are you okay?” Willow asked, her worried eyes searching the slayer's face for any tiny glimmer of emotion. “I mean, about Spike.” Was that a flash of pain in her friend's emerald eyes? If so, it was gone too fast to be sure.

“I’m fine,” was the curt reply. Buffy returned to her work, studiously avoiding Willow's questioning gaze.

“Buffy, please.” The witch’s voice was plaintive, her eyes pleading. “You can talk to me, Buffy. I know how upset you must be, if you…”

“You don’t know anything.” Buffy’s cold voice cut her off. “You hated him just like everybody else. He’s gone. One less thing for you all to worry about, right? Just don’t pretend to give a damn.”

“Buffy, I do. Give a damn, I mean.” Buffy’s hard look told her she wasn’t nearly as convincing as she’d hoped to be. “I mean, yeah, we were all kinda nervous, you know, with the First controlling him. And we didn’t exactly trust him, but then how could we after what he tried to do to you?”

“Don’t.” Buffy stood up abruptly, the sword carelessly discarded on the wooden steps. “Don’t talk about what you can’t understand.”

“Buffy,” Willow tried again. “I want to understand, but you won’t talk to me. I’m your best friend. You could have talked to me about it. I would have…” she trailed off.

“Would have what?” Buffy asked, regarding her friend with cold eyes, “Magicked him dead?” she sneered, letting the words come out like an accusation.

“No,” Willow shook her head, and retreated into the house, hurt and defeated.

Buffy flopped down on the step beside her half sharpened blade and buried her head in her hands. She hadn’t meant to hurt Willow, hadn’t meant to lash out so cruelly, but she couldn’t talk to her about this, couldn’t talk to any of them. She’d been right, they hated him, hated what he stood for, what he’d done. Hated him as she probably should have hated him.

“I give a damn.” Dawn’s soft voice sounded from behind her. Had she heard everything? Had she been listening to the painful exchange from the shadowed recesses of the darkened porch?

Dawn came and sat beside her, long gangly legs folded beneath her. “If you wanna talk, I give a damn.”

“Don’t swear, Dawnie,” Buffy chided half-heartedly, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet her sister’s understanding gaze.

Dawn rolled her eyes and gave her a sad half smile. “I wish I’d talked to him,” she began, trying to prompt her sister by her own confession. “I was so angry with him. So angry that he’d hurt you, that he’d broken his promise.” She lowered her head and looked at her sister through her lashes. “Angry that he left, angry that he dared to come back.” She sighed and leaned her head on her Buffy’s shoulder, enjoying the feeling of strong slim arms coming up to offer her comfort even though she had come here with the intention of giving that comfort. “I just wish I’d been a little less angry, just enough to talk to him.”

She felt Buffy nod her understanding against her hair and heard her breath hitch with tears. Buffy wouldn’t talk to her tonight, but maybe a good cry would do just as well.

……………………….

“He’s not in hell then?” Spike asked incredulously.

“No,” she smiled knowingly at him. “That was just a little more misinformation.” Another amused glimmer. “We have to keep the unworthy away, after all.”

He laughed, a soft genuine laugh that made her smile indulgently at him. “So where is he?”

“He is waiting.” She gave a sage nod. “Waiting to be reunited with you. Do you think that we would condemn a slayer's soul to hell?”

“I’d hope not, for hell’s sake. A slayer’d cause havoc down there.” His lips turned up at the thought of Buffy’s soul giving Lucifer a righteous beating.

“The powers worry,” she confided. “They worry that a slayer who has not herself faced the trials will be gifted the power of the scythe. But it think,” she paused, and regarded him with soft eyes, “I think your sacrifice is a far greater commendation. She is lucky, I think. This slayer.”

He felt his good mood evaporate, leaving self-loathing burning like acid in his mind. “Not so much,” he told her with a bitter shake of his head. “So,” he said, changing the subject before she had a chance question him, “we stuff old Willy back in and I go on my merry way?”

“If you wish.” She tilted her head, her eyes suddenly gravely serious. “Or we can let him pass.”

“Pass?” Spike questioned suspiciously. “What, like on to heaven?”

“To wherever it is fitting for him to pass.”

He looked down for a moment, turning the possibility over in his mind. Finally he made his decision and met her gaze. “Let him go,” he told her, “William was a poofter but he was a good bloke, loved his mum and all. Don’t reckon he deserves to spend eternity paying for my sins.”

She smiled, her approval of his decision obvious. “Very well, now you may return.” She stepped forward and cupped his cheek, leaning up to place a chaste kiss on his lips. “And I think she is lucky, this slayer of yours.”

White light engulfed him and he felt himself falling, then he hit the ground. Hard. “Bloody women!”

……………………….


A/N Thank you all so much for your reviews, it means a lot especially after the chapter being a piggy to write. I really hope that this chapter doesn't come over as a cop out by making the choice an illusion. The point was you make the choice to proove yourself but it isn't real.

Thanks Caroline, I wanted Spike to prove himself, I think he really has.

Hey Cali glad you liked Buffy's fantasy, I just felt like adding something sweet. Yeah poor Buffy, for once she can't be action girl.

A/N- April is the high priestess of grammer, I am a mere sinner.

---------------------

If she didn’t stop, she wouldn’t have to think. If she didn’t go to bed until she was too exhausted to stand, she wouldn’t have to lie awake and think. If she just kept pummelling the punching bag in the basement, she wouldn’t have to think. And if she didn’t think, then he wasn’t really gone. If she could successfully avoid thinking, she wouldn’t think of him and he wouldn’t be gone. She wouldn’t be alone.

She knew she’d been hard on the potentials that evening on patrol, she knew she’d been harsh and unfair - lashing out at them, humiliating and scaring them - but patrol had been unbearable; the weight of his absence had been suffocating, the reality of his loss too much to bear. So she had led them to a fresh grave and stood back while the newly risen vamp left bruises on their fragile bodies. She had berated them for their ineptitude and scared into them the cruel reality of what failure would mean. Then she had marched home, leaving them to trail behind her with sullen faces and murmured dissent.

They were sleeping now, most of them at least. Dawn and the core of the Scooby gang were still up trawling through their limited library for some clue as to how to fight the First. She should be with them, but research offered far too much time to think. She didn’t want to think.

……………..

It seemed odd that the slayer’s house looked the same. He felt as if he had been gone so long, travelled so far, that the house should be different, its appearance altered in testament to his own changes. He took a deep breath; time to give the slayer her present.

He propped the bike up on its stand and strode confidently towards the house. There was no way for them to know; he could play the part, mimic William and stay close to the slayer, stay in her fight. Anyanka was human again. There was no one left who could see his soul, or lack thereof, in his eyes.

He entered the house quietly: souled Spike was considerate, wouldn’t want to wake the girls. Quiet murmurs led him to the dining room, where the scoobies sat around studying ancient manuscripts and dusty tomes.

“Evenin.’” He couldn’t resist a smirk at their shocked expressions, but it wouldn’t give him away. Souled Spike smirked from time to time.

“Spike!” It was Dawn who greeted him, her loud exclamation sure to rouse the sleeping potentials. He smiled at her, soft and regretful. No need for acting, not when it came to Dawn; his regret was all too real.

She was on him in an instant, long slender arms wrapped fiercely around his neck as she clung to him. “Spike,” she whispered against his neck, where her hot tears were burning his skin. She pulled back, still holding him tightly. “We thought you were dead.”

“No deader than usual,” he told her, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

She smiled a soft watery smile and leaned into him again, burying her face in his neck.

……………………..

It wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. It was just a hallucination brought on by tiredness and wishful thinking. She had heard Dawn’s shout and bounded up the stairs with supernatural speed, only to stop dead in her tracks at the scene in the dining room: her sister wrapped around a very corporeal Spike.

She let out a strangled gasp and his eyes found hers over her sister’s head. Ice blue and glinting with amusement at her caught fish expression, as she opened her mouth to speak, only to find she had no words.

He tucked Dawn under his arm and raised a bright axe with a wooden stake forming its handle. “Got you a present,” he told her with a small smile. A flick of his wrist and the axe was spinning towards her at a leisurely pace; an easy catch and she was holding it, feeling its undeniable power, its siren call to the slayer within her. It felt powerful and mystical, and it felt like it was hers.

She looked up at him again, well aware of the wonder in her eyes but unable to suppress it. “The Scythe,” she whispered reverently.

“The one and only.” He grinned at her, obviously pleased with her reaction, before planting a kiss on Dawn’s head where the younger girl snuggled against his side with an awed “wow.”

Buffy frowned. She hadn’t seen Spike so boldly affectionate with her sister since...well, since ever. She handed the Scythe to her watcher, who studied it curiously, and looked back at the vampire. “Thanks,” she whispered sincerely, her voice soft with emotion, God it was good to have him back. She wished in that moment that she were Dawn. That she could throw herself into his embrace so unreservedly and feel him real and solid in her arms. Wished that she could show him exactly how good it was to have him back.

“Pleasure,” he told her with a diffident smile - William’s smile - unsure and awkward. “What do you think, Rupert?” He turned his attention to the watcher. “Will it help?”

“Well, it’s real shiny,” Buffy joked. “Some girls get diamonds, I get shiny weapons.”

“Slayer bling,” Xander told her with a serious nod of his head. “You’ll be the talk of the cemetery.”

Buffy snorted and looked at her watcher, who was studying the Scythe fastidiously. “Extraordinary,” he mumbled. “Willow,” he said, passing it across the table to the witch, “do you feel anything?”

“Oh boy,” Willow gasped as her hands made contact with the smooth handle. “It’s just… I mean, it’s so powerful and so old. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Me neither,” Buffy nodded. “As soon as I touched it, I felt—I don’t know. Power, but more than that. It felt like… like it was mine.”

“’It is for her to wield.’” Spike quoted the guardian’s words his admiring gaze resting on Buffy.

Buffy nodded, looking over at Spike. His eyes slid away from hers as they so often had since his return from Africa. “It belongs to the slayer,” she agreed, trying again to catch his elusive gaze.

He shuffled his feet and turned his attention again to the watcher. “They were expecting a slayer. The guardian was pretty surprised when yours truly turned up.”

“We know,” Buffy sighed, and perched herself on the table. “We found out the whole scoop yesterday, but by then you’d already gone charging off half cocked. Which reminds me, I am so mad at you for that.”

He angled his head and smirked at her, his eyes finally holding hers, his tongue tracing a seductive path behind his teeth. “Aww, Slayer, come on. You know I’m never half cocked.” She couldn’t help but return his smirk as she basked in his presence, a quip already forming on her lips. She hadn’t felt this good in weeks, months even; he was here and he was alive and his eyes were sparkling with life and amusement, pale and glinting like shards of ice in the low light of the dining room.

“Dawn, get over here.” She stood up abruptly, her voice urgent with sudden realisation, fear and pain flaring up in her chest, making her breath catch and her heart pound in her chest.

“Eh?” Dawn gave her a sceptical look: that special look that only Dawn could pull off, the one that made it clear she considered her sister a complete moron.

“Now, Dawn!” she commanded harshly, fear making her temper snap.

“Best do as big sis says, pet.” Spike spoke casually, gently untangling himself from her clinging arms and giving her a little push towards the stone-faced slayer, who positioned herself between him and the gang. A steadfast protector.

“So soon, pet?” he drawled, his voice deep and provocative as he slid from his imitation of William like a snake sliding from its skin. She felt at that moment like she was watching his soul leave his body, as William’s awkward demeanour slipped away and nervous tension ignited palpably in his body. She watched his gentle, soulful eyes grow flinty-hard, glinting with passion and intensity. She felt his demon rise with challenge and with it rose her own dark side: self-loathing, hatred, betrayal, and, yes - despite herself - lust. Her own demon. Because hadn’t she been told just a few endless days ago that her power was, at its core, demonic?

“Outside,” she commanded, the steadiness of her own voice catching her by surprise. She angled her head towards the yard. She had to get him away from the others, then she could deal with him - no hesitation, no second thoughts. She’d learned this lesson the hard way.

………………

“What was that about?” Xander stared at the kitchen door, wondering what had suddenly turned Buffy’s unusually good mood on its head.

“Who knows,” Dawn said sullenly, hiding her disappointment at Spike’s departure behind a veil of adolescent bitterness. “Buffy’s such a freak.”

“Dawn,” Giles chided, feeling compelled to defend his admittedly inconstant slayer.

“Well, she is,” the teenager insisted petulantly. “I mean, Spike gets the Scythe for her - which was totally her job - and she just wails on him. She’s such a bitch.” With that she was gone, stomping up the stairs noisily, unconcerned with the sleeping potentials.

……………….

They stood facing each other in the back yard, her golden hair shining in the pool of light cast through the kitchen window. God, she was beautiful. He’d spent so long trying not to look at her, desperately suppressing his desire for her, that he’d almost forgotten how God damn beautiful she was. Especially when she was pissed off, and boy was she pissed off now.

“Buffy,” he began. Maybe he could make her listen, make her see he was still on her side.

Oops! No. Wrong thing to say. The sound of her name on his lips seemed to fuel her anger. She launched herself towards him, eyes flashing with rage, teeth bared in a fair imitation of his own kind.

He rolled with the assault, using her uncontrolled momentum to fling her across the yard, wincing slightly when her body crashed into the porch steps. She was up almost as quickly as he was and on the attack again. Her face was set like granite, but her eyes - her eyes were burning with anger and betrayal, and...was that pain?

He didn’t want to fight her, but she left him little choice. Block, duck, kick or punch her away, but she’d be at him again just as quickly, anger making her style ragged, just enough for him to defend himself. She hadn’t got a really good hit in yet.

Ouch! Ah, there it was. He felt his head snap back, the bone and cartilage in his nose shattered beneath her fist. He went down, dazed by the force of the blow. Anger had made her sloppy, but it had also given her the vicious strength of a wounded lioness.

“You bastard,” he heard her hiss as she followed him down, fists pounding his face in a vicious rhythm. It hurt - fuck yes it hurt - almost as much as watching her smiling eyes turn hard and hate-filled with the knowledge that his soul was gone.

Through the pain, his anger surfaced. He’d done all this for her, everything. Risked everything to bring her the Scythe, refused his soul to be the fighter she needed him to be. “Bitch!” he spat through the blood that filled his mouth as he jerked his hips and launched her over his head to land on her back with a loud huff of expelled air.

He was up in an instant, facing her as she climbed to her feet. “You never bloody change do you?” he accused, “You wanted me dangerous? Fine, you got it!” He attacked with a feral growl, sending them both tumbling through the gap in the fence and out into the night.

…………………….

It was nearly dawn and Buffy and Spike hadn’t come back to the house. Willow rolled over, awkwardly freeing herself from Kennedy’s embrace and slipping out of the bed. Donning her fuzzy dressing gown, she made her way silently to the kitchen, wondering if she should wake Giles.

“Willow.” His hushed whisper made her jump violently, turning to face him with one hand over her racing heart.

“Don’t do that, Giles,” she whispered, breathless from the adrenaline surging through her body. “God, I nearly died.”

“I’m sorry, Willow,” he apologised distractedly, moving closer to the witch so they could converse in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the sleeping household. “I’m afraid Buffy and Spike have yet to return.”

Willow nodded, remembering the reason she had lain awake all night listening for the tell tale sounds of her friend’s return. “I know,” she told him, her quite voice filed with worry. “I can’t think what’s keeping them. Unless they patrolled and met up with some big bad. Oh God, maybe another uber-vamp.”

The watcher placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his voice calm and reassuring. “We don’t know anything, Willow. Please don’t distress yourself. Buffy and Spike are quite capable of dealing with anything patrol may throw at them.”

She opened her mouth to protest when the phone rang, loud and shrill in the silent house. “Hello.” Giles answered it on the second ring.

“Yes, she’s here.” He handed the phone to Willow, shaking his head at her questioning expression.

“Er… Hello?” she said nervously. “Fred. Yes, I remember. Angel mentioned…”

Giles watched her friendly expression turn troubled. “Oh.” Another long pause. “Of course, I’ll be there right away. Just try and keep him contained.”

She hung up the phone and looked at the watcher with worried eyes. “I have to go to LA.”

…………………


Chymera - Thanks for the review, concise and encouraging

Oh Cali I think I kinda love you. I've bee trying to keep Buffy in her season 7 I have no emotions mould (For now), Giles was also a bit of a bad egg in season 7, I'm not sure how he'll pan out in this story yet.
I can't believe it but Dawn, who in the show annoys the crap outta me, is coming off well in another of my stories. I guess it's just cos she loves Spike, so she and I have something in common

Thanks for reviwing guys

A/N Thanks as always to April for correcting my appalling grammer and offering reassurance when i doubt myself.

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Her body ached; her broken ribs shot pain through her body with every movement. Her left eye was swollen shut and she could taste her own blood in her mouth. She rolled under his spinning kick and came up behind him. With a gleeful shout she brought her fist smashing down on the back of his neck in a hammer blow that sent him sprawling forward.

She went to pick up the stake he had knocked from her hands moments ago, but he kicked her feet out from beneath her before she could reach it. “No you don’t, slayer,” he sing-songed as he rolled on top of her, pinning her to the hard tarmac of the alley.

She gave him a nasty smile and used all her strength to push him off, sending his body crashing into the crates opposite. “Spikey,” she taunted, in her best impression of Harmony’s bubble gum whine. “I don’t think you’re even trying.”

He stood up slowly and looked at her: bloody and battered from the last few hours they had spent trading insults and punches, and yet somehow more vibrant than he had seen her in years, her eyes shining with vicious enthusiasm for their battle, her body thrumming with energy and adrenaline. “Look at you,” he drawled suggestively. “All flushed and panting. Enjoying yourself, slayer?”

His words were like ice water on her liberated mood. Enjoying herself? Was she? The burning self-loathing that had come with recognising his soullessness came crashing back down on her. She shouldn’t be enjoying this; this was her worst nightmare. His soul was gone and he was a monster again. She shouldn’t be trading barbs and smirks. Shouldn’t be enjoying the feel of his firm body beneath her powerful fists or the liberating passion of their violent interplay.

She took a step back, her eyes turning hard as she wrapped the cold dispassion of the slayer around her like a comfortless blanket, shrouding herself in duty and fortitude. Spike knew he was losing her again. Time to cut his losses.

One effortless bound had him halfway up a nearby fire escape. Another two and he was looking at her from the high flat roof of one of Sunnydale's public buildings. “Be seeing you, slayer,” he promised, his voice devoid of any hint of threat. Then he was gone, swallowed up into the night.

She moved to sit on a crate at the edge of the alley. What the hell was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she killed him? She’d had plenty of chances - they both had - but somehow they’d both managed to walk away. She fought down the relief that thought brought with it. No, she was the slayer. People depended on her—now more than ever, lives depended on her. She had to be strong about this. Today she would make sure everyone was safe, and tonight she’d finish this once and for all.
………………..

“Giles!” Buffy called as she limped through the back door, wincing at the pain of her broken ribs as she moved towards the fridge. “Willow!”

“Buffy,” Giles greeted in a hushed voice, mindful of the still-sleeping house. “Buffy, thank goodness you’re back. We have something of a problem…”

“Yes,” Buffy cut in coolly. “I need Willow to do a uninvite spell on the house now.”

Giles shook his head, irritated. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I should have thought of that before I let her leave. Still, I’m sure it will be okay.”

Buffy gave him an incredulous look. “Okay?” she asked. “How is having the soulless vampire free to wander into my house whenever he wants okay?”

“Admittedly, it’s not ideal.” Giles tried to pacify his slayer. “We will have to be extremely vigilant, but Fred didn’t indicate that she suspected he would come here.”

“Eh, who’s Fred?” Buffy asked, frowning slightly in confusion.

“Oh, one of Angel’s associates. She’s the one who requested Willow do the resouling.” He paused thoughtfully. “How did you know about it?”

“I could see it in his eyes. I know him souled and I know him soulless. No way he could hide it from me.” She looked annoyed. “How did Angel’s gang know?”

“You saw him?” Giles asked urgently. “Buffy, when exactly did you see Angelus?”

“Angelus?” She shook her head. “I didn’t. I’m talking about Spike. He left his soul at the Temple; we’ve been fighting all night. I was damn lucky not to be his third.” She frowned. Was that true? She crushed the militant thoughts that suggested that perhaps she had never been in any danger—not from him, never from him.

They where both quiet for a moment as they tried to process this information. “Wait.” Buffy was the first to speak. “Angel’s lost his soul, too?”

“Yes. Willow has gone to LA to do the curse. Are you telling me Spike returned from his mission to retrieve the Scythe without his soul?”

She nodded sadly, slumping back in her chair.

“I don’t understand.” Giles sat down opposite her, running a hand through his hair. “After completing the trials, the Guardian reunites the victor with the soul sacrificed at the entrance. Spike won the Scythe; how could he not have retrieved his soul? You’re sure about this?”

She nodded again, tears forming in her eyes. “I know him, Giles,” she insisted, feeling her guts wrench with pain at the thought. “I couldn’t be wrong.”

…………………………..

“Okay, listen up,” Buffy heard herself say, addressing the potentials and the scoobies with all the authority of her calling. “A couple of things changed last night.”

She picked up the Scythe and showed it to them. A few potentials gasped; others edged closer. “You feel it.” It wasn’t a question. “All of you can feel that this is our weapon. A slayer's weapon. Giles is still working on how we use it, but we have it now and that makes us stronger.”

She laid the Scythe down carefully at her side and took a deep breath. “The second thing is Spike.” She took another deep, steadying breath. She would not let her voice crack; she had to be strong about this. “Spike is no longer on our side. If you see him, you run. Is that understood?” She looked around at their confused faces, saw Dawn ready to protest.

“Spike no longer has a soul. William the Bloody is back, and he kills slayers for fun. If you see him, run. You find me so that I can kill him. Is that understood?” Another hard look at her sister commanded she not challenge her. But the authority of the slayer was no match for the renitence of siblings.

“You’re going to kill Spike?” she asked, aghast. “Why?”

“I told you, Dawn. He has no soul; he’s dangerous. Anyone in this room is a target. He’ll hurt any one of you just to get at me.” She looked away, hoping to end the discussion there.

“Bullshit!” Dawn’s voice was bitter. “You think everything’s about you. God, self-absorbed much? Spike would never hurt me.” She raised her chin defiantly and met her sister's steely gaze.

“Don’t be naive, Dawn,” Buffy snapped angrily. “He’s a killer. He doesn’t care about anyone, least of some kid.” She calmed herself at the wounded look in her sister’s bright blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Dawn, but you know he was obsessed with me. Anything he seemed to feel for you was just a way to get to me.”

……………

“Spike.” Dawn entered the crypt through the underground tunnels Spike had shown her during that awful summer. She looked around. This was Spike’s bolthole, his secret hideaway. He’d once told her that if things went bad, she would find him here. She felt a jolt of nervousness. What if Buffy was right? What if he didn’t care about her? No. He’d proved enough times when Buffy was dead that she was more to him than a ticket into her sister’s pants. He loved her, she knew it.

“Nibblet,” his voice was rough, painfully hoarse. He stepped out of the shadows and she gasped. He was battered, his lips cracked and bleeding, his left eye and jaw line swollen with purple bruises.

“Spike,” she whispered, hurrying to his side as he limped towards her. Her arms went around his middle in a tentative embrace.

He could have cried when she came to him—his nibblet, so different from Buffy. So trusting, so uncomplicated. “God, Spike, are you okay? You look like shit.” So blunt.

“Been better, pet,” he told her. “I think I’d forgotten how hard your sister can punch.”

“Did you try to kill her?” Dawn asked with a glare. He smiled - as much as his swollen lips would allow - and shook his head. She was an amazing girl, coming here to tell the big bad killer off for hurting her sister.

“’Course not,” he told her sincerely. “We had ourselves a right good brawl. But you know I’d never do that.”

“I know,” she conceded softly. “Buffy’s being a bitch,” she complained after a moment's silence. “She’s telling everyone you’re our enemy now.” She bit her lip and looked at him through her lashes, her face a picture of juvenile concern. “She says she’s going to kill you.”

“Won’t happen, pet,” he assured her, lifting her chin with one finger.

………………………….

“So you’ve filled Buffy in, right?” Faith asked nonchalantly, not looking at the redhead in the driver's seat. “She knows I’m coming?”

“Yep,” Willow reassured her. “Well, I left a message on the machine. But she’ll be glad to have you; we need all the help we can get on this one. Buffy’ll be glad you’re here.”

Faith snorted, giving the witch a sarcastic look. “Yeah, bet she’s been busy hanging streamers all day.”

“Well, she, er…” Willow trailed off, glancing nervously at the ‘other’ slayer.

“It’s cool, red.” Faith put a booted foot on the dashboard and leant on her knee. “I’m just here to do my bit. Stop!”

Willow brought the car to an abrupt halt, staring at the figure that had wandered into the road a short way ahead. A preacher. She got out, Faith hot on her heels.

“Father?” she asked carefully. “Are you okay?”

He turned to them and something in his dark eyes made her take an involuntary step back. She felt Faith tense at her side and knew the redhead felt it too, the fathomless evil within him.

“Well, look what we got here.” His Southern drawl grated on every nerve ending in her body. “A couple of dirty girls.” He paused and studied Willow carefully, making her skin crawl. “I know you,” he told her. “Ain’t you friends with that pretty little Slayer?”

“Who are you?” Faith spat.

“Caleb,” he told her, glancing her way. “I won’t ask your name, little lady. It strikes me that you’re just another whore, and anyhow, my boys’ll be takin’ care of you real soon.”

A circle of bringers appeared around them. “Make a nice message for the Slayer.” He continued his friendly tone: “Finding her friends dead out here.”

Faith stepped forward challengingly. “If you got something to say to the slayer,” she said, hand on hip, gaze defiant, “you can tell me yourself.” With that she was on him, a barrage of vicious kicks and punches that he blocked with negligent ease before he seemed to grow bored and delivered a punch to her belly that sent her flying back a good fifty yards, rolling across the tarmac with a grunt of pain.

Caleb smiled cruelly at the stunned witch. “Goodnight, Miss,” he saluted her in a parody of Southern manners, and then he was gone and the bringers were on them.

……………….

Spike watched as the two girls found themselves surrounded. Dawn had come by his hideaway later that afternoon with blood, smokes and information from Revello. Willow was bringing the rogue slayer back for Los Angeles, apparently reformed and ready to fight. Still, he’d heard enough about the girl to want to check it out for himself.

She fought well enough, quick and strong, with just enough individuality to keep her alive longer than your average slayer. Not a patch on Buffy, though. Willow cast a fireball at an advancing bringer, sending the thing stumbling back, writhing in silent agony. Another grabbed her from behind, holding her struggling in its grip while a third drew a long knife.

Time to act. He leapt into the fray with a well-aimed jumping kick that sent the witch’s would-be murderer flying back towards the slayer's waiting stake. He grinned—typical slayer, stake anything—still, it seemed to do the trick. He turned his attention to the redhead. “Duck,” he told her casually. She crunched down in the bringer's hold and Spike swung his sword over the top of her head, decapitating the creature cleanly.

“Eww,” Willow complained as blood flowed into her hair. She shook the body off and turned to Spike, giving him and ironic smile.

“Vamp.” Faith came between the two, brandishing her stake at him menacingly.

“No.” Willow tugged on the dark slayer’s arm. “Spike’s on our side.” She smiled at the vampire gratefully. “Hence the save. Thanks, Spike. We owe you.”

“No problem, Red. Can’t let my favourite witch get herself killed, now, can I?” He shook off his game face and gestured towards Faith with his head. “Slayer?” he asked casually.

“Yeah,” Willow answered for the suspicious brunette. “This is Faith.”

“The rogue.” Spike turned his attention. “Didn’t recognise you in that outfit, luv,” he drawled, running his eyes salaciously over her leather-clad body.

Faith smirked in response, remembering their last encounter. “Yeah, well, I figured blonde was last year’s colour.” She placed a hand on her hip and tossed her hair over her shoulder, giving him a good view of her cleavage.

He gave a bark of laughter and grinned at her. “Welcome back to Sunnyhell. Be seeing you lovely ladies around.”

……………….

Buffy arrived back with the best of the potentials after an unnervingly quiet patrol to find Faith and Willow describing their encounter with - as Willow described him - the “scary creepy preacher guy.”

She held her tongue when Willow casually mentioned Spike saving her life, although she was sure her surprise was written large on her face, especially if Dawn's triumphant "I told you so" look was anything to go by.

“Willow, can I talk to you?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just led the redhead upstairs to sit next to her on her hurriedly-made bed. “You did the spell for Angel.”

“Oh yeah, it was easy,” Willow babbled excitedly. "I didn’t even need an orb, I just kinda did it, you know.” She looked at Buffy. “I’m worried about Caleb,” she told the blonde. “Last night I saw Angelus, and the evil I felt radiating off him made me dizzy, but it was nothing compare to the vibes Caleb’s giving off. It’s dark, Buffy, and it’s powerful.”

“You saw Spike, too,” Buffy commented. “What did you think about him?”

“Mostly I thought ‘thanks, Spike, but did ya have t’ get blood in my hair?’” She smiled at her friend for a moment then frowned at the other's troubled expression. “Buffy, what is it?”

“It’s still Spike,” Buffy murmured softly, her eyes filled with confusion.

Willow scrunched up her face and tried to lighten the oppressive mood. “Yep, definitely still Spike, right down to checking out Faith’s…” she trailed off. “Buffy?” Concern made her voice shaky. “Buffy, what is it?”

“He lost his soul.” Buffy met her friend’s eyes, her own filled with tears. “Spike lost his soul.”

“No, Buffy,” Willow protested, disbelieving. “I saw him, Buffy. I’d have been able to feel it, like with Angelus.”

“Obviously not.” Buffy buried her head in her hands. “I knew, Willow. I knew the minute I looked into his eyes.” There was a long, thoughtful pause, and Willow studied the silent slayer. “And here’s the kicker.” She raised her eyes to meet her friend’s, her expression lost and frightened. “I was glad.”

“What?” Willow prompted, forehead creased in confusion.

“I was glad,” the slayer repeated, giving a short, brittle laugh, bitter and humourless. “He was back, all snark and attitude, and I was glad.” She took a deep breath and continued more softly. “When he went away, I missed him. I missed him after he came back. The soul—he wasn’t the same and I missed him. The monster that tried to rape me.” She shook her head and looked at the redhead, self-loathing burning in her conflicted eyes. “What does that say about me?”


..........................

A/N Hope I haven't confused people, if you haven't seen season 7 the whole off to LA thing might be a bit strange, i'm just tagging along with the events of the show.

Please let me know what you think I'm not as secure about this story as i was with "what you wanted"

Chymera didn't want sex (well not between S and B I didn't offer her directly) Caroline did (Again S and B not me and her). Afraid I had to go with Chymera I like making the characters work and suffer and get there slowly i think it's all the sweeter in the end.

Maybe I overdid Buffy's anger Caroline but I hope now you see that it's coming from her own conflicted feelings.

As always thanks to April for proof reading and sorting out my awful grammer, I wish i'd had her when I wrote What You Wanted.

I apologise profusely for the unacceptable delay in bring this installment. The people at work have been expecting me to work, it's most inconvenient.

Thanks for your patience

.........................................

The magic swirled around her in bright ribbons of light and colour. Her eyes were dark, her face set in an expression of grim concentration, but her hair was mercifully still chestnut. The familiarity of the scene was more than a little disconcerting, and Buffy felt her stomach clench in nervous recognition.

She had tried to dissuade them. She had argued that Willow was too tired, Willow was unstable - that one in private to only Giles - that the spell was unreliable. She had stressed that the mysterious Caleb was their priority and they should focus their attention on him. She had wondered aloud if the magical disturbance would draw the attention of the First. She had even tried to distract them with a false alarm - demon talk of an uber-vamp in town - but in the end she had been ignored, disregarded and overruled.

She had no idea why she had tried so hard to prevent the cursing of Spike. Perhaps it seemed unfair that the vampire that had once willingly battled for his soul, and had worn it as a badge of honour, should have it now forced on him in shame and punishment. Or perhaps, if she was honest, she just didn’t want him to have it back. She stamped down hard on that thought. No, she wasn’t like that. Not anymore. She wasn’t the sick, frightened girl she had been last year, craving the darkness of him with such insatiable fervour.

The magic fizzled and died with an anticlimactic hiss. Willow shook her head and her now green eyes filled with confusion. “I don’t understand,” she murmured tiredly, flopping down on the sofa.

“What happened?” Dawn asked, concern evident in her voice. She hadn’t been able to get away from her sister long enough to warn Spike about the curse. She had been tempted to sabotage the spell - maybe swap Willow’s tarick root for a little sage - but she had been afraid the spell would go wonky and hurt someone. “Did it work? Is Spike ok?”

“No.” Willow looked apologetically at Buffy. “I’m sorry, Buffy. His soul...it’s gone.”

“Gone?” It was Giles who asked, offering the grateful redhead a glass of water.

“Yeah.” Willow frowned and took a deep breath before launching into her explanation. “When a vampire is turned, the soul is trapped in the ether, unable to move on until its body finally dies. That’s how I cursed Angel. I just plucked the soul out of the ether and shoved it back in. Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, obviously, but you get the idea.” She looked around nervously, her eyes finding the Slayer last. “Spike’s soul isn’t in the ether; its gone.”

“Gone where?” Dawn asked curiously.

“It doesn’t matter,” Buffy broke in. The spell had failed, Spike’s soul was gone, and she was not relieved--she really, really wasn’t. “We can’t do the spell. You need to research Caleb. I’ll deal with Spike.”

…………………………………

“Bit,” Spike hissed, appearing for a moment in the kitchen window before disappearing into the shadows. She glanced around nervously before slipping out the back door.

“Spike,” she called softly, peering into the shadows at the side of the house.

“Over here, pet.” His voice was quiet in the still night air, cautious.

“It’s okay, she’s not here,” Dawn told him, sensing the cause of his unease. “She’s out looking for you. Willow tried to curse you but she couldn’t. Buffy’s gonna kill you.” She felt tears rising to choke her at the thought, and her voice came out as a pained whisper.

“Hey now, none of that.” He took her chin in his hand and looked into her eyes, dark and watery in the amber glow of the streetlights.

“She made Willow do a un-invite on the house,” she continued tearfully. “But I live there, too, so you can co—“

He cut her off with a finger laid gently over her lips and a soft regretful smile. “No.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “She locked me out. I reckon I’ll wait for her to open up the bloody door again. Thanks anyway, bit. It means a lot.”

She nodded her understanding, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand. “So what are you doing here?” she asked with a curious tilt of her head. “She’ll kill you if she finds you here.”

“You mean she’d try.” He gave her a cocky smirk that had her rolling her eyes at him, before he turned serious. “I got me some info on our friendly parish priest.”
…………………………….

He watched her retreat into the house and hoped she’d be able to spin the slayer a good line about his information. Stubborn bitch’d never believe anything if she knew it came from him. He felt a bitter pain rise with the knowledge that she trusted him so little, that even after everything they’d been through together she still knew nothing about him. With a sigh, he turned his back on the welcoming lights of the house and headed back towards the graveyard.

“Ack!” he cursed, the unmanly noise escaping him as he came face to face with the subject of his thoughts. Damn slayer creeping up on a fella.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” she asked, her voice cold and hard, with just a hint of fatigue.

“Not what you think,” he replied defensively, letting his irritation at her attitude show in his voice. “I’m not here to kill anybody.” He pointed at her and his voice rose with anger. “And I’m not bloody stalking you, all right?”

She sighed, and to him it was the single most heartbreaking sound in the universe. She sounded beyond tired, beyond scared, beyond hurt or betrayed; she sounded beaten. It was too much: the girls, the First, him. It was just too much for her to cope with all at once. Concern and tenderness washed flowed through him easily, dissipating his anger.

“Pet,” he told her gently, “I’m not your enemy.” He tilted his head and regarded her with soft sincere eyes. “You need fighters, luv, and I’ll fight. You know I will.”

She felt herself falter, felt the irresistible draw of his support. She’d been relying on it now for so long, she had felt like a cripple bereft of her crutch when he had left. Or rather when she had kicked him out.

Tears filled her eyes and she looked away. She could not do this, not now, not with him, not anymore. But the tears came anyway, fat silent drops of fear and desperation rolling freely down her cheeks until she tasted salt water on her lips.

“Buffy, luv,” he raised a cautious hand to touch her, dropping it to his side when her eyes widened in slight alarm. “Pet, please don’t cry. It’ll be okay. You can do this; you got the scythe and that other chosen bird. You got your pals and your little army. And you got me. I’m not gonna stop fighting for you, pet. I promise.”

She met his eyes again, and he was certain he saw hope there. Had he inspired that in her - his confidence, his pledge? Had that been enough to beat back the growing despair? His cowardly hand found new courage and came up to touch her damp face. “Buffy.” He whispered her name as he always did: a reverent prayer.

She didn’t speak, didn’t trust her voice not to betray her. If she spoke, she was certain she would confess the depth of her fear. She would court his reassurance, or, worse yet, ask him to stay. She leant into the touch and his thumb grazed across her cheek, wiping away the evidence of her weakness.

“Luv?” he questioned softly. His voice was honey in the night air, rich and smooth, thick with emotion. “Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do.”

‘Stay with me,’ her mind screamed. ‘Stay and help me. Fight beside me when I’m strong, hold me when I’m weak. Just stay.’ She shook her head against the thought. She couldn’t invite him back in - not into her house, her fight, or her life. His soul was gone and all that remained was the monster, the monster that hurt her.

With a choked sob, she turned and fled into the house
…………………..

“Faith,” Dawn whispered as she approached the dark Slayer, who smoked a cheap cigarette on the bottom step of the basement.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Faith responded in kind. “What’s up?”

“I know where Caleb’s hiding out, but I can’t tell Buffy, because she’ll go all Gestapo on me. She’ll ask me how I know and I can’t tell her.” She looked at the slayer, eyes wide and hopeful. “I thought maybe you could tell her for me.”

“Hey, slow down.” Faith raised her hand as she stood. “How the hell do you know this shit? If you’ve been out scouting on your own, B’s gonna—“

“I haven’t, okay?” Exasperation made her voice harsh. “I’m not that stupid.” Faith’s unconvinced look drained her impatience and she tilted her head back to study the ceiling before continuing. “Can’t you just say you beat it outta some demon?” she pleaded.

“Yeah, I could, but how’d I know your info’s good? Don’t wanna be leading the wannabes into a trap, ya know.”

Dawn took a deep breath. “Promise not to tell?” she asked. Faith nodded and she continued. “Spike told me. He’s been digging around the demon world. Caleb and a load of those creepy bringer guys are camped out at the vineyard across town. He says—“

“Woah, man,” Faith interrupted with a disbelieving shake of her head. “You got this shit from Spike? Vampire Spike, that gave your sis that lovely shiner she’s sporting.”

“She totally started it, she’s so hung up on the soul. But Spike’s trying to help, and he found out where Caleb is, didn’t he?” She didn’t wait for an answer before ploughing on. “Spike says we can’t just go barging in. Caleb’s way too strong. He thinks you and Buffy should do recon - maybe Willow, too - but keep the potentials out of it.”

“You trust him?” She eyed the younger girl carefully, knowing she’d been right with her initial observation that the brat kid was gone, but that didn’t necessarily mean she could trust her judgement on this.

“With my life.” The answer came so swiftly, so emphatically, that Faith found herself nodding her consent.

“All right.” She propped herself against the washing machine and raised and eyebrow at the younger girl. “Let’s hear it, then.”
…………...................


A/N The previous chapter had exactly zero reviews, that nought, nothing, zip, none. Bear pouted until her lip hurt and stamped her paws.

The chapter did however have hits so I assume people are reading, if this story is going wrong let me know, if not keep reading and I'll keep posting.

Reviews are of course optional but greatly appreciated.

A/N - April ones again ensured this chapter was more punctuaty then my version. Thats her word not mine, prehaps she's not the best choice for proof reading, she's just making up words as she goes along.
Joking only! April is not only the grammer queen she also saved me from including a great deal of very uncharateristic swearing from Buffy.


................................

“So what you say you and I do a little recon?” Faith asked after giving the blonde slayer and the scoobies a comprehensive description of Caleb’s location and the force he had mustered there. “Maybe take Sabrina with us just in case we need some mojo.”

“No.” Buffy shook her head, her expression determined. “You’ve already got everything recon would get us. We’ll go in in force, the whole gang. The potentials need to be battle tested. We’ll take all but Kathrin, Stacy, and that tall blonde girl with the lisp - what’s her name?”

“Becca,” Faith supplied. “But we should keep all the potentials away from this. Caleb’s wicked strong; they’re not ready.”

“They’ll never be ready if they don’t fight,” Buffy countered. “Willow, will you be able to give us anything magic wise?”

“Maybe a little.” The redhead looked unsure. “A confusion spell or something. Not combat magic, though. It’s too dark.” She glanced around apprehensively. “I want to, but it’s violent and I’m not sure I could control it.”

“That’s ok, Wills,” Buffy assured her, stamping down on the exasperation she felt rising in her at the witch’s continued reluctance to make use of her awesome power. Why was she the only one making any sacrifices in this war? Why was she expected to coddle all of them: the potentials, Willow, the scoobies? Even after her “get it done” speech, still none of them took the initiative, none of them was willing to go the extra mile, make the hard choices, take the God damn risks. She closed her eyes, setting her jaw against the desire to lay into them again. God, if it weren’t for Spike, she’d have no one she could put her faith in. Crap, she swore mentally. Where the hell did that thought come from? She couldn’t put her faith in Spike. Not anymore.

She glanced at the Scythe lying proudly on the dining room table. Even from across the room, she could feel the power of it humming in her senses. He’d gotten that for her, risked everything, sacrificed more than she could know to get it for her. She shook her head in frustration and turned back to the room.

“I’m done waiting,” she told them decisively. “I’m done sitting around just waiting to be attacked, waiting for another girl to die.” She paused, scanning the room. “We go in tonight and we finish this.”
……………………………

“Buffy.” Giles’ voice stopped her on her way up the stairs. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her impatience written clearly on her face.

“Buffy,” he continued, once he had her attention. “I was wondering how your patrol went last night. Did you find Spike?”

She sighed, not relishing having this conversation. “Look, Giles, can we do this another time? I’ve got a whole heap of things to get ready and I want to head out at sunset.”

“It’ll only take a moment,” he assured her, gesturing toward the dining room with his hand. She followed him reluctantly and stood just inside the door with her arms folded. Willow and Xander were sitting at the table looking expectantly at her. She frowned, a sense of having been ambushed making her feel irritated and edgy.

“Patrol was a bust, okay?” she lied easily. “I didn’t see Spike.” They looked unconvinced, so she continued casually. “We’ll take care of Caleb tonight, then I’ll deal with Spike, okay?” She straightened, ready to leave, anxious to escape the weight of their questioning—or was that accusing?—gazes.

“Buffy.” Giles’ voice was low and calm, but the tone of disappointment and reprimand was unmistakable. “You were seen talking with Spike in the back yard last night.” He slipped on the glasses he had been absently polishing while he’d made his accusation and fixed her with a challenging look.

Her eyes widened, guiltily for a moment, before her shock turned to outrage. “Are you spying on me?”

“Not spying.” Xander rose, holding out his hands in a calming gesture. “More just keeping an eye out for you.” She moved to speak but he cut her off. “Can you blame us, Buff?” he asked, a tinge of betrayal seeping into his voice. “I mean, we thought you’d have learnt your lesson with Angel, but…” He shook his head, trying to look sympathetic. “I know it’s gotta hurt, but I think it’s clear what you have to do.”

“Xander is right.” Giles interrupted her gaping at Xander and she turned her head slowly to look at him, feeling dazed by their attack. “Your duty is clear, and you seem to once again be having trouble in executing it. Perhaps…”

“Duty!” Buffy sputtered indignantly. “There is nothing I don’t know about duty. I died for it, and I’ll die again for it sooner rather than later. So don’t you dare lecture me about duty.”

“Buffy, please.” Willow’s voice was soft, almost pleading, but the Slayer could see the accusation in her eyes, hidden beneath a thin veil of concern. “We don’t want to fight. We’re just concerned and a little scared. Spike’s not exactly predictable, you know, and…”

“Spike won’t do anything.” The moment the words where out of her mouth, she knew it was a mistake. It sounded too much like a defence, too much like she trusted the vampire. She quickly tried to cover her mistake. “Look, I said I’d deal with Spike,” she insisted, “and I will.”

“When?” Xander demanded angrily. He advanced on her so he was standing only an arm’s length away. “Who has to die this time before you’ll do anything? Who’s dying right now because you won’t finish off your boy toy?” They had meant to keep the discussion calm and reasoned, but he couldn’t control his rising anger. Buffy was betraying all of them all over again because of that demon. God, how he hated Spike. He saw Anya in his mind’s eye, sprawled across the Magic Box table, her head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure as she let that thing fuck her. He cocked his head and gave the slayer a disgusted look. “Is he really that good a lay?”

Buffy’s hand moved of its own volition, delivering a sharp stinking slap across his face, turning his expression from angry to startled. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched his cheek redden. “Oh, God, Xander, I’m so sorry.”

He gave her one last betrayed look and pushed past her out of the dining room.

…………………………

“Pst! Kiddo.” Faith caught Dawn’s attention from the half-open door, signalling with her hand for the younger girl to join her in the basement.

“What’s up?” Dawn asked nervously, unsettled by Faith’s cloak and dagger demeanour.

The slayer glanced at the now closed door. “Can you get to Spike before dusk?” she asked seriously, her dark eyes fixed on Dawn’s bright blue ones.

“Yeah, sure,” Dawn answered with a frown, wondering where the one time rogue was going with this.

“Great. I need you to go. Now. I’ll cover for you with Buffy.” She set her jaw. “Go get Spike. Get him to the vineyard as soon after sunset as he can make it.”

“Spike can’t go to the vineyard,” she protested. “Buffy’ll kill him.”

“Listen, Dawn. If Spike’s info’s good, then this mission’s suicide, man.” She sighed deeply and shook her head. “I fought Caleb. I know I’m a bit rusty and all, but hell, this guy’s strong. The girls aren’t ready. Fuck, B and me ain’t even ready. Get Spike, Dawn. I gotta feelin’ we’re gonna need him.”

…………………

Buffy walked in silence next to Xander, glancing awkwardly at her friend as they approached the vineyard. He was a good friend, really he was. And despite everything, despite his harsh words earlier, he still believed in her, would still follow her, unquestioning, into battle.

She couldn’t describe how touched she’d been catching the end of his speech to the mutinous potentials. He’d told them not to doubt her, to trust her judgment and her strength as he did. She owed it to him—to all her friends, but to him most of all—to be the friend and the slayer he thought her to be.

“I will deal with it, Xander,” she told him softly. “It’s just hard, you know?”

He gave her a wan smile, seeing the conflict, the pain in her eyes. He wanted Spike dead as much as the next sane person, but he didn’t want her so hurt, so desolate because of it. “Sure you will, Buff.” His tone was light but his eyes were serious. “It’s what you do, right?”

She gave a tight smile. Yep, that was her. That was what she did, got the people closest to her killed. ‘Spike’s not people,’ she reminded herself, but somehow it rang hollow in her mind. Spike was Spike and God how she didn’t want to have to kill him.

……………………………….

Buffy heard Rona’s arm break with a sickeningly loud crack. She saw Faith, dazed but recovering against the far wall. Xander was running down the steps followed by his band of reinforcements, but there were so many bringers swarming in the basement she doubted it would do much good.

Across the room she saw Caleb snap the dark haired potential’s neck—God, she should really know their names—like a dry twig and launched herself again at the cleric, only to be swatted aside with an easy swing of his arm.

She didn’t need to hear his feral growl to know he was there, fighting for her, just like he’d promised. He filled her senses, powerful and savage, and she felt her own strength return. Climbing to her feet she saw him position himself between the minister and a terrified Molly.

He was powerful, yes, but still no match for Caleb. The exchange of blows lasted a woefully short time and ended in the vampire’s thrown body shattering a huge oak barrel, spilling rich red wine across the floor like blood. She called the retreat. “Xander, get them out of here. Do it.”

She tried to fight her way toward Caleb as he advanced on Molly with an evil grin, but, God, there were just too many bringers. She arrived just as he withdrew his knife from the girl’s side and his glib comment enraged her. This time, her attack was enough and she managed to send him flying backwards as Xander and Spike ushered the potentials to safety.

She was just ahead of Spike and moving up the stairs when she heard Caleb’s Southern drawl, followed by Xander’s anguished scream. Turning, she saw Spike barrel into the pair, knocking them apart like skittles. She rushed to Xander’s side, ignoring the bloody mess that had been his left eye, and helped Spike support the young man’s weight as they fled up the stairs.

.......................

A/N TheBear might throw a little tantrum more often. I chucked all my toys out off the pram in the last chapter because I didn't get any reviews for the previous one, and voila. 5 lovely reviews appeared.

Thanks to the people that pandered to TheBear's pouting.

ilpopi - I'm glad you like, the Spuffy is not far off now, I'm tagging the seventh season so we're moving towards "empty places" and "touched"

Welcome Caz, definately like Spike unsouled, you're right ME could have really used him to address our concepts of good and evil but with Joss it's all about the soul. Blah!

Eloquently put Chymera, I noticed you got back to Balance, loved that story ages ago I'm running off now to read the updates

Cheers Rana, some very bigoted anti spike feeling in this story, perhaps Xander'll have to rethink his position now.

Thanks Miz_thang, I certainly shall.

A/N Thanks to April who got this chapter proofed days ago. The delay in getting it up is totally my bad and I apologies profusely. It is also short, again I am sorry.

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They kept moving, dragging the wounded along with them as they fled towards the relative safety of the town. Buffy heard Faith ahead of her calling for an ambulance on the group’s communal cell phone, her voice urgent over the sound of running feet. The girls moved together, keeping close, the injured Rona at their centre.

Faith was making another call, but Buffy didn’t hear her over Xander’s sudden cry of pain as he stumbled, slipping from her supporting arms. Spike had him, supporting the heavier man’s weight with ease, keeping them moving. She looked over at the pair beside her, Xander’s bulkier frame leaning heavily on the vampire, his breath coming in painful, noisy gasps.

“Hang in there, whelp,” she heard Spike mutter, his voice low and compassionate despite the insult. “Nearly there.”

Streetlights lit their way now, casting an eerie orange glow across Xander’s face. ‘Oh God,’ Buffy stifled a sob, ‘Xander, no.’ The left side of his face was a sticky mess of blood, black in the artificial light against the paleness of his skin. His right eye flashed wide and frightened, tinted yellow around its dark centre. His left eye was no more than a gory shapeless stain above his cheek.

They slowed their pace as they reached the low-lit car park of an out of town DIY store. “Told the ambulance to meet us here,” Faith informed her, dragging her attention away from her friend. “Rona’s arm’s broken but the rest just have bumps and bruises. Giles is coming to take them home.” Buffy nodded mutely, glad that the dark slayer was taking charge.

She turned back to Xander, just as Spike settled him down on a low wall. She bit her lip and fought back tears. She needed to be strong now; she’d cry later when she was alone, when she could conjure Xander’s bloodied face, Molly’s vacant eyes, the dark haired potential’s—God, she didn’t even know that girl’s name and she had gotten her killed. ‘Looks like it’s not just people I care about that die,’ she thought bitterly, moving towards Xander as he raised a trembling hand to his face.

“Don’t, mate,” Spike stopped him gently, catching the young man’s hand just before the fingers touched the surface of the gory pool that had once been his left eye. “Don’t.”

Xander swallowed hard but nodded to the vampire and dropped his hand. Spike caught Buffy’s eye and inclined his head in a subtle suggestion that she come to sit with her friend. She complied immediately, slipping in against Xander’s side, her arm wrapping comfortingly around his thick waist. “Oh, God, Xander, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she pulled herself close to his warm body.

She felt rather than heard his shaky sigh and stroked her hands gently up his back. “The ambulance is on its way,” she told him in a whisper. He didn’t acknowledge her, so she just kept gently stroking his back.

The sound of an engine broke the stupefied silence of the car park and Buffy looked up to see Giles and Dawn hastily getting out of her mother’s SUV. Giles went to Kennedy, giving instructions too quietly for Buffy to hear. Dawn rushed to join Faith and Spike; she hadn’t even realised he’d moved from Xander’s other side. Faith’s worried, “What happened?” just loud enough for Buffy to catch. A brief exchange of words and Dawn was turning towards them. She heard Faith’s gentle, “Don’t, kiddo, not yet,” but for a moment thought Dawn would come anyway, until Spike caught her arm and shook his head slowly, keeping the girl away.

She watched the three of them form a triangle, talking in urgent whispers, Faith occasionally gesturing with her arms. She saw Dawn’s shoulders shake violently, and knew that she was sobbing. Spike opened his arms and her sister went easily into his embrace, burying her face in his chest. Buffy could see his lips moving, as he soothed her with quiet words of comfort. Faith’s hand came up to stroke the young girl’s back as she mouthed something to Spike, who nodded and disentangled himself from the clinging teenager, transferring her into the dark slayer’s care.

Giles was there suddenly, appearing at Xander’s other side. He opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it. “Stay with him,” she ordered curtly as she stood. She saw Spike and Faith exchange words briefly over Dawn’s head before he turned away, his long coat uncharacteristically sluggish as it swirled lazily around his body.

She ran. A handful of accelerated strides and she was able to catch up with him at the car park’s edge. “Spike.” Her voice stopped him but he didn’t turn to face her.

“Go back to the whelp, slayer,” he told her, his voice devoid of emotion. “He needs ya right now.”

“I will. I just…” she trailed off. She just what? Why had she come running after him? Why had she felt it so important to say something to him before he left? When he turned to face her, his eyes were so soft, so impossibly regretful, so understanding that she found she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Her hand came to cover her mouth, as if trying to physically contain the sound of her broken sob.

“Oh, pet.” Again he found himself weak in the face of her tears. He moved a hand to her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. It was all she needed; she threw herself into the comfort of his arms, tears flowing in salty torrents over her cheeks to soak through the thin cotton of his t-shirt and burn his chest.

“Shh, pet,” he mumbled softly, his hand moving to stroke her hair. “Hush, baby, it’s not your fault. “ How did he always know what was going on in her head, even when she herself had no idea how to extricate herself the sticky web of her own tangled emotions?

She shook her head against his chest in denial of his assurance. “I didn’t listen,” she told him tearfully. “Faith said to hold off, she said he was too strong, but I didn’t listen.”

“Hey now.” He pulled back slightly, gently tilting her face up to look at him. “Don’t do that. You couldn’t have known.”

“No, but I could have listened.” Her voice was harsh, the anger in it unmistakable, but he knew that her reproach was not directed at him, it was turned inward; self-recrimination burned bitterly in her eyes.

“Don’t beat yourself up, pet. You did your best.” He realised his mistake the moment he spoke, just a moment before she jerked violently out of his arms.

“I did my best?” Her voice was too loud in the still night air, and she dropped it to a disgusted whisper, self-loathing dripping from the words like tar. “I did my best?” she repeated with a rueful shake of her head. “You tell that to Xander or Molly or--” she bit her lip, screwing her eyes shut against the onset of more tears. “God, I didn’t even know her name.” The anger was gone, and she sounded so lost, so despairing, that Spike had to risk going to her again.

She only resisted for a moment, before she succumbed to the cool consolation of his embrace. He rocked her gently, swaying their bodies as if dancing to some sultry love song. “Her name was Katie,” he whispered in her ear, gently forcing her body to keep moving when she stiffened in he arms. “I overheard her talking to Rona after Chloe died.” He petted her hair and paused for a moment before continuing. “Rona was shooting her mouth off as usual, complaining that you weren’t protecting them all well enough.” Again her body tensed in his arms, but he ignored her. “Katie was a quiet sort of bird but she spoke up. She said that you were doing your best and maybe they needed to look out for each other as well. She told them you couldn’t protect them all 24/7, so they’d all have to learn to look after themselves.”

Buffy frowned against his chest, the potential—Katie, she corrected herself—had spoken up for her when all the others had done nothing but question and complain. Katie had believed in her and now Katie was dead. She tried to pull away. Was he just telling her this to hurt her? Just to rub it in?

He held onto her arms firmly and made her meet his eyes. “What I’m saying, pet, is that Katie wasn’t here for your protection. She was here to help, to fight. She knew the risks and she was ready to face them.”

She absorbed his words—not very comforting, but she suspected they weren’t meant to be. Spike didn’t do platitudes; he did hard painful truth. “Pretty soon these girls are gonna have to be your army,” he continued. “It’s a hard way to learn the lesson, but now they know. They know they’re not ready and they’ll train now. They’ll buckle down and they’ll get ready, because now they know. They know what happens if they’re not.”

…………………………….


A/N

Thank you Rana for reviewing, you get a cookie, everyone else gets a stern look and a dissapointed shake of the head

A/N This chapter summerises and tags along with empty places, so if you haven't seen that you might be a bit confused. Don't worry I won't be writing this kind of chapter again, it was a nightmare. I just needed to get the event's of Empty Places out of the way so I can move on with the story.

April said I got the past perfect tense right, I don't even know what the past perfect tense is, but I got it right. TheBear grins broadly at her wonderful proof reader April, and hold's out her hand for a cookie.

..........................


What a day. Buffy gingerly touched the bruise blossoming on her left cheek as she lay down on the soft double bed in her newly-commandeered house. What a day.

It had started badly. Finally leaving the hospital early that morning, she’d be confronted by the great exodus of Sunnydale. Humans and demons alike making tracks away from the growing malevolence of the hellmouth. She’d seen Clem driving his bright red Beetle out of town and for a moment she’d been able to relax, but his tactless “I don’t think anyone will be able to stop it” had echoed in her mind long after the good-natured demon had driven off.

She was still hearing the words when Willow and Giles returned from their little Interpol charade down at Sunnydale police station with a file full of less-than-appetising facts about Caleb’s colourful past.

But she’d heard them loudest back at the hospital that afternoon, as she’d listened to Xander’s heartbreaking attempts to make light of his situation. God, poor Xander. He didn’t deserve this. He was a good person, brave and loyal; he put it all on the line year after year to fight the forces of darkness with her. He didn’t deserve this. But then neither did Rona, or Molly, or Katie.

Thinking of Katie lying dead in that cursed wine cellar sent her thoughts spinning around to Spike. Evil, soulless Spike, who had known Katie’s name when she hadn’t, who had walked once again into the lion’s den to help her. She’d looked sadly at Xander’s bandaged eye. He’d saved Xander too last night. More than that, he’d practically carried him out of the vineyard, been kind to him when he had no reason to be. Hadn’t Xander insisted Buffy stake him just hours before? She shook her head; it wasn’t the time for recriminations or introspection, so she’d just smiled sadly at her friend and left.

Things hadn’t improved when she got back home. Dawn’s innocent but insistent questioning about Xander had fuelled her guilt and for once she had been grateful to have Faith there to deflect her sister’s concern. Kennedy’s glib comment about Caleb rendering a slayer useless with a single punch had cut to the quick, most of all because it was so patently true.

Caleb at the school, taunting her with her own ineptitude, not to mention cracking her head against a wall so hard she didn’t come to till the evening was just the—the perfect end to a terrible day. She hadn’t believed at that point her day could get any worse, but, hey, there’s always a lower place.

She’d dragged herself home to find the house deserted all but for Giles, studying Caleb’s file in the dining room. He’d spotted the discolouration on her jaw, her desolate look, and jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Good lord, Buffy. Are you ok?” he’d asked, his voice full of concern, as he’d stood to help her into a chair.

“Just peachy,” she’d replied with half-hearted sarcasm. “Had me another fun run in with our local big bad. The usual pattern: you know, listen to evil attempt at humour, fight, pretty birdies ‘round my head.”

“Oh, good lord.” Giles had sat next to her and watched her intently as he’d asked, “Did you manage to stake him?”

Too tired to immediately realise that they were talking at cross-purposes, she’d simply shaken her head. “I don’t think that’d work, Giles.” Glancing at the police files, she’d asked, “You find any clues in there about what would?”

There had been a moment of awkward silence as they’d both recognised their misunderstanding. “Oh.” Giles had picked up the file. “I thought you were talking about Spike. I saw him at the car park last night and assumed you were having trouble with him again. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to…”

“What?” she’d cut in, unable to control her annoyance at the assumption. “He was there so he must have been causing trouble, right?” The injustice of it had added to her rancour. Had no one told Giles that Spike had risked his life to fight with them? Had it slipped everyone’s mind that Xander owed the vampire – if not his life, then certainly his sight?

“Buffy, I saw Spike lurking in the car park. You yourself ran over to get rid of him. It’s only natural I assume…”

She hadn’t let him finish; suddenly it had seemed important to defend her vampire, and, yes, as he’d come under attack she had thought of him as hers. “I ran over to thank him.” She’d stood up quickly and her battered body had punished her with a wave of nausea that she’d only been able to ignore by virtue of the intensity of her anger. “I had to thank him. He came to the vineyard, he tried to save Molly, he did save Xander. God, why can’t you people give him a chance?”

Giles had watched her outburst with the same unnerving calmness that had so often left her feeling uncertain and defensive in the past. “A chance?” he had asked, letting his tone imply all that was needed about the imprudence of giving a soulless vampire a chance. “Need I remind you he has no soul? And the chip that would have restrained him was removed at your insistence.” That accusation had hung in the tense silence for a long frosty moment before he’d continued. “Need I remind you that Spike is a monster, the same monster that has killed hundreds if not thousands of innocents, a monster that you yourself have been a victim of not that long ago?”

And there it was: attempted rape, a personal violation too heinous to be forgiven. Her mind had reeled with the memory, her watcher’s words spinning in her head: “the same monster.” Her mind had supplied two images of him: his cruel demonic visage as he’d advanced on her in the school the first time they’d fought all those years ago, and his pained and haunted eyes as he’d pushed open her robe in the bathroom. She had tried to reconcile the two, to see the same creature in each image, but had found she couldn’t. A third image rose, his face bruised almost beyond recognition, a soft brush of lips, her own voice soft and sincere “that was real. I won’t forget it.” But she had; she’d forgotten, somewhere amongst all the screwing, all the fighting and abuse, she had completely forgotten. She wouldn’t forget again.

“The same monster that let Glory torture him half to death?” the evenness of her voice had surprised her, the strength of her conviction making her calm.

“Buffy.” He’d frowned and looked at her with disapproving eyes. “That’s hardly relevant now…”

“It’s relevant,” she’d insisted hotly. “He’s almost died for me so many times, put up with so much for me. I think he deserves a chance and I’m going to give him one. You want someone to stake him, you send Faith, because I won’t do it.”

They’d stared at each other, neither able to find anything to say, until the uncharacteristic silence of the house had finally registered with her. “Giles, where is everyone?”

And hadn’t her little trip to retrieve Faith and the potentials from the Bronze been a bundle of laughs? Just as she’d begun to feel grateful for the dark-haired slayer’s presence, Faith had to go and pull a stunt like that. Blowing off steam was one thing, but drinking and fights with the police were something else. Faith had said she needed to let the girls make mistakes so they could learn. Didn’t she see they just didn’t have time? In retrospect, hitting Faith had probably been a mistake, but after hearing Faith’s accusation, she’d snapped.

Things hadn’t improved when Xander had finally gotten home, bravely going along with Dawn and the potentials’ sorry attempt at a welcome home celebration.

Once Xander and Willow were back, there hadn’t seemed any point in delaying, so she’d outlined her plan. She’d told them how she’d found out. How Caleb had tried to distract her with the seal, how her instincts told her he was hiding something in the vineyard. She told them they would have to go back in, and that was when everything had gone to hell.

Faith had challenged her. Rona had called her reckless. Even Willow had questioned her judgement. Xander’s sad “I’m trying to see your point here, Buff, but I think it must be a little to my left” had shaken her, but she’d ploughed on. She was sure about this. No, she hadn’t had proof, but her slayer instinct had to count for something. She’d raised the stakes, given them the ultimatum: “We have to be together on this,” and they’d called her bluff.

It hadn’t been Faith’s fault, not really. She’d just been there, a convenient alternative for the mutinous troops. She’d lashed out at the dark slayer all the same; old rivalries and mistrust had made her channel her hurt, her frustrated anger, in Faith’s direction. It hadn’t been Faith’s suggestion that she be usurped – it had been the others, including Willow and Giles and Xander, and, God, even Dawn.

She felt tears prick her eyes at the memory of her sister calmly telling her to leave, and buried her head in the pillow. She’d done enough crying for one day. Now she just wanted to rest. A part – a small but quickly growing part – of her was relieved, glad even: she was out of it all and it wasn’t her fault. She was blameless. She wasn’t turning her back on her duty, she’d been removed from it. She wasn’t ducking her responsibility, she was stepping aside for the greater good, and now she could rest, just lay down here and rest. She’d find out soon enough if they failed.

................................

Hey Chynera - Glad you like and sorry about the wait

Thanks Rana, you're right of course but in the show Spike's actions often spoke loudly, only to be ignored by the scoobies, in their black and white soul is all world.

A/N as always any correctness of grammar is due soley to the efforts of my wonderful proof reader April, she must claim all the credit and thanks

Faith scanned the expectant faces before her; some of the girls - Rona and Kennedy in particular - wore triumphant expressions that made the dark slayer’s hackles rise. Okay, so she and B had had more than their share of differences, but the gloating ingratitude of these girls was beyond distasteful. Others - the sensible ones, she guessed - looked uneasy, maybe even a little scared.

She took a deep breath and looked at Dawn. “Right. I’ve got a plan, but we’ll need reinforcements. Dawn, you know how to find Spike?” The girl look wary but nodded. “Go get him. Giles can drive you.”

“Faith,” Giles’ voice was almost a reprimand, “I don’t think…”

“It’s not your call,” Faith cut him off, surprising herself with the calmness of her own voice. “We’ve all seen what we’re up against. We need all the muscle we can get, and you guys just kicked out a fully-functional slayer.” She paused, pinning the watcher with a challenging stare. “Take Dawn; Spike’s back on the home team.”

For a moment the watcher looked ready to argue. He took a step towards her, removing his glasses. “Faith—“ he began, but she cut him off quickly. It wouldn’t do for this to escalate into a full-blown row in front of the girls.

“You made me the boss, Giles,” she told him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You can’t have it both ways.”

…………………..

“Spike,” Dawn called, her voice barely a whisper. If he were there he’d have no problem hearing her. If he wasn’t, well, then she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

“’Bit?” He emerged from the shadows just behind her, making her jump, her hand going to rest against her pounding chest.

“Jees, Spike.” She frowned at him, “Can we tone down the creature of the night routine? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, pet.” He gave her a soft smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” She took a deep breath. Spike wasn’t going to like any of this. “Look, some stuff’s happened. I need you to come with me.”

“Buffy?” His eyes scanned her face urgently, looking for answers. “Is she okay?”

“Buffy’s fine,” Dawn assured him. “Faith and the others are going to try and capture a bringer. Faith sent me to get you; she wants backup. We’re supposed to meet everyone at the corner of Hilton Street.”

“Right, then.” His voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Let me get my coat. Do I need to bring my own stake or will one be provided?”

“Please, Spike. I can’t explain but I promise no one will stake you.” She gave him her best innocent, pleading look. “If the bringers have a Turok-han, then more girls could get hurt.”

She saw him soften. Oh yeah, he’s the big bad, all right. “Please, Spike, we need you.”

……………………….

He watched from the shadows as Kennedy rounded the corner of the alley, head down, expression sullen. To his left he could hear the soft footsteps of the approaching bringers. He frowned, closing his eyes as he focused on the sound. “Five,” he whispered to the dark-haired slayer beside him. A heavier tread sounded among the scuffle of the bringers’ feet. “And one big nasty.”

She nodded, one deep line appearing between her eyebrows, full lips slightly parted. “All right, how ‘bout you and me deal with ugly and the girls get one bringer between three?”

“Sounds like a plan, pet, though the odds woulda looked a sight better with another slayer on our side.” He watched the girl’s reaction closely, the way her eyes slid away from his, the slight rise in heart rate, the forced casualness to the toss of her hair.

“Like I said, B’s taking some time out. We can handle it.”

Any response the vampire might have made was cut off by Kennedy’s shrill scream. Time to go to work.

……………………..

Faith kicked it hard in the small of the back, springing out of range of its slashing talons as it spun toward her, drawing its attention away from Spike as he picked himself up with a groan. Bloody things were damned difficult to kill. He stood just in time to see it crumple Faith to the ground with a hard stroke of the back of its hand. With a roar, he leapt onto the Neanderthal vampire’s back, ripping at its throat with his own fangs. He held on tight for as long as he could, giving the slayer time to get to her feet, before it shook him off. Their next attack was synchronised, kicks and punches finding a rhythm that left their opponent reeling. Not bad for their first time together. A few more fights like this and they’d make a pretty good team. Not a patch on his and Buffy’s almost telepathic understanding, but pretty good.

Faith feinted left, drawing the Turok-Han with her. Spike read her intention and rolled under its swinging arm to come up behind it, plunging his stake into its armoured back. It arched away from the pain, giving him a chance to grab its arms, holding it in place for a few moments. A knife appeared in the dark slayer’s hand - a wicked, glinting blade, perhaps ten inches long. She swung at the thing’s throat, hacking at the tough, leathery skin until she finally detached its head from its body and it fell to dust between them.

They grinned at each other, enjoying the moment of shared victory. “Not bad, luv,” he complimented in a sexy drawl. “Remind me not to rub you up the wrong way.”

She gave him a bold, flirtatious look. “You can rub me up any way you want, tiger,” she said with a sassy wink and turned away to join the potentials.

“Well done, girls.” She said, her voice strong and business like as she stared down at the bound bringer at her feet. The other four lay dead, scattered around the alley. “Let’s get it back to the house.”

Kennedy and Vi dragged the thing to its feet and headed off towards Revello, with the rest of the potentials trailing after, chattering excitedly about the battle. Faith followed for a couple of steps before turning and locking eyes with the vampire, a half smile gracing her crimson lips. “You coming, blondie?” she invited casually.

…………………….

“Mission accomplished, I see,” Xander greeted tiredly as he and Willow entered the kitchen. Surprise flashed across his face when he saw the vampire but he didn’t say anything.

“So where’s Buffy?” Spike asked, peering through into the living room.

“She’s not here. I told you,“ Faith answered distractedly as Kennedy and Vi brought the bringer in. “Come on, we’ll tie it up in the basement,” she ordered briskly, leading the way downstairs.

“So when’s she get back?” Spike asked, looking between their nervous, guilty faces.

It was Willow who answered, wringing her hands nervously. “Uh...while you were gone, we all got together and t-talked out some disagreements that we were having,” she stuttered. “Um... and, eventually, after much discussion, Buffy decided that it would be best for all of us if she took a little time off, a little breather.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. I see. Been practicing that little speech long, have you?” He held the witch’s gaze challengingly, until she turned away. “So, uh, Buffy took some time off right in the middle of the apocalypse, and it was her decision?”

Xander pitched in then, trying to add his own justification for their treachery. “Well, we all decided.”

“Oh, right,” he drawled, his eyes fixed on the younger man. “of course, she needed a break.” his condescending sneer left Xander in no doubt that he had not been taken in by their clumsy deceit. “She works too hard,” Spike continued with feigned understanding. “Best thing for her, a bit of time out. So she’ll be back in a day or two, then? All refreshed and ready for the killing?”

“Yes,” Willow nodded vigorously. “That’s just what we thought. Uh, just what Buffy thought.”

“Right.” He gave a determined nod, stepping past the redhead and into the dining room. They watched him curiously, Xander with his head tilted to get the best view through his remaining eye, and Willow frowning deeply.

He reappeared moments later with the Scythe in his hand. “I’ll be off, then.” He turned to Dawn, who had just appeared in the doorway with Giles. “Sorry, pet.” He gave her a sincere apologetic look. “But I gotta go.”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to allow you to take that.” Giles inclined his head towards the scythe and fixed the vampire with a flinty stare.

Spike smirked. “You wont allow it,” he drawled, his tone at once mocking and threatening.

It was Xander, in a rare moment of diplomacy, who raised his hands and came between the two. “Spike, man,” he addressed the vampire. “We’re grateful for your help.” He gestured at his own face. “Me most of all, and, God, I never thought I’d be saying that.” He shook himself, getting back on track. “But you know we can’t let you take the Scythe.”

"Can't really stop me either, can you?" he stated matter-of-factly, eying the small group of humans. "Now, I went to more than a bit of trouble to get this for the Slayer and I fancy her to have it. If any of you can tell me where she might be, I'd be right grateful. If not, I'll find her on my own." He raised an eyebrow when none of them answered, and turned to leave. Behind him, he heard Giles call for Faith and quickened his pace. The Scoobies might not be able to dispossess him of the Scythe but Faith would stand a fair chance.

He was a hundred yards down Revello when he heard the dark slayer’s boots beating on the tarmac behind him. "Spike," she called, her voice urgent but unthreatening.

He stopped, letting her catch up. "I'm going to find Buffy," he told her, keeping his back to her. "And where I go, the sharp and shiny goes, too." He turned to face her, ready for the inevitable fight, and was surprised to see a troubled frown on her pretty face.

"I never wanted it to go down like this, man," she told him, shaking her head slightly and biting down on her full lower lip. "I'm no leader. I'm the loner, the trouble maker, the rebel." She gave him a wry grin. "You know how it is."

He smirked back at her, eyes lighting with amused understanding - him and her, two of a bloody kind. "It's funny," she told him. "I used to look at B, with her friends and her watcher and her cute vamp boyfriends...“ She let her eyes travel appreciatively over his body for a moment before growing serious. "Everyone listening to her, following her, and – I don't know - jealous." She shook her head, breaking eye contact. "Now suddenly it's me everyone's looking to, wanting me to lead them. I'm right in the centre and I've never felt so alone."

She looked down, eyebrows pinched together in troubled thought, and in that moment he could see right through her tough girl armour. He saw a lost, frightened child in her big brown eyes and he knew her, knew her intimately, because she was him. "Hey, pet." He touched her shoulder gently, bringing her out of her reverie. "You're not doing so bad."

She smile gratefully at him, but shook her head in denial of his words. "I'm totally in the dark, man, and this shit is big." She glanced down at the Scythe, felt it reverberating power, and gave a slow, determined nod of her head. "Bring her back," she told the vampire, fixing her huge brown eyes on his. "Just bring her back."


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A/N Sorry about the severe lack of Buffy in this chapter, we'll get back to her in the next one

Thanks to Rana for taking tht time to review. I hated writing the last chapter and your comments made me feel much better

A/N - This story got completely stuck sometime last year, I always wanted to finish it but I had no ispiration at all for how to do it. Then Propechy and warmth took over my life and I never got back to it.

Then slaymesofty emailed me just to ask if I was ever going to finished it and Bang! the ending appeared as if by magic in my mind. Special thanks to her then and as always to the wonderful April who finds time in her hectic life to make my prose readable. xxxxx

So finally, after a long hiatus, on with the yarn

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She felt power tugging at her through the comforting cocoon of sleep. His power, dark and seductive, enticing her body into wakefulness. The other, too: that deeper well of resonating power, its ancient thrum a siren call to her slayer spirit.

She stared uselessly into the darkness. Letting her spider senses do what her eyes could not, she located him in the shadows near the door. "Hello, Spike," she greeted with a tired sigh.

"Buffy." His voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but filled with uncompromising determination. "Time to get up, pet. There's work to do."

She sat up and flicked on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in soft golden light. She let her eyes trail over him, taking in the tension of his body, the tightness in his jaw that betrayed the anger he felt. Not with her, though; with them. He held the scythe loosely at his side. He must have been to Revello, must know what they had done. "I don't think so, Spike." She leant back against the headboard, arms crossed over her chest defensively.

He shook his head. "Ah-ah, none of that, Slayer," he cajoled. "Get your skinny arse outta bed. We got ourselves a world to save."

She sighed and shook her head. "Tell it to Faith." Her words lacked the venom she herself had expected.

He frowned. "Well, I would, but…" He raised the scythe, showing it to her before laying it on the dressing table. "The nice lady who gave me this little beauty was very clear on keeping it away from the unworthy. Now, Faith's a nice enough bird, but she's on my side of worthy I reckon."

There was an unmistakable affection in his tone, a sort of upside-down respect. She snorted, an insipid jealousy nudging half-heartedly at her heart. "You been there tonight?"

"Yeah." He picked up on it, leering at her slightly as she swung her legs off the bed. "Me and your evil twin had a right good time of it killing an ugly. Gotta admit, the girl’s got spunk. Sassy, too."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Typical Faith, always wants to play with my toys." She shook her head. "So, what, stealing my life isn't enough? She wants you, too?"

In any other situation he would have called her on her slip, asked if he was hers, taunted her for her jealousy, maybe wound her up with some lascivious comment about the dark slayer’s assets. But now was not the time. "Not exactly, pet," he told her seriously. "Matter of fact, she's none too happy about your little role reversal. She's not stupid, luv. She knows they need you, even if the others don't get it yet."

Buffy didn’t answer, just gave a loud unconvinced humph and buried her head in her hands. She really wanted him to go. She was still so tired. She couldn't go back, couldn't fight the Scoobies and the First and him. She just wanted to rest a little longer, like maybe forever.

"Ouch!" Something hard hit her in the side of the head. She raised a hand just in time to catch the second projectile. "Spike," she groused, throwing her boot on the ground between her feet.

"Come on, come on." His body virtually buzzed with an energy that was more than just demonic power, it was him. Spike—a powder keg of nervous tension. He always had energy to burn, was always ready for the next fight. How could it be that even after a century, youthful enthusiasm bubbled freely from him while she felt so lethargic, so jaded, so very old?

He was looking at her expectantly, his face open, almost hopeful. He wore his patented Buffy-can-do-it face, complete faith in her shining from his eyes.

She felt annoyance begin to break through the cotton wool numbness she had felt since Dawn had kissed her goodbye. "What do you want me to do, Spike?" she bit out, standing up and gesturing angrily with her arms. "They chose, okay. They chose Faith. End. Of. Story." She stepped away, turning her back on him, and clenched her jaw against the violent onslaught of feeling. She didn't want to feel, she just wanted to rest.

She heard him snort derisively, could almost see his sneer. "Pathetic," he accused disgustedly. "Just bloody pathetic."

"Go away, Spike," she hissed, keeping her back to him. God, why wouldn't he just go? It was over; there was nothing she could do now.

"Don't think so, luv." His hand came down heavily on her shoulder, spinning her round roughly. "You want me to leave, you're just gonna have to make me."

She squared her shoulders and tilted her head to the side. If that's how he wanted to play it. "Fine." She backhanded him hard across the face, making him stumble to the side. Pressing her advantage, she swung a hook kick at the back of his lowered head, sending him sprawling forward. She descended on him, coming to straddle his waist just as he rolled on to his back, raising her fist to strike. One punch, hard on his left temple, whipped his head to the side. A second connected with the right side of his jaw, sending a small spray of blood onto the carpet. She drew back again and stopped abruptly.

'That's it, lay it all on me. That's my girl.' The memory was so vivid, their positions so similar—him sprawled beneath her, willingly accepting whatever she chose to dish out; her angrily laying her pain and fear on him, comforting her broken spirit with the feel of his perfect skin breaking under her fists. 'That was real. I won't forget it.' She brought her hand down, open palmed and gentle, to catch his chin and turn his face so she could look into his ice blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmured softly, and she was. Not just for the bruise already beginning to colour one of his defined cheekbones, but also for the others, for all the hundreds of times she’d bruised him, inside and out.

His eyes held hers quizzically as his hand came up to mirror hers, softly cupping her check as she ran her thumb gently over the discolouration of his. "Shh, pet," he crooned softly when her eyes began to glisten with gathering tears. "Now's not the time. Like I said, there's work to do."

She stood up and turned away from him again, her shoulders slumping tiredly. She didn't want to go to work; she just wanted to stay here, in this eerily quiet house, in this room and let the world pass her by, for better or for worse. "Spike, I don't think—"

"Don't think." She hadn't heard him move, but suddenly he was behind her, so close she had to close her eyes against the desire to lean back into his arms. His hands reached past her, lifting the scythe and pressing the smooth handle into her hands. His breath was cool against her ear as she opened her eyes to look at the weapon lying in her upturned hands. "Feel."

For a moment she thought to resist, to push the scythe away, but she couldn't. She felt its power seep through the skin of her palms, making her blood thrum expectantly in her veins. Instinctively, she closed her fingers around the smooth cool shaft and let her eyes fall shut.

Images assaulted her, flashing across the screen of her mind: ancient past, present, future, and all the times in between blurring with roller coaster speed in her mind’s eye. She gasped and opened her eyes, gaze fixing on the point in the shadowed mirror where his eyes should have looked back. "We have to go to the vineyard."

She spun out of his arms, gathering up her coat and shoes. "Back to the vineyard?" She glanced up from where she'd sat down on the bed, hurriedly pulling on her boots, to catch his wary look. "With its small army of bringers and Billy the unkillable preacher man?" He gave her a small, doubtful smile. "Er, just you and me?"

She hadn't expected it from him. He wasn't supposed to question her. He never questioned her. Her pendulum conviction faltered for a second, then he grinned and rubbed his hands together with childlike relish. "Right-ho then." His eyes danced with expectation. "Stop by the crypt on the way, though. I've got a 2 ft broad sword I've been dying to try out."

She let out a nervous bark of laughter. Yeah, just the two of them, into the lion's den. Just as it should be.

………………………………………………………

"So," he whispered, as the vineyard loomed before them in the predawn blackness. "How'd you come up with this suicidal plan anyway?"

"It's not my plan," she told him distractedly, eyes scanning the area for a way in. The main entrance didn't hold much appeal after their last visit.

"Um, pet?" He put his hand on her arm, getting her attention. "Not your plan? You didn't get it from the fairies, did ya? 'Cos trust me, those little bastards aren't the most reliable sods in the world."

She didn't smile; it was at best a weak attempt at gallows humour. "From here." She held up the scythe. "Come on."

She moved ahead of him, rounding the group of buildings to the left. Behind her, she heard him muttering that he was cursed to 'fall for bloody crazy birds.' She grinned, his grumbling affection somehow comforting in the face of this kamikaze mission.

A side door, shabby and unused. Perfect. They moved as one, low and stealthy across the open ground. The door opened with a noisy creak that froze them both. She didn't bother straining her ears for the telltale sounds that they'd been heard. Instead, she watched his face; he'd know long before she did anyway. And besides, it gave her a moment to study his face. His eyes were unfocused, concentration centred on his sharp hearing, body held utterly still—dead man still. Then his eyes brightened in the darkness and met hers. A slight shake of his head and she knew they'd been lucky.

They were lucky inside, too, going unchallenged until they reached a heavy door deep in the caves. "There," she indicated with a flick of her head. There was a small gap above the door, a perfect spy hole. Wordlessly, he put out his hands and she stepped deftly into his cupped palms so that he could hoist her high enough to peer into the sealed room.

"Jackpot," she whispered when he'd let her slide intimately down his body to the ground. "Caleb and about a dozen bringers." She didn't step back from the loose circle of his arms; the closeness was too natural, too comforting, to be surrendered. "Looks like the bringers are trying to cut something outta the rock."

"Plan?" His voice was little more than a breath but he was so close she had no trouble hearing him. So close it only took the slightest of movements to bring her lips up next to his.

"Whatever they're digging for, it's gotta be important." She tipped her head slightly to the side, drifting closer so that with every word she breathed into his mouth, lips moving just scant millimetres from his.

"Charge in there and nick it, then?" It was a pretence, this talking, a distraction letting them creep unnoticed into each other's space.

"Yeah." Her lips brushed over his with the word in a whispered touch.

His eyes flicked between her lips and eyes, indecision clear on his face. Then with a deep breath he took her shoulders firmly in his hands. "Oh, fuck it." And his mouth was on hers, needy and hungry, and she kissed him back in kind, arms reaching up to cling desperately around his neck.

They separated eventually with reluctant slowness, eyes locked, breathing coming in shallow pants. "Spike." Such a relief it was, letting his name tumble low and intimate from her lips, and she knew what would come next. Her own name on his, said in that soft, worshipful whisper she'd missed so much. She held her breath in anticipation as his eyes clouded with love and desire and a hundred other things that made her feel like a most beautiful creature in the entire world.

His lips parted almost in slow motion and she felt a smile touch her own mouth, ready to welcome his devotion. "Buffy!" The loud, jarring sound was like a thunderclap against ears that had been preparing for a whisper, making her start and jerk away from her vampire's embrace at just the same instant he too leapt, scolded, out of her arms.

"Buffy?" As one, they looked towards the interruption just as Angel rounded the corner, eyes flashing with panicked worry. "Oh, thank God, Buffy. Are you okay?"

"We're fine, Angel," she whispered harshly, annoyance at his untimely interruption making her glower angrily at him. "But we won't be if you keep bellowing like that."

It didn't escape his notice that Buffy had said, "We're fine," or that she'd seemed more irritated than pleased to see her erstwhile soulmate. Still, he was what he was, and insecurity was par for the course when it came to his grand sire. "Yeah, Angelus." His own whisper was all disdain and challenge. "Very covert. Good job we're not trying to do anything sneaky ain't it?"

"Spike." The slayer took advantage of Angel's obvious confusion at realising her companion's identity to try and put off the inevitable confrontation. She gave him a hard, reprimanding look and turned back to Angel.

"Hi, Angel," she greeted, a little more cordially this time. "Want to help us kick some demon ass?"

"Buffy?" The dark vampire’s eyes had fixed suspiciously on Spike now. "What is he—"

"He's here. He's helping. End of story." She cut him off impatiently. "Accept it and help us or turn around and go back to LA."

She couldn't let herself look at Spike, but she heard his surprised intake of breath and she could feel his eyes, questioning and grateful, burning into her. "Ha," she thought triumphantly. "Didn't expect that now, did ya, Blondie?"

"On three then?" he asked, sotto voce.

"Wait, Buffy…" Angel tried to interject.

But she was already counting, eyes locked on Spike's, body humming with anticipation. "One." She matched the vicious glee of his grin. "Two." Her eyes twinkled with violent relish and he nodded, a perfect shared moment of understanding. "Three!" And with that they were bursting through the door and into the lion’s den, Angel trailing in their wake.



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A/N huge apologies to anyone who was reading this and now has no clue whats going on after such a long break. I will get this finished no and the updates shouldn't be too few and far between.

A/N Cheers to April for proofing so quickly in this one (And I write them all for you my darling)

Also cheers to Dreamgirl who's review reminded me about A/C and inspired the end of the chapter.

NB: I didn't really follow Angel (well not until spike joined anyway) so my AtS timeline might be all skewed. Let's just say he's done the deal with W&H and lost Connor and Cordy's in a comma. The guy's gotta be broken up.

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Between the three of them they weren't doing too badly. And though he'd never admit it, his Grandsire's presence was helping even the odds out nicely. Buffy had taken out two bringers with the first swing of the scythe, then made a beeline for the preacher while he and the old poof dealt with the rest of the patchwork-faced minions.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Angel hissed over his shoulder as the two of them fell in back to back among the circling bringers.

"Same thing as you, mate." He paused while he snapped a neck and grinned smugly over his shoulder at his grandsire. "Helping the girl."

"Why? Switch." They spun around one another, old fighting patterns coming back with disturbing ease.

"You know why." Angel deftly swung a bringer round by the shoulders and Spike skewered it on his blood-coated broad sword. He held the elder's eyes for a still moment in the turmoil of battle, and an understanding that had lain unused for almost a century passed between them. Dark eyes narrowed for a moment, then Angel nodded and they were back in the fray again.

She was actually winning. For the first time for what seemed like all year, she was actually winning. She swung the scythe again, feeling its power fortify her own, and drew blood across the preacher's face. The back swing opened a deep gash in his leg and he stumbled backward towards the ragged cavity in the rock where his bringers had cut away the stone.

He stumbled again, deeper into the darkness of the alcove, and she hoisted her weapon in readiness; it was time to end it. His manic laughter stopped her mid-stride, making her draw back cautiously into the main room.

"That's right, little girl." His voice crawled over her skin, making her shudder with disgust-tinged fear. The balance of power had shifted—she felt it deep within herself—and when he emerged from the darkness, she could see why. Behind her, her vampires were fighting. She could hear them both. Spike, vocal as ever, cursing and snarling. Angel, too, offering his own dry-humoured quips. But it was all dull, muffled in her ears. The only thing she could focus on was the weapon in Caleb's hands.

He laughed again and her eyes flickered to his face as she tried to swallow the fear clogging her throat. "Snap." His face split with a maniacal grin as he brought the black and amber scythe up in front of his face. "You dirty little girls," he sneered, "don't like it so much when the odds are even, do you? You're all just cheats and whores."

He swung the weapon, and she had to arch backwards Matrix style to avoid the flashing blade. The second swing she blocked, twin blades clanging together loudly in the suddenly quiet room. The scythe responded to its twin with a resonating burst of power. She went on the attack, but Caleb's strength, too, had been bolstered by his weapon, and he sent her stumbling back with a serious of vicious attacks.

She back flipped under his swing, catching the weapon with her foot as she rotated and sending it flying out of the preacher's grasp. "Spike," she called, without even looking over her shoulder. She knew he'd catch it. "Get that out of here." She grinned at the sudden alarm on the preacher's face. "How d'ya like them odds?" she asked as she swung the scythe's blunt side into his face with a sickening crack. Kick, punch, slash—she forced the preacher back against the wall, the heady prospect of victory giving her new energy.

The scythe landed easily in his hands. He heard Buffy tell him to get rid of it. But that couldn't be right. This was his, and with it he had purpose. With it he had power. He tipped his head thoughtfully to the side and watched the fight. What was she? Ah, yes: the slayer.

His palms resonated with the recognition of an enemy and he raised the weapon. His weapon—made for him, made for this, to cut and slash and tear apart. He took a slow, measured step towards the slayer's turned back. Someone was speaking; a low, familiar voice, saying his name, but it didn't matter; he had something to do, and he had the power to do it.

His vision ran read and the blade in his hands hummed in appreciation, calling out for him to paint the walls with slayer blood. His weapon, his task, his slayer.

"Buffy!" An urgent cry from behind him startled her, and she turned to lock eyes with him as he brought the axe head arcing down toward her slender throat. Buffy, his Buffy, his slayer. Someone screamed; it could have been her, but he thought it was probably him. "Buffy, Buffy, Buffy," his mind chanted as he watched his own arms move in a slow-motion killing blow.

"Ahhh." It felt like being torn in two, as he forced the angle of the blade wide and tossed the dark scythe away. Green and blue eyes remained locked together in mutual fear as he fell to his knees before her. "Buffy!" It was an apology and a cry for help, or maybe for mercy.

And she was always merciful. Her knees hit the ground too, the slight pain going unnoticed. "Spike?"

There was a scuffle behind them as Caleb, battered and bleeding, gathered up the fallen weapon and fled, Angel in pursuit. But they hardly noticed. "God, Buffy, I almost…" He swallowed and tried again. "I coulda—"

"No." She cut him off with a single finger, gentle and reassuring against his lip. "You couldn't."

"Lost him." Angel waited for them to respond, for Buffy to remove her finger from the other vampire's lips, for Spike to break the contact of their eyes. "Buffy." His voice was urgent enough that they unfroze as one and turned to him. "I lost him. We need to go. Faith and the girls got caught in a trap."

"What?" She was suddenly all slayer again, alert and focused.

"There was a bomb in one of the tunnels. They lost some girls and Faith's a mess. They need you to go back."

"Come on, pet." Spike got to his feet, fluid movement belying the conflicted fear in his eyes. He was scared. She could see it. Deeply and truly terrified of what he had almost done. But he was trying. For her. He was trying to be strong, dauntless.

She took his offered hand and hauled herself to her feet. "Let's go." With a jerk of the scythe, she gestured for Angel to move ahead.

"Wait." She pulled up suddenly, jarring Spike to a standstill with her. She hadn't even realised that she'd still had hold of his hand. "What's that?"

……………………………………………………..

"Faith's asleep." Giles' voice was low in the eerie, broken stillness of the house. A girl moaned a little in pain and Buffy found herself screwing shut her eyes against the onslaught of guilt. She should never have left. She should have stayed and made them listen, had the courage of a conviction forged in too many battles to be wrong.

"We lost two girls." Giles' eyes locked intently on hers in the low light of the kitchen, reconnection in the aftermath of tragedy. Her anger with him, her sense of betrayal evaporated, burned away by the horror of the night. For now, at least. "Five more are badly injured. We're doing what we can, but without proper medical attention…" He trailed off with a regretful shake of his head.

Silence reigned, sad and oppressive, and she felt so defeated, their slight victory in the vineyard overshadowed by the night's other losses. "Buffy." She could tell by his tone what was coming: a pointless apology, and she couldn’t bear to hear it. There were no faults or rights and wrongs; couldas and shouldas didn't mean a thing now to the girls lying dead in the tunnels or injured in the makeshift emergency room on her living room floor. "We shouldn't—"

"Don't make much odds now, does it, Rupert?" Spike's hand landed gently on her shoulder, firm and comforting. It was a boldly intimate gesture, a brazen flaunting of their closeness, but for once it had nothing to do with possession or posturing. She had needed intervention and he'd known it. Her own hand moved of its own volition to lay over his in silent gratitude, unconcerned for the opinion of others. She needed him now, his strength, his fealty, and hadn't he earned this? God, hadn't he done enough already? "Why don't you get some sleep, slayer? Let the nocturnals have first stab at the research."

She nodded. She needed rest so badly; her body ached and begged for it and her mind was already halfway there. She looked towards the stairs and their elusive promise of soft pillows and warm covers. "Faith's in my bed." It came out in a little girl whine and he couldn't help but smile at her; the desire to drop a kiss on the top of her head was almost irresistible. Almost. She'd probably knock his teeth out if he tried it, especially in front of Giles and the poof.

"Take mine." He turned her towards the basement and she trudged off, body auto-piloting towards rest. He waited till he heard the basement cot creak under her weight before he turned to a pensive Giles and brooding Angel.

"Say whatever you got to say to me now," he told them, voice even and emotionless. "Tell me I shouldn't be here, that you'll stake me if I step outta line. Get it all off your chests now; just don't lay it on her in the morning."

"You shouldn't be here," Giles obliged, but his voice was even and curious, more invitation than challenge.

"Right," he nodded. It was a strange kind truce, but a truce nonetheless, and for that he was grateful, for Buffy's sake if not for his own. "Yet here I am."

"Quite." The watcher turned away, signalling an end to the conversation, and reached for the ancient leather-bound tome that they'd liberated from the vineyard earlier. "You say Caleb had this book near where he and his bringers had unearthed the second scythe?"

"Yep." He propped his elbows on the counter top regarded the book thoughtfully. "You get some rest, old man. You and Red can have a proper crack at it in the morning. Me and gramps'll take first stab at it; we're up anyway."

Giles glanced at the book, obviously conflicted, the physical and mental exhaustion wrought by the awful events of the night warring with his indomitable sense of duty.

"You're knackered, Rupert," Spike persisted, and Giles was less surprised than he'd have anticipated being at the genuine concern in the other's eyes. "You're no buggering use to anyone like that."

"Yes, actually, I think you're right." He started for the door before turning and adding as a distracted afterthought, "Kindly refrain from killing one another. It would upset Buffy."

Spike gave a rough bark of laughter and saluted sloppily at Giles' retreating back before settling himself down at the counter and carefully drawing open the book's crumbling cover. Angel slid in alongside him, pen and pad at the ready, head bowed, heavy brow drawn into a frown. He looked tired—no, tired wasn't a strong enough word. He looked like he hadn't rested in months, the kind of broken exhaustion that comes from troubled sleep. Now that the urgency of action was over, he just looked plain broken. "What language?" he asked listlessly.

"Latin. What else?" Spike leant back a little in his chair to regard the hunched form of his grandsire. It didn't make sense. What the hell was wrong with Angel? Why hadn't he staked him yet or at least threatened him or given Buffy those pleading chocolate browns that always had women bending over backwards for him and told her to kick him out? The worry was unwelcome, a beggar at the feast, creeping uninvited into his mind. He didn't give a damn about Angelus. "What's wrong?" Shit, he hadn't meant to ask, hadn't meant to care. But then that's the problem with family: no amount of personal dislike can stop you caring.

When Angel's eyes met his they were filled with a sadness so profound, so complete, that Spike almost turned away from the sight. His sire, his Yoda, had never looked so hopeless, and the hell of it, it bloody hurt to see it. "Angel?"

"I lost them." The murmured response barely disturbed the air. "Both of them. I thought if I came here, to Buffy…" He shook his head as if confused by his own motivations. "But it doesn't help. Even seeing Buffy doesn't help."

Spike opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say so he closed it again. Angel spoke anyway so it didn't matter. "It's good that you're here." And that was a hell of a surprise—approval from the old poof, and where Buffy was concerned no less. "She needs someone strong." He gave a slow, contemplative shake of his head and picked up his forgotten pen. "Let's get to work."


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A/N Thanks to all thte lovely people whoe welcomed the return of this story with a review.

Thanks Enchantress - I kinda always need to give Spike a hard time, that way when it all works out for him at the end (and it will because he's my Spike and I will make him happy have no fear) its even better.

Thanks Rockerbaby, glad you like

Thanks for the long review DreamGirl and your mention of A/C helped me allow angel to be in the story without being a bad guy. I always give him a hard time it's nice to have a chance to be nice about him.

Cheers Seraiza hope I can keep surprising you.

Rana - I made you squeel -go me. Tried to imagine your fangirl dance but then my mind went of on one and now Spike's Sexy dance is all I can think about.

Christinenj - Thanks for reviewing I promise not to abandon this story again.

A/N - Sorry really isn't going to cut it is it? I know i haven't updated for eons. I have an impressive list of excuses, but I won't bore you with them. I will however pledge to try and do better in the future.

Thanks as always to April who unlike me can actually turn a chapter around in a reasonable amount of time.

Anyway. I'm sorry for the delay and grovel humbly at all your feet.

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She had hoped that he'd come and join her in the basement sometime in those twilight hours when her world and his overlapped and light blossoming on the horizon played hide and seek with the shadows of the retreating night. He hadn't come, and when she'd risen with the sun and trudged wearily into the kitchen with sleep-filled eyes and matted hair, there had only been Angel, reading over the scribbled notes he asked her to give to Giles.

And Angel looked awful, tired and mournful, with his pained eyes and vacant sadness. She didn't know what had happened to extinguish those last sparks of joy in him that had never burned all that bright. She didn't ask. It felt like it was none of her business and that in itself was strange enough to warrant a little thought. True, she still felt a love for him that transcended affection, but standing in front of him then while they talked of anything but the damage so obvious on each of them, her heart beat slow and steady. Her chest ached for him, for the hurt they didn't talk about, but the crazed butterflies in her gut that had once accompanied his very presence lay dormant, or perhaps extinct, in her belly. So she cut the conversation short and he looked relieved.

She didn't see Spike till later, and by then the day was well underway and there'd been so much to do. Giles and Willow had led the scoobies in researching and she'd had to train with the girls as usual just to keep their minds off what had happened the night before. And the wounded had needed her care, and thank God Faith's slayer healing had her up on her feet and able to help. So she hadn't even caught sight of him till much later when the sun had just dropped low enough for him to smoke in the shadows on the back porch. Dawn had been with him; she'd heard their murmured voices and strained to hear the words as she watched them from the kitchen window.

"So you're back for good?" Dawn sounded so young, so hopeful and uncertain, that Buffy had to smile. Her sister was such a little girl at some times, and at others, such a woman.

"As long as Buffy needs me. Reckon till after the apocalypse," he answered distractedly as he leaned awkwardly back to tug at a crumpled pack of cigarettes snared in the too-tight front pocket of his jeans.

"You think she'll send you away afterwards?"

"She'd have plenty of reason to." He gave up on the cigarettes and turned to the teenager with a soft, resigned sigh.

"I don’t want you to go." So simply put, and she couldn't help but wish she had even half her sister’s frankness.

"I'd stay if I could, pet. You know that." his hand came up and hovered undecided in the air for a moment before he brushed it once over her hair. "But if Buffy wants me gone…"

"Man, you don't get any less whipped, do you?" She tossed her hair, all dismissive teenage condescension. "You don't even have a soul or a chip to blame, and you’re still like her doormat."

"Am not." His voice was childishly affronted, and she couldn’t help but smile; he was more kid than Dawn was most of the time. How did he hold onto that? With everything he'd seen and all the unforgivable things he'd done, how could he still be so very young?

"Are too. You'd do anything she said, like she's all that."

"She is all that." And with that unequivocal statement, Buffy found herself biting her lip to keep from grinning.

"Says you. But you’re a complete freak anyway." Only Dawn could speak to him like that and get away with it. "I mean, a vamp who hangs out with humans. How lame is that?"

"Here speaks the teenage toddler." He leant back to look at her, showing Buffy his amused profile, illuminated in the porch light. "I may be unconventional, but least if I spring a leak wrong time wrong place, it’s not the end of the bloody world."

Buffy envied him then. She'd been trying so hard with Dawn and getting nowhere and they'd never talked about this, about the fact Dawn was still what she was whether Glory was chasing her or not. And then, seeing them laughing about it, teasing and joking, she realised she'd done it all wrong. All Dawn had wanted was to understand the truth about herself, but Buffy had made it too difficult: don't ask don't tell, and lock it away like the freak in the attic. Her own sister's origins, a shameful taboo.

Just another thing to regret, she supposed, going into the battle of her life. Oh sure, she'd faced some pretty scary stuff, but this? This was a different league of bad, and she could feel the regrets piling up against the dam of her heart. But there was one thing she was determined she wouldn't need to regret, so she waited till Spike finally freed his smokes and lit up. She watched Dawn make a theatre of coughing and waving away the smoke as she head back into the house with a good humoured, "Since you don't care about my lungs, I'm going to help Giles." Then she slipped out to stand next to him as he contemplated the darkening sky and forced nicotine laced smoke in and out of his redundant lungs.

"So, how's it going in there?" His voice wafted across the warm silence of the evening, accompanied by a blue-grey cloud that tickled her throat when she pulled in air and turned her sigh into a little cough.

"Sorry." He waved ineffectually at the smoke, cigarette dangling unsupported from his lips.

“Spike." Her tone must have alerted him to her seriousness, because his hand fell suddenly away and everything about him became in an instant so subtly, glaringly, different. She read him easily, saw him bring the shutters down, man the barricades, prepare for incoming heartbreak. "About yesterday at the vineyard… You know, you and me, with the kissing and everything."

"Yeah?" He was wary, eyes watchful and guarded, body tensed for flight.

"I just wanted to know if we're cool."

"We're cool." Oh so very cool. Almost cold in his self preservation, and that wouldn’t do, not on that night of all nights.

"Good. I, er, didn't want you to think…" She'd never been very good at this, and he'd never made it any easier.

"I didn't think anything, okay, slayer?" His voice was resigned, hollow. Not so long ago, before he’d proved her right on the bathroom floor, and wrong in a God-forsaken cave in Africa, he would have treated that single fleeting kiss like state’s evidence, proof positive of denied affection, but things had changed since those screwed up days and he'd given up on ever winning the jury over. "You were just feeling a bit low, missing your mates and what all. Don’t you fret now; just forget about it." He waved a dismissive hand, and if she didn’t know so much better she'd think he really wasn't bothered.

"That's not…" Shit, it was hard. Hard to talk to him when kissing him was easier and punching him even easier again. Perhaps if Angel hadn’t interrupted them, she'd have been able to do it, get carried along in the moment and just for once be honest with him. "It's just… I don’t want to forget it, okay? I don’t know what it means and now is really not the time to be analysing anything. But when everyone let me down, you were the one who came through for me, and that wasn’t really a big surprise, because that’s what you do, what you've been doing all along. I can't promise you that--"

"Buffy." His fingers found her lips, gently restraining the outpouring of sound. "You don’t have to promise me anything. Just let me help you. For once, Buffy, just let me help you."

His touch felt like camomile on her roughened lips, and his eyes plead with her to trust him just this once, to let him love her. His fascinating eyes—she loved the way they changed, soulful topaz and icy blue. They'd given him away when he'd come back to her playing the part of William, and they gave him away now. Love, the same unerring love that she'd clung to and feared in equal measure since death had turned to life and everything had gone to hell. Just love; soul come, soul go, but his love endured. She could spend forever chasing her tail with “how” and “why,” but now, in the face of what might actually be the end of the world this time, how and why didn't seem to matter.

Her lips found his with an urgency that for once was borne out of something other than desperation, and when his arms came around her to pull her flush against his body, she couldn't remember why it had once seemed so important.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

"Bugger." Giles titled his head in agreement. Spike's response did, after all, seem to be a fair assessment of the situation. No one else spoke, each one busy with his or her own thoughts. "Bugger!" the vampire repeated more vehemently.

"Oh yeah." Buffy sighed and leant back in her chair, one delicate hand coming up to massage the growing pressure in her temples. She couldn't do this. It was worse somehow now, as if the extinguishing of the tiny light of hope the scythe had cast over them now made the darkness blacker than before. His hand found hers, a subtle hidden gesture, fingers, obscured from view by the dining room table, brushing their support gently over the back of her hand.

She turned her hand palm up and let her fingers tangle with his until she had his large hand snared in her smaller one. "Okay, Giles. Recap."

With a drawn out intake of breath, the watcher replaced the glasses he'd thrown carelessly to one side and began again. "According to this manuscript," he said, waving vaguely at the book stolen the previous night from Caleb's lair, "the two scythes are the twin weapons of the chosen. One for the warrior of light--"

"Me." Buffy interjected. "Or the slayer, at least." She cast an apologetic glance at where Faith leaned heavily against the far wall, one hand clutched against her wounded abdomen. "You feel it, too, right? How it's ours?"

"Works both ways, though, pet." Spike's voice caught her attention away from the dark slayer's nod and she turned towards him. Sitting side by side as they were, the action brought her face within inches of his and she drew back a little, flustered by the closeness. "When I held it, it called to me. It’s still calling." He glanced over at Angel and the older vampire nodded.

"It promises power," Angel confirmed with a grim nod. "It's calling to the demon in me."

"Nah, mate," Spike corrected. "To the bad in you, in anyone. You and me just got a bigger loadstone is all. But I reckon anyone on the dark side, human and demon alike, can feel it."

"So why are the good people of Sunnydale fleeing in droves?" Dawn asked. "Why isn't our scythe calling to them?"

"Human's aren't very sensitive," Anya informed them with all the blasé authority of a millennia of existence. "They probably wouldn't recognise it even if they could feel it. Unless they're a slayer or a Wicca or something. I think we can safely rule out the possibility of an avenging army of good riding to our rescue."

"Which explains, but doesn't help." Buffy tried to steer the conversation back to battle planning. "So Caleb can use his scythe to rally up a army of evil. What can we use ours to do?"

She felt his hand flutter slightly in her own like a small animal trying to escape the trap of her grip. She looked up and instantly saw the reason. Giles was making his way around to their side of the table; in just a moment, he would be able to see their joined hands, and he was trying to spare her. To keep her secrets as always.

She locked eyes with him and slowly, very deliberately, brought their linked hands up to rest on the tabletop. Then she turned to Giles and asked in an even voice, as if her heart wasn't hammering wildly in her chest. "What you got?"

"Great leadership strategy, Buff." She should have known it would be Xander. "Looks like when the going gets tough, the tough get groiny with the evil dead. Next time he gets a beeper from the scythe of evil he'll be able to take a few of us out. Say, how many girls will you let him chew through before you do something about it?" She felt Spike go completely still beside her, felt his fear and uncertainty tingling through her palm. She'd made the move. Now she had to follow through, for Spike's sake if not for her own, but she just didn't know how, how to fight at this of all times with the very people she needed to be drawing close.

"Now is not the time Xander." Giles came to her rescue, his tone calm with the habit of authority. "The end of the world is fast approaching. If we manage to avert it, there will be ample time later to discuss Buffy's horrible taste in men. If we do not, it will hardly matter."

And that had been enough. She didn't know why Xander quieted so easily. Perhaps it was the looming apocalypse, perhaps his missing eye that reminded him he owed the vampire a debt of gratitude. More likely, she thought, as she watched him drop his eyes to Anya's slender hand gripped tight in his large calloused one, perhaps he just realised that everyone, even a slayer, might just want to hold someone's hand before the world ended.

"The book also refers to a number of spells that can be used to—for want of a better word—activate the scythe." Giles perched himself on the table top eyes still riveted to the text before him, deep lines of concentration etched in his forehead. "But it's also fair to assume that since this was found in Caleb's lair, he also knows how to do this."

"Maybe we could make our own army more powerful." Willow joined the discussion. "The text mentions that the scythe is a channel of power. I have a theory…I'm not sure, but I think maybe I could use the scythe to share out the power."

"How?" Suddenly there was an urgency to their discussion, a collective acceleration towards solution.

"I think I could make all the potentials into Slayers using the scythe." Buffy studied the witch thoughtfully. She might still hide behind "I think" and "maybe." but her confidence, her power, was obvious for all that. If Willow thought she could do it, then she was fairly certain Willow could do it. And it was so very tempting. A small army of slayers, and if by some miracle they actually survived the coming showdown, then everything would change.

"No." She shook her head, crushing that impossible dream before it began to worm its way into her heart. "It won't work. There just aren't enough of us. What the shadow men showed me—thousands and thousands of uber-vamps—even a hundred slayers couldn't beat them back."

Spike turned towards her, she could feel his gaze like bonfire heat against her cheek, making her other side feel chilled. "It is for her alone to wield." The words were spoken so softly that only Buffy, sitting close to the vampire, could make them out. She turned to him, waiting for explanation, but he was still just looking at her, brows pinched together in thought.

"Spike," she prompted when the room had fallen silent and tense.

He blinked once, lashes falling and rising slowly over unfocused eyes. "Hhmmm?"

She made an annoyed, impatient gesture with her free hand and raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, right." His focus whiplashed back to her, and she felt herself tugged deeper into the intensity of his gaze. "I keep hearing that, in your bloody books. Nice bird in the temple said it, too. So maybe we're being wrong-headed here. Maybe we shouldn't be spreading the power about, spreading it thin like. Maybe—"

"We should be concentrating it." Same wavelength, as always. She thought briefly of those sickeningly smug couples that finish each other’s sentences, and could almost have laughed at the ridiculousness of notion.

"Yeah. For her—" he poked a finger of his free hand into her chest, "alone to wield."

………………………………………………………………….

"We all set for the big day then?" his quiet voice danced over the brittle silence of sleeping house and she gifted him a fleeting smile over her shoulder.

"Apparently so. Willow's spazzing about the spell. I haven't seen her like this since before our SAT's. She's in complete cram mode." She frowned as she put away the last of the crockery. What she was doing washing up the night before going into battle was anyone's guess, but somehow she didn't want to leave the house in a mess. Her mother would have been so proud. "So, provided she doesn't go all black-eyed and switch teams, I figure she'll pull it off."

"Reckon Red's done enough team-switching for one lifetime." His grin was a little lewd, and she rolled her eyes with faux annoyance and switched off the kitchen light. The soft lamplight filtering down the hall cast shadows on his face, and she found herself struck by how good he looked. Oh, he'd always looked good. Over the course of their so-called relationship, she'd lusted after him with a bestial intensity that had been at least as frightening as it had been exciting, but this was different. He looked soft and handsome in the gloom, and she found herself strangely bashful in her sloppy sweats and messy hair.

"Faith has my bed." She blushed violently at the outburst and gave him a sheepish grin, knowing the dark would do nothing to mask her embarrassment. "There really should have been some lead in to that statement."

"No worries, pet. Have mine." He opened the basement door and waved her through with a slight bow.

"Thanks." Her hand brushed over his arm and she smiled her gratitude as she stepped past him into the near blackness. The light switch was half way down the stairs—one of those incredibly stupid design features that every house seems to have—and she had to feel her way cautiously along the wall as she blindly navigated the first four steps. The harsh, shadeless bulb was painfully bright, and she blinked rapidly as she turned to him again.

"Spike?" she called out, alarmed at the sight of him turning away from the doorway. Where did he think he was going? Didn't he know she needed him tonight? Her voice came out in an annoyed and petulant hiss. "Where are you going?"

"I, er…" He looked confused, brows pinched together as he made a helpless one-handed gesture towards the kitchen. "Kitchen floor'll do me fine. I've slept on worse."

"What? No." She pursed her lips. She didn't need this now; she needed sleep, not crossed wires and insecurity. "No floor." He looked a little startled by her outburst, and she adjusted her tone and reached out a hand in welcome. "Maybe tonight you could just stay with me."

He looked unsure and hopeful and curious, like there were a million questions swimming in his mind, but all he did was take her had and run his thumb gently over the skin as he quirked a lopsided smile at her. "Okay."

A/N I know I haven't updated this (or In Sheeps Clothing) for eons I got sucked into LJ land and joined a couple of comunities for which I was required to write fic. I've posted the Spuffy fic I wrote for seasonal_spuffy here last week and if you're interested in/can stomach some really dark Spawn and a fluffy little Spaith story then you'll find them on my LJ here

As always April is there to sort out the tangled mess of my grammer big thanks go to her for wonderful beta services.

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"Great," Buffy hissed in her watcher’s ear as they surveyed the surly rabble of cruel-eyed men and burly demons that held a straggly perimeter around the school buildings. "Wasn't expecting the welcoming committee."



"Obviously they guessed our intention."



"Obviously," she repeated dryly. "Here's the plan. Me and Spike go clockwise, Faith and Angel go the other way, we take out as many as we can before the alarm goes up. Then it's all hands to the pumps, okay? And move fast; it’s almost dawn."



It occurred to her as she trailed him through the crepuscular contrast of the predawn landscape that he was quite possibly the sexiest man she had ever seen. It was a thought completely out of place in the looming shadow of the greatest battle she was ever likely to face, and yet there it was, loud and obtrusive in her mind. He was undeniably and incredibly hot, and that being so, why had she spent what might well be her last night on earth lying in his arms fully clothed? It hadn't occurred to her as they'd lain face to face on his narrow basement cot with their denim-clad legs intimately entwined to do anything more than look into his eyes and talk in whispers of all her fears and hopes.



Looking back with death snapping once again at the heels of her stylish yet practical boots, she wasn't entirely sure if she regretted that or not. Oh, sex would have been incredible—there was no doubting that—and maybe for the first time they could have called it making love, and wouldn't that have been something? But in a way she was glad they hadn't, because sex had always come easy to them and intimacy had always been that much harder. Still, it would be a shame to die without enjoying his licentious talents one last time.



"Slayer." His irritated hiss finally got her attention and her face flamed with the feeling of having been exposed, as if he'd caught her red handed with her mind in the gutter and mixing her metaphors to boot.



So she glared at him and replied with as much indignance as she could convey in a whisper, "I heard you the first time."



"Right then. After you." And then they were moving, a matched pair of silent killers gliding through the fading night to dispatch swift and soundless death, while on the other side of the school, the other Slayer and her own vampire partner completed the set.



In the end it was she and Spike who got their cover blown. His fault, really. Well, maybe a little of hers as well. Carried away with the fight as usual, she'd hurled his bright steel battle-axe at a guard vampire just at the instant he'd turned it to dust with one of her stakes, although she couldn't for the life of her recall when they had switched weapons. The heavy axe spun through its disintegrating target and found the wall instead with a resounding clang. And then all hell broke loose and they were all fighting.



The potentials did them proud, they really did, and by the time she and Spike had sprinted back to the front of the school they had all but finished off the remaining guards. It was just the start they'd needed; the small victory buoyed their fragile confidence enough so that they followed Buffy through the deserted corridors of the high school and into the sinister labyrinth below without a single word of frightened dissent.



………………………………………………………………………..



There is a kind of calm that comes hand in hand with shock, or maybe with the disbelief that follows it. A cotton wool numbness perhaps designed to keep the panic at bay for the time it takes for the mind to process. And so for the longest moment, there they were, all of them calmly frozen in their shared denial.



Buffy of course was first out of the stupor, forewarned if not forearmed by the Shadow men's vision, but still the sheer scale of the First's army was terrifying. She'd expected hundreds, had readied herself mentally for facing an army, but this, this snarling, seething mass of undead horror blanketed over the huge cavern was more than even she had been capable of envisioning.



Behind her, she heard the gasps of awakening fear as the reality of what they had come here to face broke through. She heard Spike's urgent whisper, "Better get on that spell then, witch," and Willows alarmed, "Oh my God," just before the first of the creatures spotted them and roared out the signal to its brethren, and then they were coming.



She glanced over her shoulder. Willow was already lost in it, mumbling strange alien phrases, her eyes glazed and sightless, palms face up as if in praise or supplication.



"Red." Spike's voice rose a little in alarm as he took a step back, one arm stretched out as if it could shield Dawn from the vast army ahead of them. "Now 'd be as good a time as any, pet."



The witch ignored him. It was so close now, the magic, she could feel it in her body almost ready for release. Just the right amount of coaxing and bang there it'd be. "Come on," she called to it in her mind. "Now come to me." And it did, a rushing wave of power heeding its mistress' call, ringing in her ears and filling up her lungs until she was completely lost in it.



Caleb's demon mages chanted furiously from their safe place at the rear and the race was on, first to the post, come on, come on, come on! "Willow." Buffy sounded panicked, but it was so far away it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting there first, and she was. She could see the blackness of their conjuring in the corner of her eye, just behind her, and knew she had them beat.



"Ahhh!" Her anguished cry came in time with Buffy's as the scythe in the slayer’s hand awakened to the call of her magic. And it hurt, but not too much to bear, and it was working; finally she was able to help. Buffy's head fell back and her eyes focused unseeing on the high rock ceiling of the cavern. The scythe glowed and resonated in her grip and light bright as the sun shot in kaleidoscope colours around them.



Spike heard Angel's alarmed cry of his name just before the heavy body collided with his own, sending them both to the stone floor with a jarring thud, his sire's heavy trench coat fanning out over them both so that only his hand sizzled in the deathly UV. It was dark and safe beneath Angel's larger body and he felt a childlike peace in his sire’s protection. More crushing weight followed and he realised the others had joined in a lifesaving school yard pile-on.



The opposing army had no such protection, no miniature legion of warm young nymphs willing to shield them from the righteous cleansing of the sunlight, so it was ashes to ashes and finally, after centuries of haunting the gullet of hell, dust to dust.



So much dust. Buffy waved uselessly at it as it blocked her vision in the scythe’s fading sunset. "Yuck." Dawn's voice broke the stunned silence of the aftermath as she struggled to free herself from the tangle of potentials piled on top of them. Such a good girl, his Nibblet, Spike thought as she rolled off him. She must have been first on them.



The sound of splutter filled the cavern as human lungs struggled with the clotted air. "Wow." Willow stepped up next to Buffy as she surveyed the settling remains of their enemies. "That was easy."



"Yeah," Buffy agreed with pensive shrug. Too easy. Nothing was ever that easy.



Laughter filled the cavern, echoing like insanity off the high ceilings and bouncing maniacally off the walls. "Won?" Caleb's voice was filled with hysterical glee. "You think you won, little girl?" Behind him his mages took up the chanting again in menacing harmony with his voice. "You think this is over? It’s just begun."



It rose up behind him in a swirling cloud of blackened dust, an apparition petrifyingly familiar, a vision of pure evil imprinted on the race memory of every living being. An image reproduced a million times from renaissance masterpieces to rough, carved gargoyles. A thing that had been given a thousand names by a thousand races. She called it The First but she knew it now, too, as Lucifer and Satan. She had heard it called Mephistopheles and known what it meant.



The First was done, it seemed, with dressing up in dead men's clothes, done with taunting and mind games as it roared out its fury. Its army was destroyed but its rage was an inferno, and its bringer mages, unharmed by the killing light of the scythe, were stirring up a whirlpool of black and purple magic around the preacher, and from its centre came a growling that made the cavern tremble and rock and dirt shake loose to rain down on them.



It seemed to come from the earth, forming before their eyes in the swirl of magic and dust as if born in that moment of the Hellmouth's tainted earth. It growled and snarled and roared out its birth until the cavern resonated with the sound and the humans covered their ears and trembled.



Its jaws dripped blood like tar and its molten magma eyes flashed hellfire in the gloom. It was perhaps made in the rough image of a hound, and it was horror as pure in its corruption as its master, because any part of Caleb that had ever been human was now gone beyond recognition, with his malevolent god manifest at his back and the weapon of evils chosen in his hand.



"Willow!" The slayer's voice rose above the commotion, way past urgent and into desperate. "Willow, I need one of those."



"I'm working on it, Buffy." The reply was almost drowned out by Spike's familiar war cry as he charged past her with Angel and Faith on his heels, and it occurred to her in a frozen moment out of time that it was a topsy-turvy kinda world when rouges and vampires bravely lead the charge. Behind them came the potentials, their own shouts, she suspected, fuelled more by fear than aggression. Yet still they went forward into battle weapons gripped tight in delicate, female hands that held nothing more than the promise of strength. And she knew that for all that potential, they were still only girls and that they should not be here.



"Willow," she demanded once more before she too swung the scythe and launched herself into the fray.



She heard Vi's spine crack as it shook her rag doll body in its jaws and tossed her aside. To her right, Angel was swinging his sword into its flank, but the blade seemed barely to penetrate its leathery hide and even he, with his vampire strength, was tiring. They all were. Their war cries were silent now, replaced only by the moans of the injured and the pitiful cries of pain of those too slow to avoid its jaws or claws. The scythe once again found its mark, cleaving a deep gash in its shoulder before a swing of its clubbed tail had her on the ground staring into the Molly's sightless eyes.



Spike's body screamed in pain as the creature’s wolf-like jaws crushed the bone of his forearm. But Faith was there in a blur of flying ebony hair and flashing steel, ramming her blade hilt deep into the creature's neck. It roared in fury and released Spike so that it could send her crashing back against the cavern wall with a negligent swipe of its foreleg. It was surely lost. How many girls were dead or bleeding to death around them? Ten? Maybe more. He watched Buffy felled and Angel's weapon knocked from his hand as it slashed at him with its blood-soaked claws, and he knew there was no way they could beat this thing.



Willow was the only hope that remained, and she was finally coming good. He felt the power resonate around the cavern like thunder and everything slowed as Buffy came to her feet, the scythe glowing and thrumming in her hands.



It was at once the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing that Spike had ever seen. Red and gold fire that seemed to come from Buffy, fierce and righteous just like her, shining and blinding and magnificent, and she at the centre with the mystical weapon of her calling held high and defiant. And even as the demon in him hissed and seethed in terrified fury at such a sight, still he stood mesmerised, because she was glorious now as never before, at one with her weapon, a warrior so pure so unfettered that it was impossible not to be awed by her.



It seemed to come from the very air, forged in the furnace of the slayer's power. Its great wings cooled from pure fire to the colour of gilded blood, and its wicked talons glinted gold as with a fierce cry from its viciously curved beak, it solidified into ten feet of pure fighting flesh.



They stumbled back, dragging their wounded with them, huddling behind their slayer as her champion took the battle to the preacher's beast.



The creatures came together in a thundering cacophony of snarling fury, talon to claw, beak to fang, and every gash and blow manifest on Buffy's filthy skin. The preacher, too, bled from the wounds his fearsome puppet had received and wore red black blood like a veil across his twisted face. Spike could see Buffy stumble when the beast dealt her fiery champion a vicious blow, heard her cry out in pain as its bite torn through the feathers to rent the skin beneath.



And in the end it was too much, the creature's malignant strength too great for Buffy's proxy, and the great bird went down. Pinned, helpless beneath the beast’s snarling jaws, Buffy was on her knees, too weak to stand, the bird’s fate and hers linked through the magic of the scythe. It was dying and it was taking Buffy with it, or maybe she was dying and it was going with her. The power was gone from her, that well of strength Spike had always imagined inexhaustible was now all but dried up, and when it emptied there would be nothing left of her. The world would end, too, of course, but that didn’t matter. If she was gone, it wasn’t much of a world anyway. Let it burn.



With a gasp she slumped forward onto hands and knees, scythe still held in her weakening grasp, sides heaving like a Grand National Winner at the finish post. She was fading and he couldn’t help her, couldn’t give her the strength she needed. Or could he?



Willow saw the idea forming in his mind. He was so cunning, that vampire, clever like Buffy herself, at seeing angles, finding loopholes to wriggle through. Clever in survival if in nothing else. "Spike." Her psychic voice sounded in his mind and his back straightened. "I can do it." She didn’t need to say more, she let her mind join with his, thoughts mingling so she wasn’t even sure who was thinking what. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the idea and making it work.



Spike felt the change in the air as soon as Willow began. Felt her magic swirling around him, around them all, to prepare the way. He dragged his battered body the few long yards to her side, pulling her up by her empty hand till she was on her knees again, one arm stretched awkwardly above her bowed head.



Angel was first to realise what was happening, first to respond to Spike’s desperate demand: "Help us." And if you'd told Spike just hours before that the dawn would find him standing at the gates of hell hand in hand with Angel like a couple of queers on Brighton prom, he'd have laughed his ass off. Yet here they were, and he could feel Angel's strength, as solid and enduring as the hills he and his mother had climbed when he'd been a boy and her lungs hadn't yet begun to bleed death into her pressed white handkerchiefs.



Faith joined next, wild and passionate and more afraid than he'd have ever guessed. Perhaps that made her the bravest of them all. Still, somehow Angel's presence seemed to steady her, and the jolt of power he felt pour through their joined hands and into the slayer’s broken body was enough to make him stagger.



It was only moments later that Xander and Anya joined them, their love for one another a warm undercurrent in the tide of power driven by Willow's awesome magic. And Spike could feel it all go through him. He'd have to make peace with the boy when this was over; Buffy needed love and loyalty like that in her life.



Giles next, steadfast and true, his wisdom, his admiration and love for his slayer like balm across the conduit. He brought the potentials with him, and in each of them Spike could feel that which could have made them chosen. Beneath their youth, or fear or arrogance, they were each the same. He felt their need to protect, their willingness to sacrifice, to love so much a world that would eventually destroy them. All the things that made Buffy so special, they had those things, too. Not exactly like her, of course. She was one of a kind even among the chosen, but at their core, the same, yes.



With a ragged cry, the slayer came to her feet and the bird again raised its gilded talons to claw at the beast that pinned it. But it wasn't enough and Spike knew it. All their strength combined and Willow’s power besides, and it wasn’t enough. The slayer at his side was wheezing for breath and the battle before him was still well lost to the slavering cur whose jaws ripped at the bird’s throat, and to the cackling maniac that controlled it. Something was missing. That last ingredient that could give Buffy strength enough to cheat death again today was missing.



And then in the last moment of defeat when all seemed lost and part of each of them had accepted that there was no surviving this battle, when numbness replaced pain and relief despair and all knew through Buffy that it was over. It was in that moment that she finally joined them, and he was ashamed to have forgotten her. She who he had always loved like his own blood. He'd told her often enough that she was special, that she was more than a slip of a girl and a figment of memory, but perhaps he hadn’t believed it himself or hadn’t known the extent of it. Because when her hand took Rona's at the end of their daisy chain of power, everything changed.



Innocence, and love so strong it shook him. A sister’s love so trusting and humble that he could have sobbed at feeling it pass through the pitiful husk of his dead heart. But with it, too, came a power older and more vast than the universe itself. Dawn, his angel, his little girl, his saviour and saviour to them all. The energy of the key—how could they have overlooked it? He'd joked with her just hours ago about it, and yet even he had forgotten, had been so fooled by her illusion of humanity that he hadn’t remembered what power she had. No, more than that: what power she was. And that power was her sister’s now, and everything else was only trimmings.



The slayer's head whiplashed up and the great bird gave a victorious cry and rose in one beat of its vast wings, throwing the hound away. It didn't take long after that, with Buffy standing strong, legs apart, scythe held high. Her hair, streaked with blood so it matched the crimson and gold of her champion, swirled around her in the eddying wind of its beating wings as it tore with beak and talons into its enemy. And when the dust had settled and Willow’s magic fizzled out, leaving her to topple unconscious and bleeding into Kennedy's waiting arms, when each of them drew in great draughts of laboured breath – whether they needed it or not – and leant on one another for support, that’s when they found the preacher was dead, the First was gone, and the blackened scythe they had wielded lay shattered on the ground.



Dawn came to them then, to Buffy and Spike, where they stood over Caleb's body, hands still linked, silent and pensive. And Buffy wept in her sister’s arms and whispered words of love and pride that had made them both cry and cling to one another like the orphans they were. He'd moved to leave them to their sibling embrace, but she had stopped him. His wonderful girl, so mindful of him, so open and free with her affection.



"Spike." She held out a hand to him and he took it gratefully and let her draw him in so that she was flanked by them. Him on one side, awkwardly stroking the still glossy sheet of dark chocolate hair that flowed over her shoulders, and Buffy on the other, holding her close. And when Buffy raised one hand so that their fingers were linked around Dawn’s slender frame, he couldn’t help but call them his family and lay kisses on each of their grimy foreheads.

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A/N the next and final chapter will be coming soon I promise. Also thanks to everyone who left nice feedback on my recent post *kisses*

"Is that my peasant top?" Buffy asked, lips pinched together in suspicious irritation.

"No." Dawn's denial wasn’t fooling anyone, but she faced off defiantly with her sister even so. "Well, yeah," she pouted when the slayer’s imperious stare finally broke her. "But I have a date at the Bronze tonight with Michael, who is, by the way, utterly droolsome, and I don’t have anything cool to wear." She suddenly seemed to decide that spoilt petulance might not be the best form of coercion and switched seamlessly to shameless pleading. "Please, Buffy. I promise not to ruin it. I just really wanna look nice for my date, and I seriously have nothing else to wear. Please?"

"All right, whatever." She turned away from her grinning sister with a put-upon sigh. "Now come on, we were supposed to be at the Bronze half an hour ago."

The scene that greeted them was heart-warmingly familiar: on the dance floor Willow and Kennedy swayed together to a far slower rhythm than the band were energetically pumping out, while over at their usual table Xander cajoled a pouting Anya, who seemed to be having trouble maintaining whatever sulk she was inflicting on him.

"Buffy!" Her friend seemed relieved at the interruption, and Anya gave a disgruntled huff. "Come sit, please."

"You girls ready to get down with the boogie man?" he asked with that patented cheeky boy grin of his that seemed to clash with his rakish pirate patch.

"Nope." Dawn's smile was wide and excited. "I have a date."

"Michael?" Xander feigned surprise. Michael had been Dawn's number one topic of conversation for the last month.

"Uh huh. Oh God, there he is. Do I look ok?" Her fluster was enchanting, and Buffy smiled indulgently at her as she nodded. It was so good for Dawn to be able to do these normal teenager things, and she wasn’t worried; her sister was surprisingly responsible. And just in case, Xander already had strict instructions to keep an eye open for any hint of teenage hi-jinks.

"You look very nice, Dawn." Anya patted her arm in her innocently condescending way. "I'm sure the boy will be extremely aroused by your barely concealed--"

"Ok." Xander cut her off, throwing apologetic glances at the slightly perturbed looking sisters. "You're a knockout, Dawnster. Go get 'em."

"What about you, Buff," he asked when the teenager had left. "You gonna stay and partake in the consumption of delicious alcoholic beverages?"

"Nope," she answered with a roll of her shoulders. "I have to patrol; things have been quiet lately, but that doesn't mean I get to be slacker slayer." She ignored the knowing looks they exchanged in favour of smiling at Willow, who was giving her the patented Rosenberg finger waggle over Kennedy's shoulder. "Watch Dawn for me, guys, ok?"

………………………………………….

"Spike! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her hands went to her hips as she glared at him, posture one hundred percent unadulterated annoyance.

"Me? What am I…? I'm saving your life, that’s what I'm doing. Again."

His indignant sputtering caused her to raise an unimpressed eyebrow. "No…" She drew it out, the inference that he was badly deluded ringing loudly in her tone. "You were getting in my way. Again."

"Oh, that's bloody charming, that is." He ran to catch up with her as she headed away from him with a dismissive toss of her hair. "I'm out here in the freezing cold, risking life and limb to save your prissy arse--"

"You don't feel the cold," she broke in impatiently. "Also, not actually alive. Oh, and Spike? My ass really isn't your concern."

She spun and walked ahead of him again, the aforementioned backside swinging exaggeratedly in skin tight PVC. He stopped for a moment to admire the view before jogging after her. "Oh yeah, that's right. Bitchy the Vampire Slayer's bleeding invincible, ain't she? You ever going to admit you need a little help sometimes, slayer?"

She ignored him as she gave the cemetery one final scan, cool professional eyes searching for the telltale evidence of a demon presence. Satisfied they were alone, she cast him an irritated glare that pinched lines of distaste in her forehead. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Why? You thinking of a better use for my mouth?" Ah, and that was Spike, all tired innuendo and suggestive leers.

"You're a pig, Spike," she told him with a sneer of bored disgust.

"Yeah." His proud grin broke her act and she smiled almost indulgently despite the requisite eye roll as she disappeared through the heavy crypt door.

The crypt was warm inside, and she slipped off her jacket and plonked herself down on the sofa in front of the paraffin burner he'd liberated from the local dump. The fumes that she'd complained at first had given her a headache were now so familiar that the heady smell was almost intoxicating.

He settled next to her, thin cotton t-shirt proof of her earlier statement that he was impervious to temperature. He raised an arm and she went happily into his embrace. "Funny," she thought as she snuggled against his chest, "how things can be so different and yet not have changed at all."

"I love you," she whispered against the cotton, and he murmured with pleasure and tightened his arm around her shoulders. She'd said it for the first time just two months after the defeat of the First, and the look on his face when she summoned up enough courage to force the words past her dry lips would be something she'd take with her to the grave, whether she outlived her slayer expiry date or not.

They'd just made love in her bed for only about the third time ever. Dawn and Willow had been over at Xander and Anya's for a movie night, and they'd had the place to themselves. She'd planned the prelude to her declaration meticulously: there would be wine and candles and music playing low and sultry. But as always, he'd upset her best laid plans and ruined everything.

"Slayer," he'd called up to her bedroom where she'd been applying the finishing touches to her makeup. "Get your arse out here now. Evil's afoot."

"Not tonight, Spike." She'd leant out of her window, the low cut dress she'd picked out showing only her bare shoulders over the sill. "Come in. I've got a surprise for you."

"Tempting, pet." He'd sounded distracted and a fission of annoyance had stabbed at her good mood. "But this can't wait. Put something on and get out here. We're going to Willy's."

So there'd been the usual performance: info gleaned from ugly demons over too much whiskey so that by the time they'd been fighting knee deep in the sewers she'd had a little trouble keeping from falling drunkenly on her backside.

"Bloody hell, slayer," he'd complained when she did just that and landed with a splat in a puddle of something she had no interest in identifying.

All the same, they'd finally made it to her bed and the way he'd touched her was far better preparation than all the flower petals and music in the world. He'd been falling asleep, tipsy and content, and she'd had to rush the admission, knowing that if she didn't get it out then she'd probably never say it—and yes, she did know that made her emotionally repressed.

"Spike?"

"Hm-hm." He hadn't opened his eyes, and she'd been relieved at that. A little easier for her to make her declaration without him watching her.

"I love you."

"Hmmm. What?" He had seemed suddenly very much awake and completely sober.

"I said…" She remembered how hard her heart had been hammering, how strong the desire had been to flee. "I love you."

And then he'd smiled and it had been so warm and full of wonder it had seemed like a tiny reminder of heaven. Then he'd swallowed hard and touched her face with shaking finger. "Buffy," His voice had fallen like summer rain on her skin washing away all her lingering doubts. "I love you."

"Slayer." He looked vaguely amused as she dragged herself back to the present. "You looked a million miles away, luv. Everything all right?"

The lazy smile on her face was as contented as her sigh as she shook her head and looked up at him. "Perfect."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow and she chuckled wryly. "Or not. But there's nothing I'd change."

"Me neither, pet." His embrace would have been painful for a normal girl, but she merely melted into it and closed her eyes. "Me neither."


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A/N Specail thanks to April of course for policing my awful grammer and spelling, she's a love she really is.

Also many thanks to everyone who bothered to review, writing this has been in turn wonderful and greuling, reviews keep you going when the story doens't want to play.

I guess I should also apologise for how long this one took to get through, a very poor show on my part I'm afraid.

Love to Nip, Pin, dreamgal, caroline, Cali( who disappeared, where did you go?), lilpuf, chymera, rana who've been there all along and MG, romero, shelly, spacelord and jane who reviewd the last chapter

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