Chapter 1: What Had You Heard

The headlights of the cab cut through the darkness of the city streets, reflecting off the rain slicked pavement. The cab driver, an older man, his face heavily etched by life, glanced at the woman’s reflection in the rear view mirror, trying to make eye contact. She was young, probably early twenties, but she didn’t have the look of the usual star-struck type he often picked up at the airport, the bright-eyed girls going to make it big.

No, this one was a little plump, with mousy hair falling around her slightly rounded face, the antithesis of the blonde and skinny starlets-to-be. Her face was tired and drawn as she’d slid into the cab, and handed him an address, and there was a sorrow in her eyes that sent a surge of sympathy through him as she’d settled in the backseat. His wife always said he was too curious about his passengers by far, but this one, this one, he was more than a little worried for.

“You sure you wanna be going down here this late at night, miss? Since that earthquake last year, lot of businesses have closed down, people moved out.” He lowered his voice a little. “People see some strange things down here, dangerous things.”

Her gaze pulled from the window, her focus sharp on him for the first time since she’d gotten in and handed him the address. “What kind of things?”

He slowed the car as a stop light turned from yellow to red and half turned. “You know, just . . .” He fumbled for words for a minute, then shrugged. “People go missing, get hurt. Probably gangs, drugs, that sort of thing. But it’s a bad area, miss. And this place?” He waved the slip of paper with the hastily scrawled address on it. “The Hyperion, it’s just an empty building, it’s not really a hotel now.”

“I know,” she nodded. “Is it much further?”

The light had changed and he let the car roll forward. “No, not much further now.”

She turned back to the window and he drove on.

/ /

She could see why the cab driver was concerned as the blocks continued to fall away and they drew closer to the address she’d given him. Before, they’d passed blocks filled with crowded bars and clubs, people out on a Friday evening, some already in costume celebrating Halloween a few days early.

The streets were nearly deserted in this part of town. The buildings were mostly undamaged from the earthquake, but there was a hopelessness to the many boarded up windows that shuttered the area, advertising their abandonment.

Just the sort of place a vampire might nest.

She leaned her head back for a minute, closing her eyes. Her body ached; she was so tired. She hadn’t slept, not really slept for two or three days now, not since that night in London . . .

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Maybe she should have crashed, waited until daylight to come here after she’d rested, made a plan. The Hyperion was probably a dead end anyway. But she had to start somewhere.

And she doubted she would have slept anyway. Not until she knew for sure.

“It’s the next block up, miss, that building right up there.”

She started to lean forward as he slowed, when a movement in the side street caught her eye, a couple staggering drunkenly up the alley together.

The cabbie continued, “Was a beauty back in its day, all kind of notables stayed there. Course that was years ago, back when this area-”

“I’ll just get out here,” she interrupted, grabbing the bills she’d counted out and thrusting them over the seat. “Thank you.”

“You want me to wait?” he began, but she’d already flung open the door and jumped out before he could even come to a complete stop. She was gone around the corner into the alley, vanished.

He idled for a moment, wondering if he should wait for the sad-eyed little girl, but a movement of a figure up ahead and a flash of eyes that weren’t quite human had him gunning the motor and pulling away. He’d circle the block, but if she wasn’t back soon, well, he’d tried to warn her.

/ /

She turned the corner behind the hulk of the Hyperion that blocked out what little moonlight there was slicing through the shifting clouds, and gave her eyes a moment to adjust as she reached for the wooden stake she’d tucked inside her dark jacket. No bright colors, nothing to attract attention. She was here for one simple purpose only and the sooner it was done . . .

The air was crisp from the recent rain, but she couldn’t blame it for the shiver that ran through her as she took a deep breath to steady her nerves and started down the alleyway.

She tightened her grip, the feel of the smooth wood in her hands somehow not a comfort. The last vamp she’d dusted had seen to that. She closed her eyes at the memory she couldn't shake.

“Wait, I have information you’ll want, if you’ll let me go, Slayer.”

She rolled her eyes. Even the newest Slayers had heard that one before. She reached for her stake, ready to sink it in as he scrabbled harder against the wall, his beady yellow eyes flooded with fear, and raised an eyebrow without loosening her grip.

“So talk already.”

“Okay, okay,” he wheezed against her chokehold. “The Master’s line rising again, going to take back Los Angeles.”

“Who?”

“Drusilla and Spike.”

Her fingers tightened around his neck, pinning him more firmly as she pressed the stake into the soft flesh over his heart. “Everyone knows Spike’s dead. Tell me another one.”

The vamp struggled harder. “No, it’s true.” She eased back a fraction as he babbled on. “Maybe she brought him back, I don’t know, but they say it’s really him, William the Bloody.” Even with a Slayer’s stake pressed to his chest, she could hear the worshipful tone. “They, they say the city’s wide open now, after last year, that Wolfram and Hart debacle, word’s out that he’s recruiting, building an army. Gonna be the Master of LA, I reckon. I could-”

He’d lunged then, trying to twist away and the stake had slid home by reflex, leaving her with a pile of dust and unanswered questions.

Until now.

Her instincts had been right about the couple. She was close enough to hear the sounds of a struggle, the girl’s pleading plaintive as she begged for her life over the low snarl of a vampire.

“Please, please, I’ll do whatever. Just don’t, don’t kill me, Spike.”

Spike. She froze, her blood running cold for a minute as the girl’s voice broke into a whimper. He was really here. How was that even possible? She shoved analysis to the side as a loud roar echoed against the brick, spurring her into action.

She broke into a run and turned the corner of the alley, skidding to a stop at the unexpected sight of not one, but two vampires facing off and circling. In the dim light, they appeared as mirror images, feral yellow eyes glowing, clad in a swirl of black leather topped with a shock of blindingly white hair.

Oh yeah, Spike was really here all right. Times two.

She wondered if it was possible for her brain to explode. She wasn’t prepared for this.

She stepped back into the shadow of the wall, barely registering the crying girl that was crawling towards her, unable to stop staring. It was almost unreal, the dance before her, as one of the vampires moved forward in a graceful lunge and the other parried, their bodies locking in a desperate struggle until one gained the upper hand and hurled the other body into the brick wall.

She was momentarily distracted by the girl who’d finally reached her. Up close, under the heavy eyeliner, it was easier to see how young she was, tears leaving tracks on her mascara-smeared cheeks, her blond hair ratted and tangled.

“Please, help me,” she begged.

She helped the trembling girl to her feet, trying to summon some sympathy, remember her own self at sixteen. “What happened?”

The girl seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, her breaths coming sharp and fast before the words suddenly began tumbling out. “He seemed so nice and he bought me drinks, and he said was gonna walk me home and then I thought he just wanted to, you know, but then he turned into some kind of monster, and tried to bite me. Then that other one showed up and pulled him off of me-” The girl glanced back, shivering at the vampires who continued to fight, and burst into tears again, her hand rubbing at the shallow bite on her neck.

She pulled the girl’s hand away from her wound and looked it over. “It’ll be fine, you’ll heal. Run back to the street. There was a cab there, maybe he’s still waiting.” She held the girl’s arm for a moment, forcing her to meet her eyes. “And don’t go in dark alleys with strange men. They’re not always what they seem. Even when they aren’t these kind of monsters.”

The girl nodded, whimpering, and fled.

She turned back again, riveted by the still raging battle. One of the vampires had clearly gained the upper hand, pinning the other, demanding something in a low growl she couldn’t quite make out. The other vampire sneered, his eyes flashing as he spat something and bashed his head against the other vamp’s skull, using the momentary surprise to twist and run towards a metal fire escape bolted to the wall at the end of the alley.

She was about to join in the chase when the other Spike leaped forward with a howl and dragged him down, a flash of stake leaving the alley populated with just two now as he slumped forward, bracing himself on his knees while he wiped away the blood that dripped from his nose.

One Spike. Who had just staked the other. Maybe her head had already exploded. So much for simple.

He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, his still vamped face illuminated by the flicker of his lighter. He took a deep drag as the tip caught and glowed. She watched as his eyes closed in relief.

She waited a half second and then stepped out of the shadows, her hands coming together in a slow clap around her stake. “Nice work.”

He straightened, startled, his head swiveling to look her up and down, taking in the stake at the ready. He shook his head. “Not exactly the place for little girls, even if they are playing at Slayer. Who the hell might you be?”

She opened her mouth to speak just as his nostrils flared and she watched the vampire recede, yellow eyes fading to blue as recognition bloomed across his face. “Buffy?”

Damn vampires with their overdeveloped sense of smell. She caught her breath as that thought tumbled over again. Only one vampire would know Buffy smell. Only one Spike. Her Spike. She wondered at her own weirdness as a tiny bit of warmth blossomed inside her for the first time in days. She muttered the words that caused the glamour to fall away and stepped forward into the moonlight.

“Hello, Spike.”

Three days earlier . . .

Buffy stared out the window of the posh hotel suite at the soft rainfall, absorbing the grey fall of the moonlight on the graceful stone structures of the elegant street. Nice what a credit card financed by the Watcher’s Council’s apparently limitless bank accounts could get a girl. Bastards.

She should enjoy the high thread count sheets and fluffy towels while she could though. Tomorrow she and Andrew would be headed back north to the drafty castle that had become Slayer Central.

At least they’d been successful this time. Chalk one more up for Slayers United. Even after a year and a half, they still hadn’t found all the girls, though the reports of new potential slayers had slowed in the last few months. This one had been fourteen, quiet and reserved, probably hid the new strength and power from everyone after it happened. She’d been reluctant, but Andrew had once again proven surprisingly persuasive at convincing teenage Slayers to join up with the rank and file of the new and improved Watcher’s Council.

Buffy had to give it to him; it was one of his strengths. She’d finally decided, after an excruciatingly long stakeout with him and a group of five of the younger slayers, it was probably because Andrew shared the thought patterns of a fourteen-year-old girl.

And apparently something about leaving her teens, possibly coupled with assorted apocalypses, deaths, personal and otherwise, and the otherwise general mayhem that was her life had completely robbed her of the ability to speak teenage girl. Her hand twisted a little more tightly in the curtain. Sometimes it felt like she was just the poster child for Slayers these days – all symbol, no substance.

“Buffy, look, there’s satellite!”

She glanced back over her shoulder at Andrew, who was practically vibrating off the couch.

“Oh! It’s a Star Wars marathon! Don’t you love it when Hans-”

She turned and cut him off, “Uh, Andrew, you know what, I think I’m going to go out for a walk, get some fresh air to help me sleep.”

His face fell. “But I thought we could celebrate things going so well today. Maybe watch the show, order some room service?” Andrew held up a menu. “They have ice cream sundaes!”

Buffy edged towards her room, trying to ignore the puppy dog eyes. Even after more than a year, there was still something about Andrew that set her nerves on edge.

“Thanks, Andy, but I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately. I think I need the walk.”

He was instantly alert, his eyes wide. “Slayer dreams? Buffy, do you want to talk about them? I am officially trained now, you know.”

“I know, Andrew. But no, not Slayer dreams. Just . . . dreams. I won’t be gone long, just around the block.” She had already crossed the room and grabbed her coat and umbrella off the door. “You go ahead and order something. I’m sure Giles won’t mind. You did really well with Arianna and her parents today.”

He brightened and nodded, already distracted by the screen where light sabers were flashing and clashing in a swirl of colors.

She didn’t really mind the rain. There was something soothing about the soft shush of the showers, and the way it cleared the streets as people scurried under their umbrellas to their destinations, leaving her alone.

She walked slowly, tipping her face up now and then to catch a drop or two. This recruiting trip was supposed to be a chance to get her head clear, get refocused. Things were good. Way better than they’d been in Sunnydale. No more worries about money. No more stupid jobs. No more being the one and only girl bearing the burden of saving the whole world.

What more could she ask for?

Not being the role model for hundreds of Slayers and target de jour for the demon world, maybe, for starters. What good was losing the role of Chosen One when you still had to be . . . well, The Original Chosen One?

She stopped and stared through the bars of a wrought iron fence surrounding a small park. It was pretty damn lonely up there on display, too. Working with Giles and Willow and Xander should have been great. Kind of a revival of the original Scoobs, new and improved with bigger budgets and more firepower. But all work and no play Buffy . . . not with the big fun.

She let out a sigh and started to resume her walk when the rain suddenly gained intensity. She ducked through the gate of the park and headed towards the shelter of a large tree in the far corner.

Sometimes she didn’t even know if she knew how to play anymore – how to just be happy. The way she’d used to take for granted that she could fit in homework and slaying and Bronzing and mooning at the window with Angel, that things like a new leather jacket or a good hair day could make her bouncy, regardless of if the end of the world was looming. She could barely even remember being that girl through the filter of the last few years.

Buffy found a bench shaded beneath the low hanging tree that deflected much of the rain and sat, her hand automatically going to her pocket to pat the stake tucked there. Life had been of the major sucktitude for the last few years there in Sunnydale, but shouldn't she have moved on by now? Found some peace? Be grateful for this new life, where she didn't have to go it alone anymore?

She was starting to think she never would. It might have been cellular sunburn, but a part of her, the carefree, mall-loving, shoe-hogging, blonde valley girl part of her who knew how to have fun, to love, to just be, hadn’t made it back in her resurrection. Essence of Buffy wasn’t quite the same after that. Very little had distracted her from the twin specters of the repo guy and mortgage man those last few years in Sunnydale, followed up by an extra helping of the First Evil.

Except him.

She wondered occasionally if Willow had done another charm, though she swore she didn’t do that sort of thing without consent anymore, because her dreams were the one place that carefree Buffy came back more and more. She’d dream of her Mom laughing as she tried to teach her how to make a cake, and Angel when they were still in the hugs and puppies stage, all soulful eyes and sweet kisses and innocence.

And sometimes . . . sometimes she’d dream of Spike. Those were the ones that seemed most vivid somehow, even though they weren’t the x-rated sex romps she'd have thought her subconscious would call up for him.

No, they were stupid little things. The time he’d taken her to play kitten poker and they’d gotten falling down drunk, toasting each other in the candlelight of his crypt. His eyes had burned brighter than the candles that night, a softness in them she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, but that the alcohol had let her appreciate.

Or when she’d fallen fighting the blah-blah demon, tripping over a root as she’d made the final swing of the axe. She’d wrenched her neck, and he’d taken her back, set her in the center of that incongruous large bed he’d dug up from somewhere and held ice against her neck, his fingers working out the tension until she’d fallen asleep there for the first time, lulled into peace.

And the night he’d found her in that deserted house when she was at her lowest, held her in his arms, gave her the courage to fight the good fight one more time.

The one that always jarred her from sleep though, was of those last moments, memories of his calmness as the flames had begun to lick at him, the fire that had warmed but not burned her hand as she’d finally managed to say the words and mean them.

Sometimes the dream ended differently. She'd pull the amulet off and it would keep working as they both raced away from the caving crater of the Hellmouth. Somehow the sun never burned him in those dreams as they made it together to the fleeing bus, and the sensation that he was there with her, lying next to her in the bed, waiting for her to wake up, would be so strong she’d reach out for him. But there was only a stack of pillows.

The clang of the iron gate jarred her to alertness beneath the tree where she sat, still and deep in thought. The small park was secluded, and the few passersby she'd noticed had hurried on, eager to get out of the rain. A couple entered as she watched from beneath the leaves, their arms wrapped around each other in a way that made her feel hollow inside. She could hear the woman’s laugh, high and girlish, and the man’s lower murmur.

Then they’d passed beneath the one lamp that provided scant illumination and she sat up straighter. Fashion victim at eleven o'clock. Always such a dead giveaway.

The couple ducked under a tree on the opposite side of the path, and Buffy could hear the unsuspecting girl’s laugh turn to a shriek as her date got bumpy and made with the necking. Said unsuspecting vamp never noticed her right behind until she tossed him back, pulling his now thoroughly frightened date from his grip.

She shoved the girl back towards the street with a quick command to run, as she circled the vamp, stake at the ready, suddenly more alive than she’d felt in weeks. Maybe this was what she’d been missing. Slayer, solo, vs. vamp. Mano e mano.

She twirled and whirled, thrust and parried, moderately surprised at the vamp’s level of skill, but sure enough that she could take him to play with him a bit, stretch it out and enjoy the fight.

That is until he called her name.

“You’re the original, aren’t you? Buffy, is it?” he asked, almost conversationally as he leapt to void the sweep of her leg. She paused for a fraction of a second, surprised and maybe a teensy bit flattered. There were so many of them now . . . well, it didn’t hurt the ego.

“Guess I still have a rep,” she replied, weaving to find an opening.

“Oh yeah, that you do, love. Buffy the Vampire Layer.” He smirked. “What vamp doesn’t want a slayer who’ll shag’m, not stake’m?’

There was a haze of red that descended and she unleashed a flurry of fists, the goal of dusting forgotten in the desire to block out the twisty face leering at her.

She pinned him in a corner within minutes, stake at the ready for the final blow, when his words stopped her again.

“Wait, I have information you’ll want, if you’ll let me go, Slayer.”

She rolled her eyes. Even the newest Slayers had heard that one before. She reached for her stake, ready to sink it in as he scrabbled harder against the wall, his beady yellow eyes flooded with fear, and raised an eyebrow without loosening her grip.

“So talk already.”

“Okay, okay,” he wheezed against her chokehold. “The Master’s line rising again, going to take back Los Angeles.”

“Who?”

“Drusilla and Spike.”

Her fingers tightened around his neck, pinning him more firmly as she pressed the stake into the soft flesh over his heart. “Everyone knows Spike’s dead. Tell me another one.”

The vamp struggled harder. “No, it’s true.” She eased back a fraction as he babbled on. “Maybe she brought him back, I don’t know, but they say it’s really him, William the Bloody.” Even with a Slayer’s stake pressed to his chest, she could hear the worshipful tone. “They, they say the city’s wide open now, after last year, that Wolfram and Hart debacle, word’s out that their recruiting, building an army. Gonna be the Master of LA, I reckon. I could-”

He lunged then, trying to twist away and the stake had slid home by reflex, leaving her with a pile of dust and unanswered questions. She tried to draw a breath, but her lungs weren’t cooperating, and her whole body seemed frozen.

Spike was back.

How was it possible? She’d seen it, seen the fire begin to consume him, seen his face, set in sacrifice and something else, almost a sanctification as he channeled the light and crashed the gates of hell.

She staggered to her feet and towards the gate, mind racing. It had to be Drusilla. Crazy bitch must have resurrected him the way they had Darla, though Angel had glossed over that story quite a bit in their brief reunion after her own round trip for deadsville. How else could he have returned?

She walked blindly back towards her hotel. Would he be the same? Could he be human? Or would he still have the soul? Would he remember . . . everything?

Either way, she couldn’t rest until she’d found him.

/ /

Andrew chattered for most of the train ride north the next day, and she managed a polite nod here and there, but she stayed lost inside her head for the entire trip.

Spike wasn't dead.

Or wasn't dead dead.

Spike was undead. Again.

Spike was killing. Again.

Spike was with Drusilla. Again.

She felt a little queasy as those thoughts rolled over and over, clacking like the wheels on the train. He'd been done. He'd sacrificed himself, died for them. Maybe for her. She didn't like to think about that much, about the whys and whatfors of she and Spike and the twisty messy thing they'd had or hadn't had that kind of was bigger than any other thing she ever not had.

Her head hurt.

He wouldn't have wanted this. Not her Spike. The one who'd won back a soul, fought the good fight, tried to save her sister, kept her from losing her mind.

It had to be her fault. Drusilla. She should have killed that nutjob in Sunnydale when she had the chance.

If Drusilla brought him back, revamped him, maybe he was back to square one. Maybe he didn't remember everything from before. Would it be the same demon? A different one? He'd have lost the soul again, probably. That seemed to be how it worked. She rubbed her temple. She should have paid more attention in that lesson on new vamps Giles gave a couple of months ago for the new recruits.

Giles. What would he say about this? After all that Spike did, surely he'd be willing to give her a chance to find him first, try to find out what happened. She could do what was necessary, if she had to.

She sighed. In the last few months she'd seen Giles less and less. He'd been out and about, almost a different person from the retiring librarian who'd been her Watcher in Sunnydale – making the rounds to the right people who were in the know about the Watcher's Council, reestablishing their new role. She'd gone to a few dinners with him in her role as Slayer spokesgirl, watched him at work.

He was different now. Focused. Colder. She got it, but she missed him. Missed them all. Nothing was quite the same now, with the organizing, and mission statements, and fancy gadgets, and the paperwork she was supposed to fill out when she infrequently led a mission. It was a job, right down to the paycheck she got each month.

She'd hated the Watcher's Council when she was the only chosen one, and she wasn't sure she liked them any better now that she was them.

She stared out the window, watched the countryside flying by as Andrew prattled on, occasionally showing her a page from his X-men comic, and realized what she had to do.

Spike wasn't some random baddie that they could sit around a conference table and strategize about, a target to send a team of well-trained recruits after. If he was back, if what that vamp had said was true, she would take care of it. Herself.

/ /

She sat in the airport terminal, a ticket clutched in her hand, hoping she could pull this off. Willow had insisted on teaching a few simple spells to all the slayers, including a basic glamour, and while she generally sucked at anything magical and left it to the experts to do before she traveled, she'd been willing to give this one a try. She glanced at the passport she'd borrowed without asking from the housekeeper's daughter. Clara was away at school and would never miss it.

She felt wrong in this subterfuge. Maybe she should have talked to Giles or Willow or someone about where she was going. But something had stopped her. Spike was hers. It was that simple. And if this vamp in L.A. was him, if he was the ruthless killer he'd once been, she owed it to him, to who he'd been, to stop him herself, not leave it to some team of new Slayers who wouldn't understand what they was dealing with. And if he was an imposter? She'd be happy to put him down too.

And she knew they wouldn't have let her go. No one ever talked about Spike around her, or what had happened there at the end, but she could see the disapproval on their faces now if anyone ever skirted the topic. Better they know nothing about this.

It had helped that the original Scoobs had all been out and about when she and Andrew had returned to the castle. Lying to Andrew had been easy enough – he ate up her tale of going on a vision quest in the Highlands that would require total solitude.

She knew the dangers of traveling alone – being the original Slayer in a Watcher's Council that was starting to really make inroads in the demon population made her a bigger target these days – a prestige kill. So she'd taken the proper precautions – until she got to Los Angeles, Buffy Summers didn't exist.

The voice echoed in the Heathrow terminal announcing that boarding had begun for the flight to Phoenix, Arizona, and she stood and made her way towards the flight attendant, handing over her ticket.

"Have a good flight, Ms. Drennan."

"Thank you." Buffy squared her shoulders and walked down to her seat, ready for what was to come.

“Hello, Spike.”

Of all the alleys in all the worlds, she had to walk into his. Or something like that. She was the last person he’d expected to see standing here tonight, though he should have known that sooner or later she’d find her way here, to this place.

It was one of the reasons he’d left L.A. after it all went to hell in this alley.

He focused his attention back on his cigarette he’d been trying to light to give himself a moment to pull himself back in check. The mousy brown thing that had walked into this alley had shimmered away and there she stood in all her glory, beautiful as ever.

He took a long drag and then allowed himself another look.

Gained a bit of weight, she had, looked all sleek and shiny like a well-fed house cat. Better than she had those last few months in Sunnydale, when she’d gotten as thin as an ill-fed back alley tabby. Life in Rome had suited her. He watched as she narrowed her eyes at his silence, flipping her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. He’s always loved that hair, the way it framed her face in sunshine, those eyes . . .

He let himself meet those eyes for a moment, lock gazes with her for the first time since she’d stepped forward and revealed herself. No doubt about it, it was her, but some of the fire he remembered had faded, as though the sum total of all she’d lived through had finally taken its toll. He started to take a step towards her, drawn by those eyes, until he caught himself.

Chit had probably just been partying too many nights into the wee hours with the bleeding Immortal was all. No need to feel sympathy for the party girl. No, key here was to be civil, then send her off. This was his mess to deal with, after all.

He took one more calming nicotine drag, then nodded politely.

“Well, well, the Slayer has come to pay a visit, has she? Not much in these parts for you, love, nothing to compare to your new toys.”

Her brow crinkled in confusion as she stepped closer. “What? Spike, I-”

The attack seemed to come out of nowhere, and Spike cursed as he realized that he’d been so wrapped up in bloody Buffy that he’d failed to notice the shifting shadows behind her that materialized into three more vamps. His lip curled as he growled and launched himself past her surprised face.

He ground out his cigarette in the chest of the first vampire he encountered, laughing gleefully as the ember caught in the fabric, sending the vamp bursting into flames.

The second was a little tougher. Short and compact, older than the fledges he’d encountered in the last few weeks. Must have been one of the first Dru turned. Spike blocked a punch and leveled the smaller man with a swift roundhouse kick. “Sorry, mate, no time to play today.” He wasted no time in plunging the stake into his opponent’s chest.

He knew Buffy had shifted into fight mode as well, could hear the grunts and punches behind him as he rose to his feet and looked across the alley to watch the third vamp dissolve around her stake.

Their eyes met for a brief moment and he saw the fire he remembered there.

“Buffy-” he began, as another vampire suddenly slipped from the shadows behind her, and raised an iron pipe, smashing it into the head of the Slayer from behind. She dropped like a sack of bricks and the vampire swooped in for the kill, only to find himself facing Spike’s stake planted firmly against his chest.

“No way to treat a lady,” he snarled. “And speaking of, how’s Dru?”

The vampire was either too young or too stupid to realize his predicament as he sneered, spitting around his fangs, “Mistress Drusilla rules us all-”

“Bollocks – just as brainwashed as the rest. Guess her standards have slipped in the past century.” Spike muttered, as he cut off the diatribe, leaving the alley quiet again.

He knelt and gently rolled her over. There was a large knot on her head, but her breathing was steady and her pulse regular.

“Slayer? Buffy? Love, open those eyes for me.”

He rested her head on his knee, as her eyes fluttered open, still unfocused. Her hand raised unsteadily and touched his cheek.

“You’re not a dream,” she whispered, lips barely moving before her eyes fluttered shut again.

He stared at her tranquil face for a long minute, debating with his inner demons, then rose and gathered her into his arms and started down the alleyway.

/ /

He sat in the stiff chair, slippery with its cheap plastic seat covering, with his knees apart, supporting his elbows, in turn supporting his steepled hands that cradled his chin. Needed that support to hold himself in place as he stared across the room at the unmoving body on the small worn bed.

It was really her. The Slayer. Buffy.

Somewhere over the Atlantic months ago, he’d convinced himself that he’d seen the last of her in that club in Rome. Completed that chapter, locked that door, all that rot about closure. Just a flash of bright hair, bouncing round her shoulders as she shimmied to the beat, and he’d known. The girl she’d once been was back again. Just not for him. Never for him.

Knew he’d made the right choice then, staying put in L.A., fighting the good fight with Angel and what all. Not trailing after her again, laying himself across the alter of Saint Buffy to receive the crumbs she might deign to cast his way, if she ever grew tired of the poncy Eurotrash git she’d taken up with.

His cigarettes were on the battered table near by, waiting for him. He reached over and plucked one from the pack, unable to look away as he flipped his lighter out and methodically lit the tip, inhaling slowly as he realized he was shaking.

He should have known she’d come. Rumblings of the army of Slayers and their doings reverberated through the demon world, more than just tales to frighten the baby vamps these days. And quiet as Los Angeles had been these past six months, news of half the Scourge of Europe painting the city red would have to register on their monitors.

He just hadn’t thought it’d be her, and so soon. Should have know the Slayer wouldn’t leave others to deal with her messes. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, tapped the growing ash off his cigarette as he stared again at her unmoving body. Just . . . hadn’t thought she’d come alone.

He hesitated for a moment, then stubbed out the cigarette and grabbed for his jacket, decision made. He headed for the door, careful not to disturb the intricate markings drawn there, and moved out into the night.

/ /

Her mouth felt like wooly cotton sheep had taken up residence. Buffy opened her mouth and struggled to swallow, before gingerly prying her eyes open and struggling to sit up, focus on something besides the pain in her head.

“Take it easy, Slayer, bit of a blow you had. Got some ice, here.”

He was beside her in a second, easing her up, a pillow behind her back, an ice pack wrapped just the way she liked it at her neck as she swayed against him. She relaxed for a second at the feel of the arms around her, supporting her, before she jerked back, suddenly aware of whose she was cuddling against.

Spike.

She scrambled away in a blind panic, desperate for space as she pushed him back and fell over the end of the bed on to the floor, trying to catch her breath. She scrambled to her feet, swaying slightly as she felt her vision blur, and caught herself on the edge of the nightstand, holding still for a moment as a few factors registered.

Spike was in front of her, holding an ice pack. Had been helping her. Was alone.

The wave of nausea hit before she could process further and her knees buckled as she found herself stumbling the few steps into a tiny bathroom and upchucking onto the cold and worn linoleum floor, the gold flecked squares covered with the remains of bad airline food like some modern art commentary on life.

“Slayer?”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up, focusing on his face as the world slowly stopped spinning and she found her focus. Spike. The alley. A fight.

“What happened?” she finally managed.

He handed her the cloth that had been wrapped around the ice in his hand, and she took it gratefully, wiping her mouth, slowly rising to her feet.

“Group of vampires ambushed us, you took a blow to the head.” He toyed with the ice cube. “Believe you might be a bit concussed, but didn’t know whether to take you to hospital . . .”

She swallowed, grimacing at the acrid taste, and took the glass of water he passed her, gulping it down. Whatever was going on in this bizarre world, he wasn’t planning on hurting her at the moment, she concluded, as she sat the glass down beside the sink and managed to stagger back to the bed. He seated himself gingerly on a chair beside her.

“Are you . . .” she trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that seemed to descend like a loosened sandbag, leavening her almost breathless as the reality before her.

She’d spent hours on the plane trying to prepare herself for the moment she’d have to face him, do what she had to do. Promised herself she wouldn’t be drawn in or let him draw it out, just be swift and clean. Her Slayer duty, the thing she was always preaching about these days.

She hadn’t thought she’d face him like this though, wounded and vulnerable, nearly knee to knee with him as his eyes searched hers, and his hand slipped round back her neck as he leaned closer.

“Spike?” she finally finished, half question, half demand - for what she wasn’t sure.

He placed the cool ice back on her neck and for a brief moment she thought he meant to kiss her, her breath catching before he pulled back.

“Yeah, that should help. Always did before. Got you some aspirin and some juice when you’re up to it.”

He moved away then, gathering up a few things from the nightstand, retreating to the safety of the small kitchenette as she watched in confusion, holding the ice in place. He’d remembered. It was really him.

He was busying himself, not looking at her, burrowing in the small fridge, tearing open a bag of blood with his teeth, then pouring the thick liquid into a cup that he slid into the microwave. The whir of the appliance felt like the buzzing of her brain as she watched him watching it, the small carousel cycling round and round.

If Dru had revamped him, if he and she were . . . he wouldn’t be bagging it, would he?

“Where is she?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“Drusilla?” He shrugged. “Still haven't quite pinned her down. She's been a naughty girl, she has.”

She started to rise, felt her stomach flip, and sank back down. “So . . . is this some kind of thing for you two? Some kind of sick game, her making those vamps that look like you? And why are you drinking that?”

He raised an eyebrow as the microwave dinged and he pulled the container out, pouring it into a cracked mug.

“I'm hungry. Bloke's got to eat.”

“Can you, can you not bite then?” she asked, her head aching, trying to put this together. Could that be a side effect somehow of Dru bringing him back?

He took a sip and licked at the ring of blood left on his upper lip. “You offering?” He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over her. “You got a taste for it now? Don't see any fang marks, but as I recall, that ponce liked to hit veins that were a little more . . . intimate.”

“No. No one's biting me,” she declared flatly, more confused than ever. “And who's the ponce? And how did she do it? Bring you back? I wouldn't have thought Dru could manage that. Is she working with someone?”

“Dru?” He started to chuckle. “Don't think so. Bit of a mystery how it happened, me coming back, but I'm dead certain Dru wasn't a part of it. Though she'd have enjoyed the look on Angel's face when I popped out of that package.”

Buffy groaned and dropped the ice bag. What the hell was he talking about? “Angel's gone, Spike. Since last year. As you know – why else would you pick Los Angeles for you and Dru to take over?”

He started to laugh. “What the hell are you blathering on about, Slayer? 'm here to stop Dru, since you and your little cadets can't be bothered with this town, what with partying with the Immortal and all.”

She stood in a huff, her stomach feeling more settled. “I have not been partying with the Immortal.”

He moved closer, eyes narrowed. “Sure you haven't. Angel and I both saw you, dancing with him. Knew your taste in men was questionable, present company excluded, but really, Slayer. You can do better.”

“When were you with Angel? What is going on here?” she asked.

He stared at her for a long minute. “You don't know, do you?”

“Know what?” she fumed, arms crossed.

“Anything, apparently,” Spike replied. “What happened here, with Wolfram & Hart, and the Black Thorn.”

She shook her head. “I . . . No. Giles told me there was a fight, that Angel got involved on the wrong side and was killed.”

“Wrong side, indeed. Leave it to the Watcher to spin things round like that. Maybe if you'd come like he asked, things would have been different.”

“What do you mean, like he asked?” Buffy echoed. “Angel didn't ask the Watcher's Council for help.”

Spike scoffed, then drained his cup. “He bloody well did. Guess they didn't bother to tell you about it. Didn't tell you about me either, did they? Little Andrew managed to keep his mouth shut after all.”

She could feel her pulse pounding as she shook her head, suddenly wondering what else they'd kept from her. “Why don't you tell me then? Tell me everything.”

He shrugged. “Let's take a walk.”

She followed him to the door of the low rent efficiency, watching as he carefully rechalked the wards along the exterior doorframe, before a sudden shock of electricity rendered her unconscious again.