Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Power Alone is Not Enough

Book One: Other Than Dead



All appropriate disclaimers apply, I do not own the characters, I’m only borrowing them. No copyright infringement is intended.



Introduction:





A Legacy… Into every generation… is a hard thing to live up to… There is a chosen one… and an even harder burden to bare... One girl in all the world... when it is come upon at a tender age… One born with the strength and skill… and everything… To stop the spread of Evil…literally depends on it… She alone will stand against the vampires…what then the end of innocence… the demons and the Forces of Darkness… when even evil is no longer pure…She is the Slayer.



Willow Speaks: "You think you know,"

Followed by Spike: "What you are,"

Then Buffy: "What is to come,"

Dawn: "You haven't even begun,"

And Giles: "The world is doomed."





Prologue The First: Africa, eight years, three months ago:



He had many names: Asphyx, Cave Demon, Daemon of the Waters of the Earth, Archangel, Keeper of Souls, Paradoxium, Demon's Folly, Todd...but to him, he was just himself.



He had been here since there was a here to be, and now this task, at least, was done.



There had been many, often even more than one per millennia, as time is reckoned now in this the rising of man, and they had been-entertaining.



As he had been told the proof would come, in truth, would be compelled to do so.



And so it did.





And, as he had been told, he would doubt the proof that it might be proved.



And doubt he did.



This could not be proof of the paradox. It was too small; larger than the scarab, yes, but they were many and it was but one and alone; smaller in mass and in muscle than the other trials by far.



And fragile, not even true daemon stood before him but mortal born.



Indeed, the trials themselves seemed set, as set they were, against this one, against its kind in particular.



Hmm, the Archangel thought, perhaps then this be telling true, and I should not doubt, but doubt he had to.



No, it was too young, not yet two centuries, a mere portion of a blink of an eye, far too young to be proof.



Yet it bore the mark and by measure of its kind could not be marked.



The Archangel thought the motive selfish; it sounded so, but if proved true as stated would be thus pure and that truth be in the Trial not in the telling.

The other requirements are they met?



The Archangel probed as he spoke to it; his words meant naught, the probing all.



Does it know or is it ignorant?



It did not know specifically, but by nature and in general-yes, and specific awareness was never stipulated.



Does it fear or has it courage?



It had feared once and often and if it survived was certain would again; although for now, the metal was tempered well. And courage; courage and foolhardiness, they are often one. It would not leave without what it came for or it would not leave. It was here all the same.



Has it strength or is it weak?



No it did not have the strength, in that it would fail. It had not fed; in truth, it hadn't fed well in a long time. It would fail, but neither quickly nor quietly. It would fight and it would struggle until it won or was no more.



Hmm, is that perhaps enough?



"Do your worst," it said, "...but when I win, I want what I came here for."



The Archangel chuckled to himself, 'When,' ha, yes, determined it is nonetheless.



Lastly, that to be restored must at once be given and freely. Yes, yes that was already so.



Well, the Archangel thought, let the proof be proven, then.



Thus the Trial began and in its due was done.





Afterward the Archangel mused aloud to that which Be:



"I should tidy up.

No?

True, time will attend to it.

There is yet time."





And in after thought he asked, "May I watch?"



Answer was given.



The Archangel smiled as he unfurled his wings and he set with them upon the heavens and the stars heard the peal of his laughter.







Prologue The Second: January, the Slayer Compound:





"Angel, who did this to you," Willow asked, cautiously pulling back the cloth of his shirt now pasted to flesh by dried blackened blood and pus. She winced as her ministrations allowed the wound to open. It began to ooze and bleed and smoke. It did not smell that well either.



Andrew skidded, overshooting the foyer archway. "I got it!" he said, panting from the scramble for the first aid kit. He fumbled with the case's latch, opening it and putting it on the floor next to them. "It was wedged in beside the refrigerator by a bent fork," he explained. "Oh, and I found all the lost silverware there too! Uh, they're a little bit furry."



"This is serious, Andrew," Willow snapped with a scowl. She unwound some gauze as she quickly rummaged through the kit. "This is not enough; we need the surgical kit from the infirmary."



"I'll get it," Andrew volunteered. The sight and smell of the oozing wound made him queasy and Willow noted the muffled retching and gagging sounds that followed him out the door.



"Here, Angel, put some pressure on this," she said, packing the wound with loose gauze.



Her hand accidentally brushed across the red and black jagged circle barely an inch from the wound, directly over his heart. She thought it was a tattoo, he had several, though she didn't remember him having one there; but tattoos don't bite. This one bit her like a spider startled by her hand. She jerked it away. The circle glowed with the incandescence of a coal starting to catch flame. The flesh beneath and skin along its edges began to smolder.



"No! Don't!" Angel rasped, his hand abruptly halting the gentle pressure.



The muscles in his jaw and neck involuntarily contracted as the gauze snagged on the rough edges surrounding the wound tearing them anew.



"No! No pressure...it's splintered...all directions...can't get it out..." he said, his voice faltering as it failed him.



Willow grabbed a pre-packaged gauze pad. "Oh no, no pressure," she repeated in quiet alarm, ripping open the gauze and putting it over the kindling circle not knowing whether it would ignite or quench it.



The loose gauze in the wound was saturated and fresh blood and ooze began to trickle down Angel's chest leaving seared steaming rivulets in his flesh.



Willow was, as a rule, steady in these situations, she'd seen Angel hurt before, Spike as well, and injured vampires-just not as big a deal in the triage area as mortals, but she had never seen this.



Angel's skin, always pale, was chalky and looked very dry and ashen. She knew that vampires didn't, under normal circumstances, breathe, at least not often, but he was breathing, hard and labored, and if she was not mistaken, each exhale held a little more faint smoke than the last, and that smell... vampires usually smelled, well, good to her. Occasionally she'd come across one that was a little ripe or just plain unhygienic. Angel always smelled like cedar and spearmint mixed with leather and sorta licoricey. This smelled like dry-scorched death. Willow felt the panic escalate.



"Right, no pressure," she whispered. "I need help." She hit the intercom by the door. "Giles! Hurry!" she yelled.



She and Giles were working in the study when the security monitor beeped indicating someone at the main gate, someone who couldn't pass without intercession through the mystic locks and who didn't have a current access code for the physical ones.



She wasn't overly concerned when there was no answer to her salutatory inquiries. The intercom at the gate was garbled, at best, since the Lei-Ach incident last fall. The main console would give a visual and she offered to go check it, needing a break from the routine research.



She checked the main security panel in the common living area pulling up video for the gate. There was no vehicle in the drive. She sighed heavily as she switched to the camera in the walk-up alcove, it was still spattered with exploded Lei-Ach, but she could see it was Angel. She wondered why he was here. He usually called first. He didn't look well. Something was wrong.



Willow began the incantation that would allow him to pass through the gate, hoping that enough of it made it through the intercom system to let him know when the mystic locks would allow him in.



It was apparent from the look on Angel's face that her words did not transfer through the Lei-Ach clogged speakers. Luckily, the click of the electronic door lock did the trick. He was in the compound, but he was not moving very well. I might have to go get him, she thought.



Willow hurriedly recited the spell to allow him into the main house as she headed to the foyer.



“Are we having company," Andrew asked, coming out of the kitchen, a large sandwich in hand. He’d overheard her invocations.



"It's Angel," Willow said, "he's here, coming from the gate, Andrew, he doesn't really look too good, can you go check and see if he needs help?"



"Yeah," he said, "just don't eat my sandwich," setting the plate down on the bookcase. He turned and opened the door. Angel was already there, in an upright slump against the barrier. Willow realized Andrew had interrupted her incantation before she’d spoken the last two crucial words.



"Come in," they both chimed. The barrier fell away and Angel fell with it, hard across the threshold taking Andrew down with him. Willow attempted to break their fall and went down as well, leaving them all in a heap just inside the doorway.



Andrew squirmed trying to get out from underneath, as Willow propped Angel up against the doorframe. She knew Andrew was all right by his wriggling and fussing, but Angel was hurt. There was a large oozing hole in his chest, gashes in an arm and a leg and a deep slash alongside his face from temple to jaw line.



"We need the first aid kit," she exclaimed, glancing at Andrew as she spoke, "...it's in the kitchen." Andrew scurried leaving her to attend to Angel.



"What happened," she asked, moving the lapel of his coat away for a better look at the wound, "Angel, who did this to you?"



"Willow! What," it was Giles dashing into the far end of the hall. "...Angel?"



"Giles, he's hurt bad," her voice telling fear and concern.



Giles quickly assessed Angel's wounds. Willow was not wrong, he was hurt - bad.



Xander arrived panting at the door. "I thought I saw..." he said catching his breath, "...I did!" He was never pleased to see Angel.



"He's been staked," Willow said, "and there's splinters."



"We need to move him," Giles said upon assessment of his wounds, "...somewhere with more light. Uh...the kitchen. Xander, let's see if we can get him up and get him in there."



Willow, Giles and Xander help Angel rise to his feet, halfway up a violent coughing fit abruptly halts their progress. Angel, nearly doubling over, expelling smoke and dust with each labored hack. He gestured for a little less assistance and grabbed the doorframe in effort to pull himself upright.



"Uh, gently," Giles offered belatedly, attempting to stabilize him. Braced by Giles on one side and Xander on the other, they began to trudge slowly to the kitchen, steadied by Willow from behind.



"What happened," Giles asked.



"It was Spike," Angel said, stopping mid-step to cough up more dust and smoke.



"Spike did this," Willow asked, supporting all of them through the coughing spell.



"We fought..." Angel continued, gasping for enough air to form the words.



"About what," Xander asked.



"Do we need a reason," Angel said with more force than he was able to triggering another coughing jag. His tone, more Angelus than Angel, making Xander promptly drop the questioning.



"How long ago, uh...where," Giles continued trying to get as much preliminary information as he could before they started the physical probing.



"The Mission, about eight, ten days ago...I don't re..." Angel's voice failed him.



Willow almost asked, what mission, but she caught enough of the recognition in Giles' eyes to know he knew exactly where. Her mouth opened in query but no words came out. Giles knows where Spike is, she thought, that opens up a whole new...she felt Angel flinch precursive to a cough...but this is not the time.



She concentrated on steadying them into the kitchen.



Andrew burst in from behind them offering the surgical kit as Giles asked, "You've been...like this, for ten days?"



Angel nodded, "It took that long to get here," he stopped to inhale sharply, "I can't get them out...they've been festering..." he gasped for enough air to continue, setting off further coughing, "...have to deconsecrate...splinters..."



"Deconsecrate," Willow asked, "Why?"



"Andrew, help us get him up on the table," Giles instructed.



"We..." Angel strained, "...knocked over a cross...a reliquary crucifix. It shattered."



"A reliquary? How old," Giles asked, removing Angel's jacket and shirt. He rolled them up as a headrest and eased Angel down onto the table.



"Fifteen..." Angel winced, "...fifteen hundred..."



"From the fifteen hundreds, then it can't be that..." Giles began.



"No, not 1500's...it's fifteen hundred years old...six...sixth century," Angel corrected.



"Oh!" Giles said in that tone that was usually proceeded by a 'Dear Lord' and a vigorous cleaning of his glasses. It was presently followed by the removal of the saturated gauze packing the wound and then by a heartfelt 'Dear Lord' as sinuses were offended and eyes watered all around the room.

"Sorry," Angel managed meekly.



"Camphor," Andrew interjected helpfully, holding out the small jar from the surgical kit. He was already sporting a generous moustache of it. Xander reached for it, gagging, then passed it to Willow who obliged a grateful Giles first then herself. She offered some to Angel whose face turned even paler.



"Wooden, I take it," Giles asked opening a bottle of saline to flush the debris from the main wound.



"H-harp wood," Angel managed to answer.



"Ash," Willow clarified.



He nodded.



"The reliquary, what was in it," Giles asked, dabbing gingerly at the wound.



"Two, two vials..." Angel began.



"Blood," Giles asked hastily with alarm.



"No...o-oil...and three...pigeon feathers. The vials...broke, saturated everything..." Angel winced in pain.



"This cross, did it have a name?"



"Cloves...Clover...Cloven..." Angel tried, but could not remember.



"Cross of Clovis," Giles inquired.



Angel nodded, unable to vocalize further.



"Holy Ampoulla, lovely," Giles sighed.



"Rollicksome wrecked reliquary, Batman," Xander chimed. Giles, Willow and Angel all glared at him. Sobering, he asked, "If this cross is...how could Spike, I mean...he's not exactly..."



"...an altar boy," Giles finished for him.



"No, not yet," Angel said weakly, pacing his words with measured breaths. "He's been hanging around those robed types too long." He glanced at the wound in his chest, took a long labored breath and addressed Giles specifically, "...his weapon of choice of late..." then he wasn't able to say anymore.



Giles turned his attention to the small gauze pad, which was starting to char. He lifted it revealing an angry molten circle sinking into Angel's chest. He quickly replaced the gauze, dousing it with saline to keep it from bursting into flame.



"The Black Thorn," he whispered, barely audible.



"The tattoo," Willow asked.



"It's not a tattoo," he paused, "...it's a brand." He didn’t add anything more, it would not be helpful, and Willow, wisely, did not inquire further.



Giles studied the selection of scalpels in the roll pack of the surgical kit; none were adequate to the task.



"Uh, Giles..." Andrew said, "...sparklage."



"Giles!" Xander added.



Rupert looked up, "you've all seen vampires dust before,” he said calmly.



"Just not in slow motion," Willow realized.



"It has to come out, now!" he said, putting down the roll of scalpels.



"Hold him, all of you," he said grabbing the longest butcher knife out of the wooden block on the counter. With both hands and all the power he could muster, he plunged it directly into Angel's heart.



Willow and Xander both flinched as the knife penetrated flesh, bracing for a squirting spatter of blood that was not to come.



Andrew fainted, fortunately slumping over Angel's legs, his body weight serving to hold him in place on the table.



Angel screamed, then spasmed and gasped, slipping into unconsciousness.



Willow was certain she heard the tip of the knife hit the table and she winced as she heard ribs and sternum crack as Giles pulled the knife steadily towards him with all the force he had, leaving a gaping hole.



Xander lunged for the sink and heaved, wet then dry.



Giles reached into the newly enlarged chest chasm and with no small effort, extricated the glistening splinter of ash wood from Angel's pericardium. He grabbed the flashlight from the surgical kit and rapidly inspected the wound, which was already beginning to seal, then the splinter. It had come out intact after ten days of sawing away at the membrane surrounding Angel's heart.



"Willow..." he said, examining the splinter more thoroughly, fascinated by its auto-restorative and self-cleansing properties, its tiny barbed projections now adhering smoothly to its pearly iridescent surface, like a living thing, now in repose. "What do we have in the vaults to deconsecrate the wounds?"



"Huh, oh...Breken's bile," she answered unsure if that was the best choice.



Giles nodded, "that should do it."



"Andrew," Giles said, "...Andrew!" he said louder, rousing him. "Andrew, the Hadean leaches you've been breeding, are they ready to feed?"



"Uh, leaches? Yeah, they're old enough."



"Good, after Willow deconsecrates Angel's wounds, let them feed. They can eat away the damaged tissue. Oh! Don't let them eat too much, we don't want them to develop a taste for living...or, uh, un-living flesh, just the corrupted areas, and see if you can get some of the girls to get the guest room ready and to help getting him up there when you’re done."



“I'll have them bring a gurney," Andrew said before heading out to the dormitories to collect the needed extra hands.



"I'll get the Breken's bile," Willow began, "...Giles, there are a few different spells I could use, any suggestions as to which one, I mean, how much, how...deeply, do I have to deconsecrate..." she looked toward Angel stirring slightly on the table.



"Oh, uh, as you see fit. Willow, if he is conscience, let him tell you, he should know when it's enough. He should be able to feel it," Giles said, "...as should you."



"What should I do," Xander asked, wiping his face with a wet towel and dabbing off the rest of the greasy camphor.



"Just keep him from rolling off the table, keep him still if he wakes up before we get back, oh, and uh, see if you can find the ammonia sticks in the kits, in case he doesn't," Willow instructed.



Xander nodded, "and I'll put these," he motioned to the now disheveled first aid kits"...back together."



"Thanks," Willow smiled at him.



Giles was leaving the kitchen, taking the splinter back to the study to be tagged with all the appropriate log entries.





"Giles wait," she said after him, catching up in the hallway. "That tat...the brand...what was…is, it? Angel didn't have it before, and I thought, vampires couldn't...shouldn't it have healed, " she asked, hoping that he could decipher her questions.



"Circle of the Black Thorn," he said, "and it will never heal," he sighed.

Damn, she thought, he really has gotten good at this over the years.



"It's a leftover, I believe, from his association with Wolfram and Hart, by the hand of the senior partners."



"It's evil," she asked already knowing the answer.



"Um hum," he nodded.



"But, it seemed," she continued, "...was it..."



"The only thing keeping him from dusting...yes, I believe that would be an accurate assessment," he said studying the splinter and marveling, once more, this time at the smell it was now emitting... incense.



"It just seems so wrong," she went on, "to have to deconsecrate the wounds, to allow them to heal."



"It is, but, it's what we have to do," he said, "...or they won't."



"Isn't that what we, all of us, Angel too, are supposed to be fighting?"



He nodded.



"Giles are we winning," she asked as he continued down the hall, her voice sounding small and tiny.



There was no answer he could give.









Chapter One:



Brother Duncan had never seen The Slayer, but he knew this was her.



She was smaller than he expected, tiny, in fact, and older than the others who stalked the demons.



This was not a girl, not a child. This was a woman. She looked tired, as if she had been traveling for quite some time, as if she'd been - hunting. She was petite and pretty, yet still looked lethal.



There were three clients in line for in-processing, counting the one at the desk. Duncan was assisting a young mother and her children with the forms, they were not printed in Ma’di and his command of African dialects was better than Spike's.



Spike's words caught in his throat when he saw her. The client took the clipboard from him and went to the couch in the lobby to fill out the forms.



The vampire's eyes locked with those of The Slayer, whether their gaze lasted for a split second or for eternity was moot, the impact was absolute, and it was not lost on Duncan.



His first instinct was panic: Slayer, vampire, small-enclosed space...but no, panic quickly gave way to many years of studied observations.



Nothing demony in those looks, he thought, damn dangerous though.



Duncan left Mrs. Abaku to fill out the packet of forms as best she could and stepped over to the desk before it became apparent to anyone that his co-worker had gone catatonic.



Buffy turned to the doors when she saw Spike at the desk. She needed air. She needed to breathe. She'd been holding her breath since she'd started up the steps of the Mission, and seeing...she needed air.



She had been searching, stalking the alleyways and tunnels, looking for him since she had gotten back to California. Dawn had gone on ahead to the Slayer compound, but she'd stayed here, hunting. She started in what was left of the rubble of what was once the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart, nearly five weeks ago, and circled out from there. Greater Los Angeles was a big area to cover.



The bartender, last night, at the demon bar, said to try here, at the Mission. The description she had given him wasn't an exact match. It had been over seven years since she'd seen Spike, not that she could forget, he had been burned into her soul, but it was a long time.



Things change.



Yeah, they do. Things, people...and well, hell, he was sorta disintegrating in a pillar of fire last time I saw him, she thought.



The thing about thinking, you never know where you're going to go:



Sunnydale: The Hellmouth, seven years, three months ago:



Spike shouts to her, "Go on then!"



She hesitates, shakes her head, "No, you've done enough, you could still..."



"No, you beat them back, now it's time for me to do the clean-up," he said,

"Gotta move Lamb. Think it's fair to say school’s out for bloody summer."



"Spike!" she yells.



"I mean it, I gotta do this," he answers.



The beam shot out of the amulet, out of Spike, even brighter.



Hands interlocked in flame.



Her thoughts raced back another year...



"I touch the fire, and it freezes me..."



Then another, she sees the image of the first Slayer through the flames. “You are full of love...it's brighter than the fire...love, give, forgive, risk the pain, it is your nature."



Forward again, flames, intertwined fingers, her own voice, "...I love you."

Then his, "…no you don't, but thanks for saying it."



The Hellmouth was imploding, collapsing in on them. She felt the jolt, he pushed away, broke the hold.



God! Air! Breathe!



She tilted her head back and took a deep breath.



The bartender did not recognize Spike from her description, but said there was a demon, maybe a vampire; he wasn't sure, never ordered blood, just bourbon, who worked at the Mission. He was a loner, didn't come to the bar often, had a presence that made the other patrons back off; not so much with the black clothes, or leather coat, British accent though and blonde hair, bleach blonde, parts of it anyway, platinum speckled blonde dredlocks to his shoulders.



Things can change.



Buffy tried to wrap her mind's eye around that, platinum dreds. Couldn't quite do it until she saw him there in the flesh.



God! She needed air.



Spike's eyes followed Buffy as she turned and went out the door. She stood just outside on the landing. Brother Duncan reached for Spike's cigarettes and lighter and put them in front of him on the desk.



"Go."



"What," Spike said, startled back from elsewhere. He turned toward the monk.



"Go," Duncan said again, nodding after her.



Spike took the cigarettes and the monk's nudge, cracked his neck, and headed for the doors.





The August air just after dark was hot and Buffy felt the only wisp of breeze to pass by in what seemed like forever. Every nerve was twitching and more than a few forgotten muscles were telling her what she'd come here for.





She heard the door open behind her.



"Spike," she asked.



"Buffy," he answered.





She turned...Oh yeah...matty, dredy Spike was hot!







"You look..." they both started.



"...good," Spike said.



"...different,” she chortled, “...and good."



"We need to talk," their voices overlapped on the words.



"Well, that's different," said Spike.



"Yeah," she admitted with a little visible guilt.



"Where do you want to begin, Love?"



"You have a name tag! Staff! Spike!"



"Uh, yeah..."



"You didn't burn up in a pillar of fire."



"Actually...did...for a while...guess I got...stuck...in the amulet. Next thing I

knew, I was standing in the middle of a desk in some bloody evil law firm..."



"You were stuck in the amulet?"



Spike shrugged, "dunno how."



"How long," Buffy asked.



"Two, three weeks...dunno exactly," he answered, "...came back as a ghost, a disembodied spirit, incorporeal..."



The impulse was too strong, Buffy reached out and lightly touched Spike's chest to make sure she was talking to flesh. "Solid through," she whispered.



"I got re...cor...pori...ated..." he paused, trying to figure if that was a real word, deciding it didn't matter, "...a couple of months later."



"I didn't know you, uh," she said drawing back her hand. "It was two years before Andrew...let it slip."



Spike looked into her eyes, "I didn't know what to say, how to..." he sighed, "...explain it. I, uh...I wanted to find you, Buffy...I tried...but I couldn't...literally...kept popping back to Wolfram and bloody Hart. After I re...got my body back, Angel he..." Spike trailed off. He averted his gaze, it was acutely uncomfortable to look at her standing there, so near, after so long; seven years had turned woman-child to woman-grown and it looked good on her, and he thought it might be wiser to avoid the subject of Angel altogether.





"How's Dawnie," he asked as he started down the steps gesturing with a nod for her to follow.





"She's good, finished school in Italy...high school and some college. She's trying for late admission for her masters to U.C. Berkley, Cal State, or Stanford. They might not accept all her credits though," Buffy said as they walked down the steps.





Spike slid up onto the hood of the Mission's old station wagon, as he often did during smoke breaks, and lit up a cigarette.



Buffy looked at the hood of the prehistoric SUV then up to Spike.



"Oh..." he realized that she didn't quite know how to get up there, "...uh, turn around and lean up to it, put your foot on the bumper and push. I'll help." He reached out for her arm. His touch was cool and tingly on her skin.



Gingerly, Buffy tried it, and with the arm up from Spike, slid onto the hood. She did not know what to do with her legs and felt like she was sliding off.



"Windshield makes a good backrest," Spike said, already leaning back on it, one leg dangling off the side.



She looked back over her shoulder at him and almost slid off.



"Just…uh…scooch," he suppressed a chuckle, "...up, Love." He stretched out an arm in assistance once again. Buffy took hold, grabbing just below his elbow...yep, still tingly...and scooched.



"And you," Spike asked once she had gotten up there and stopped slipping.



Buffy glanced at him as if she'd missed something in the conversation with all the sliding and scooching.



"How are you," he clarified, slightly amused by the look on her face.



"Huh, oh, fine. Need to check in with the troops, in person for a change...some issues...get Dawn settled," she paused, "I was looking for..."



"He's not here...Hawaii or Guam, or somewhere," Spike said flicking the cigarette butt into the sewer grate alongside the curb. He turned to stare at the building.



"I wasn't looking for Angel," she said. You really think I'm here looking for Angel... your still a dope!



"Who then," before he got the question all the way out, a tonal 'Rock the Kasbah' was chiming from his back pocket. Spike pulled out the phone and checked the number.



"Gotta get this, Love...sorry," he said, then answered the call.



"Yeah...you need me in there? Uh, yeah...thanks...no, they said 9:15, 9:30, means closer to ten, 10:30...Yeah...five, two adults, three kids...three, five and nine, girl, boy, girl...no...no...yeah...no...and, uh, Rudy and friends are just turning the corner now, the usual, looks like...you sure you don't need me in there? Uh, I dunno yet...no...No! I will take care of that...owe you one...okay, two, thanks...I'll need it. Call me if I'm not back in by then...thanks...yeah."



"Sorry, Pet, work. You, uh, need a drink," he said, glancing at the vending machine, "...a soda pop?" He was already off the hood of the station wagon and slipping the phone back into his pocket.



Avoidyness can be good, she thought.



"Tab?"



"No," he said consolingly, "...not in the machine. Uh, diet coke?"



She nodded.



"Be right back."



She watched him walk over to the vending machines, always a favorite pastime, watching him walk. She tried the dangly leg thing, but the antenna got in the way, so she shifted position. Oh, better view! Don't let him see me watching him on the way back...my turn to stare at the building...how's he get up here so fast?



"I was looking for you, Spike," she said.



Their eyes met, briefly, when he asked, "...why?" He tried, but could not hold the gaze and busied himself with opening his mountain dew bottle.



"Do you really have to ask that," it came out harsher than she had intended and she was instantly sorry that it had. She looked at him being all avoidy again. "Guess maybe you do...I missed you."



He took a drink of the mountain dew like it was one of those single malts that he and Giles were so fond of, as if it would fortify him, then looked at her.





"I love you, Buffy. You know it," he paused, "...always will." Although it seemed like he had more to say, he went back to fussing with the bottle cap, almost losing it.



The silence that followed did not last as long as either anticipated.



"I don't know if...I can...love you. I want to...,” she said. That got his full attention and the look on his face made her smile. "...and...I don't know, maybe I do..." she sighed, "...all I know for sure is," she paused and shook her head, "...I really need to find out."



Spike digested that for a moment. He stopped fussing with the soda bottle and fussed with his cigarette pack instead, getting one out along with his lighter.



"Fair enough, Slayer," he said. He lit the cigarette, "...fair enough."





To be continued.

“It‘s just not fair, Dawn said, straightening the sheets on Rose's bed.




"You know they do make them for regular beds too," Willow said distracted by the lumps in her daughter's pillow. She reached into the pillowcase and pulled out a handful of fluff, it almost looked like a nest. She took the pillow out of the case and examined it but found no holes. She dismissed the ball of fluff making a mental note to herself to check all of Rose's stuffed animals for tears later and threw it in the trash.




"What," Dawn asked puzzled at the ease with which Willow was distracted these days; motherhood really must addle your brain. "Oh, no…not the sheets, they are cute…I meant Buffy. She knows where we are. Why doesn't she call?”




"She's still in L.A.," Willow said a little surprised that it came out more of a question than the reassurance she had intended it to be.




"I know," Dawn went on, "…but she could at least call, you know, let us know she's okay."




"I'm sure she's alright, Dawn…" Willow stopped short; she had almost called her 'Dawnie' as she used too in the old days. God, I am starting to feel old, she thought as she realized how much Dawn had matured while she was in Europe. Dawn was almost 23, nearly a year older than Buffy was when they closed the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. She was almost model tall, having taken after Joyce where Buffy favored their father in height and her hair, while still incredibly long was lighter now than Buffy’s had ever been, almost closer to… Willow could plainly see where Buffy got the ‘Donatella’ taunt that she often overheard between the two sisters from time to time over the speaker phone. She has grown up, that’s for sure…it made her think of how fast Rose was growing, it would all too soon be the day when she wouldn't want the cute bed sheets either.




"It's been almost five weeks, and she hasn't checked-in in over three."




"She's always been that way, you know that."




"Hey…choir here…it's just, she could be getting herself into real trouble this time."


















Two puffs later, the vaccuumy swoosh of Buffy's soda bottle opening punctuated the evening air. The bottle was wet and its contents all too fizzy in her mouth.




"So...what we gonna do about this," Spike asked, just as she started to drink.




"Can we..." she had to stop talking, finish swallowing, and get the fizziness out of her mouth before she could go on, "...start over? I mean, not 'Hello, my name is Buffy' over, but maybe just start fresh?"




"No..." he started to say.




"No? What," she asked in amazement. "What do you mean no?"




"I mean...no," he said.




"Oh! Now you learn the meaning of the word?"




"Hgmh," he scoffed, "we're not going to go there, yet!"




"Huh, if you think..." if looks could stake, hers would.




"Oh, no...no, no…Love, we are gonna go there," Spike said, "…just not yet...and that's what I mean..." he scoffed and shook his head. "God…so much easier when I just wanted to kill her," he said quietly through gritted teeth.




"No! Really can't just start fresh, Pet."




"Argh! Knew I shoulda brought a stake!" she countered back at him.




Spike reached into his boot, scoffing at her, and pulled one out. He handed it to her with a glare. "Comfy now, Slayer?"




Buffy grabbed it, rotated it into the proper position in her hand, and held on to it tightly; she started to speak, but Spike stopped her.




"Not giving up the podium yet, Lamb," he said. "What was this," he gestured between the two of them, "...to you?" He scoffed. "What was it ever to you? Chalk on a slate, just wipe it clean and start over? Maybe you can, I can't." He scoffed again quietly, "you still don't get that, do you? No, Love, can't 'start fresh', there's a lot we got to chat out!”




"Oh! Okay, lets chat!" she said sarcastically.




"Yeah, let’s. You gonna be all...all chosen and alone and un-talky about it or what?"




"Oh, I'll be...talky," she said angrily, "...it's just...I'm not good at it," she continued half under her breath.




"Never noticed," it was his turn to be sarcastic. "Need to be straight up too!"




"Yeah...agreed," she said, loosening her grip on the stake, "...you too," she added.




"Yeah," he nodded. He looked at the filter of the cigarette he was holding, it had burned out. He stared at it for a moment before he tossed it into the grate, then he turned his gaze to her. "So, am I gonna be rebound boy or just... convenient?"




Okay...ow...that stings. "You're being pretty inconvenient right now, Spike, but...I'll admit it. I deserve that one...and more," she sighed with a little anger and a fair amount of hurt.




Spike couldn't help it, but his stare wavered momentarily. Exposed nerves, all around, were getting all achy and throbby.




"Okay, look…I'm sorry, it was just… convenient …for you to be convenient …and you weren't exactly protesting at the time as I recall, so, okay, my bad, but I wasn't completely the one at fault there…and no, no rebound boy. Definitely no rebound boy, I haven't…" Buffy let out a long scoffing sigh. "Why am I doing this? I don't know why I’m doing this…I just want…"




"Now that's the crux of it, in' it, Love…it's not always entirely about what you want," Spike truly wished he hadn't said it before it even came out, but it just kept coming, "…you still don't even know what it is you do want." He sighed deeply, "… and that's really not…how…I…wanted…to say that…bad move." He shifted his stare from her to the sky, shaking his head. "I can't do this." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to the heavens, "….you found my perfect damnation," he whispered, "…kudos."




"And who are you whispering to? You're not..." she scoffed, "God! Spike!"




"…doesn't listen anyway," he continued quietly. By the time he looked back down, she had slid off the hood and came around to stand facing him alongside the station wagon. "…and," he had to find her, "…and you, Love, you are my perfect damnation."




"I'm a damnation…I am a damnation now. You're impossible, Spike, incorrigible…"




"Well, yes…I am, still. Why are you here, Pet.? What, you just come to see how big a masochist Spike is. I don't mind a little pain, but I don't want the hurt, had enough of it. It's bad enough that you are the one thing that…"




"I'm the one thing that what?"




"Drives me stark raving…" Spike leapt off the station wagon to face her directly. "…turns me into a soddin' cormorant, no, no a bleeding lemming, a moth to the flame, might as well throw my own toasties in the fire."




"I just thought we…"




"Right,” he scoffed, “…'we', and this from the person who said 'there is no we'."




"That was before…"




"Before? Before what, Love, before the soul? I fell in love with you before the soul, and in all honesty, Pet, it didn't make one bit of difference, did it?" Spike put one hand on the roof of the station wagon just above her shoulder, it landed with a thud putting a dent in the old metal.




Buffy looked at his hand and the dent as she spoke. "You angry much?"




She turned to slide out from between Spike and the station wagon when the other hand landed on the roof.




"Much," he said with that look that always both frightened and excited her.




"Let me go," she said, pushing against his chest with both hands. He wasn't budging without full Slayer strength and she was not ready to use it. Her eyes narrowed at him in determination. They stood staring; eyes locked in combat, until Spike released his hold on the roof with a scoff and stepped back from her, turning to avoid her steely gaze.




"Go," he said half under his breath.




"I should leave. I don't know why I came here," she said regaining her composure.




"I said 'go'," he shouted, "...leave...move on." He whirled around to face her, livid.




She scoffed, turned, and started to storm away abruptly stopping a few yards away. She took a few beep breaths then turned and stormed back.




"No,” she said with conviction. “I’m not going anywhere. I told you I wasn't ready for you not to be there, I'm still not...and I’m not going anywhere until this is settled between us.




They both stood, arms crossed, leaning on the station wagon in silence for some time.




"It's your fault," she finally said after the anger had time to dissipate in them both.




"What," he said in disbelief. "What's my fault?"




"You said it once; I'd crave you like you crave blood."




He remembered.




"You were right," she said calmly, "took a while, but you were right."




He did not reply. He shuffled still pensive.




She smiled, a little, when she looked at him and chuckled. "When I thought you…" she shook her head, "...I didn’t think I ..." she laughed again, "even that ..."




"Oh, right," he scoffed half-heartedly, "...when I saw you in Italy, snoggin it up with that bleeding Immortal, sorry to say Pet, but it didn't exactly look like you were mournin' the fallen champion."




"You saw me in Italy," she began, "...when were you in Ita... you were with Angel, that... family...hat...head...thing. I am gonna kill Andrew, the little..."




“It’s not about Andrew,” he said quietly. “Buffy, it’s about you and it’s about me,” he looked away and scoffed. “Don’t my feelings count in this at all?”




He’d hit a nerve, again, she hated that, it was one of those think nerves too. …My fault...Buffy thought , I’m the one standing here with every last one of them all exposed….and what, I didn’t expect a few of them to get wailed on…. She scuffed at her own stupidity sometimes, usually the wrong times …like right now…




Spike chose that exact moment to turn and look at her, and...of course…she thought, he took the scoff personally.




“Oh, oh, I get it…” he began, actually faking a deep wrenching breathe for added effect, “…cause I don’t feel, do I?”




Where the hell did he learn to be such a drama queen, Juilliard?




“Sorry Pet, I forgot,” he scoffed exaggeratedly, “… my feelings aren’t real to you.”




She had to choke back a laugh at his performance…Oscar material for sure…Buffy Anne Summers, she chided herself silently …you should not be so harsh! He deserves this tirade and you know it …




“Dead things don’t feel,” he then said absently to himself. He was silent for a moment, “...but you still don’t get that do you? God, Buffy,” he said exasperated, “...am I still just dead to you? I thought we’d worked past that, and what the bleedin' hell is with Angel and this damn 'cookie dough' thing anyway? He gets cookies and what about me, I’m stuck lickin’ up crumbs.” He suddenly got a mental picture of that metaphor and his face showed it.




She had to laugh, she couldn’t resist. “Well, “ she managed to get out between the barely stifled giggles that threatened to become howls, nearly doubling her over, “… you once asked me to throw you a few…can’t help it if you catch like a…gurr…vampire.” What little composure she had maintained broke; she laughed uncontrollably, hard and until it hurt. Spike just looked at her not knowing what to do until he had to start laughing too.




"Are we done venting yet," she asked when she could talk again.




"Doubt it," he replied.




"This isn't going to be easy, is it?"




"No, no, Love, it's not…but I think it'll be worth it."



"Ya think?"




"Yeah. You got a place to stay tonight?"




She shook her head.




Got stuff?"




"Yeah, in the car."




"Where's that at?"




"Uh, about…two and a half hours that way, no, maybe that way."




"Uh huh, we'll worry about it later them. Come on." Spike jumped down from the hood of the station wagon.




"Spike? Can I touch the hair?"




He smiled, "…touch anything you like, Love." They walked over to the steps of the Mission.




"Hungry?"




"A little."




"I'll get you something once we get you settled. I've…uh, got the desk til morning, you can stay in my room."










Spike motioned for her to follow and they headed down one of the corridors spurring off the main lobby. They passed what looked to Buffy to be mostly utility and storage areas stopping in front of a door marked 'Staff Quarters'. He pulled an ID card wrapped in a lanyard out of his back pocket.




"Wow, a name tag and a badge." She said.




"Yeah, not sure if it still works," he swiped it once through the mechanism, it did not. He wiped the magnetic strip on the leg of his jeans and tried it again, this time it worked. The door clicked and Spike cracked it open, then shut it and tried it again to make sure it would continue to work then handed the badge to her. "I usually just key it in. Use the badge if you want to leave staff quarters or the Mission tonight, the outside doors lock in about an hour."




Buffy looked at the badge as she took it. "Good picture," she said, it never ceased to amaze her that for creatures that didn't have a reflection, vampires were very photogenic.




There was a very brightly lit common area just inside the door that unexpectedly narrowed into a darker corridor, beyond that it appeared to be lit only with emergency lights, or possibly candles, Buffy could not tell which.




"Come on, then, it's easy to find, last one on the right, only one without a crucifix, or other…thingy, above the door."




She noticed as they walked down the corridor that the décor changed abruptly once past the common area, moving from postmodern to post monastery. The doors to the rooms were very close together and each seemed to have some kind of religious symbol or emblem above the mantle, apparently the Mission was highly multi-denominational. What she had thought were candles earlier turned out to be those flickery electric candelabra type things masking industrial style emergency lights beneath, the effect was very convincing.




These are cells, she realized, like…monk's cells.




"Don't get spooked, Pet," Spike said, as if sensing her thoughts, "…it doesn't… no, actually it does look this dreary in the daylight."




They stopped at the last door at the end of the corridor; it too had a nametag: 'Spike'.




"The doors don't lock, but the neighbors do respect privacy and sorry Love, the room's a mess." He opened the door and got the lights. "Bit of a cramped coffin, but its home."




It was just as narrow as she had imagined, but longer with higher ceilings and not at all as plain as she was expecting. The brick walls were painted a lush mossy green and most of the furniture had that look of old polished wood except where functionality dictated something more modern; not much floor space but lots of shelves and drawers.




Spike quickly dumped the ashtray and opened the window by the bed for a little more airflow, then got out of her way.




"There's…really nothing in the fridge… blood and beer… you're welcome to the beer," he said checking the refrigerator at the foot of the bed.




"Any water," she asked.




"I got that." He handed her a cold bottle. "You, uh, need to call the Niblet?"




"Yeah," she smiled at his use of Dawn's old nickname, she hadn't heard it in years and didn't realize how much she'd missed it, "…probably should"




He handed her the phone. "I'll, uh, go get some food…stock the fridge." He left the door ajar.




Buffy looked around the room for a moment noting the three transom windows high up along the outer wall; they had been painted over to keep out the light and the one by the bed had a low awning outside for the same purpose. They were all open; the high ones just a little, to let the air in. She could faintly hear street sounds in the distance.




She saw the paintings, also high up, above the shelves and wardrobe that flanked the door. Two were groupings, one of her, Joyce and Dawn; the other, of Dru, Angel and Darla, the likenesses were very good. The third, in the center above the door, was a portrait of a woman she did not recognize. Wow, she thought, that must be his mom. It was still hard for her to imagine that vampires had mothers even though she knew that they had too, once. She looks like the woman in the pictures…only older.




The bed was unmade and tussled. It smelled good, like Spike, only…coconut-tier. She snuffled a little as she flipped open the phone and entered the number.




She continued looking around the room as the phone began to ring. There was a stack of magazines on the shelf across from the bed. She riffled through them, strangely comforted by the small stash of porn in the center of the stack, mild stuff she noted.




She thought the call was going to go to voicemail when it finally connected.




"Dawn, it’s me…no, I'm okay…I'm sorry…I know, I know, I should have called sooner…I'm in Reseda, I think…yeah, I found him…I'm sitting on his bed…no!…he's not here now…out getting me some food, then he has to go to work…yeah…I don't know, exactly...here, it’s some kind of a Mission, like a shelter, maybe…a few hours ago…no, mostly we just fought…no, just with words…huh, everything…so hot I can't stand it…his hair's different…still blonde, but…it’s in dreds…I don't know, yeah…very…hope so…how is everybody…she's there? Is she okay… yeah…no word on school yet…no, no I don't know when I'll get there, I'm not leaving here yet…I know…I will…yeah…I'll call…I don't know, in a few days… love you too…bye."




She lay part way down on the bed. The pillow smelled so good.




"Hey, Pet, room service," Spike only peaked in the door a little warily.




"Spike, it's your room, you don't have to knock," she said sitting up on the bed.




He came in carrying a tray. "Uh, food," he announced, "… in hot, well, lukewarm…we've got roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy…and something green, supposed to be that way though, and in cold…sandwich, also roast beef…sorry," he apologized, "…it's a bit late for variety… also various condiments, a prepackaged salad…," he checked the container, "…ranch…uh, some fruit and some cheese, the plastic wrapped kind, not the chunk, sorry," he added again. "…and, we have …more water, milk, assorted juice, and …Tab."




"Wow, hard to find," she said, impressed with the selection.




"No trouble, Love. What's your poison?"




"Uh, warm and milk, please."




Spike brought them over and set them on the shelf across from where she sat then went back to the fridge and unpacked the rest.




"Oh," he added, "…and assorted snacky stuff, chips, Cheetos."




"Well stocked," she commented already opening and arranging the containers.




"Is that warm enough, got a microwave, can heat it up?"




"It's fine."




"Bon appetite …uh, you want coffee? I can go get some," he offered.




"No, not this late. Thanks, and thanks," she handed him the phone.




"Chargers, uh," he gestured past her elbow, "…if you would." Buffy found it and plugged the phone in.




"I gotta get some stuff and get out there; Duncan will be falling out of the chair asleep." He opened a drawer and rummaged through it pulling out a pager. He checked it and put it in a back pocket.




"It's good," Buffy said after the first bite of roast beef.




"Yeah, kitchen here is not bad; you should taste it when it's not day old." He opened another drawer and swapped out his pack of cigarettes for a fresh one then he opened the laptop on the counter and opened a file. He pulled the netbook off the shelf above it and quickly keyed a few things into it. The laptop beeped and the netbook beeped and with some satisfaction, he closed them both and set the netbook on the end of the shelf by the door. He was ready.




"Buffy, so it won't be a surprise when you find out," he began as he turned to the door, "…the monks that run this place, they're from the Order of Dagon."




"The ones that…" she started to ask.




"…made Dawn," he finished, "…yes. It's okay…they're okay, and Duncan has had some… experiences with our old friend preacher man."




"Caleb," she said with some alarm.




"Yeah. He was at Gilroy when Andrew and I went up there."




"Alright,” she said, "…anything else?"




"Cellar dwellers in the basement, no big."




"Okay."




"I'll be out at the main desk if you…" he trailed off, "… finish dinner and get some rest." He grabbed the netbook and started out the door.




"Spike, about the Immortal…" she began.




He stopped, hand on the door handle, and turned around.




"…building didn't fall down," she finished softly.




He chuckled quietly, almost to himself, shaking his head and said, "…get some sleep, I'll see you in the morning."


















Spike relieved Brother Duncan at the desk and after many questions and much profuse thanking, he was ready to start.




He checked the status boards, both the Mission’s staff and the residents, it was a full plus house tonight. He checked the log on the desk computer and the phone for messages. All was well; all he had to do was man the phones and attend to any emergencies that might occur.




He opened the netbook and started to type but could not keep his mind on the text. He could not stop thinking of her. He was still drowning in her. Yeah, he was going under and he was fairly sure it was for the full count this time.




He'd felt her probably even before the plane had landed over a month ago and now she was here, in his room, in his bed.




He took a long, deep breath, though, for a vampire, that was hard to do. He looked up at the ceiling of the Mission's lobby as he slowly exhaled it. It was something that he often did, at least briefly, almost every night that he sat alone at the desk.




It was high, arched, and painted by some unknown, but not completely untalented artist. It hadn't been cleaned in over a hundred years. Cracked and chunked from earthquakes and with paint peeling and flaking, here and there, the center of it always struck him as a bad copy of a Michelangelo masterpiece. Saints and stags, demons and dragons surrounded it, and warriors and fiery things crept out from its edges. In the clouds, he could see vestiges of Drusilla's burning cherubim and naughty precocious seraphim, looking hard and jaded, sensuous and seductive, peeking out from layers of grease from the kitchens and dust from a century of feet beneath; but he still liked it. The sky was just that particular shade of smoky teal, the exact color of Buffy's eyes.




The last of the residents had turned off the TV in the lounge and were heading up the stairs. It was time to make a round.




The ground floor was quiet, Spike turned out most of the lights as he checked the doors.




The basement was quiet as well, kitchen and dining areas in order, the small dormitory marked 'keep out' was quiet also, all of its residents out for the night except for the Navoxnova who was pupating in the corner. The room's outside door was ajar, propped open with a brick, as usual. He locked the inside door and slid the steel bar in to place on his way back up to the main floor.




Two and a half stories of rooms and dormitories and two minor incidents among the residents later, he was back in the lobby. He was not ready to work on the dissertation.




Normally, he did not check the staff quarters at all, but tonight he would. Stopping in front of his door, he closed his eyes for a moment. He did not open the door; just put his hands on it to feel her sleep. After a few minutes, he went back out to the main desk.
















Father Sebastian sat at the desk in the study adjoining his cell. He stared out the open window that overlooked the courtyard below and Mission beyond, fascinated with the glow from the lights of Reseda and the way it silhouetted the rooftop of the Mission with a pinkish mauve halo against the sparkling black and starlit backdrop of the night sky.




The candles fluttered faintly, blossoming in luminescence with the gentle breeze from the window. They were an indulgence in nostalgia, one that he allowed himself frequently, as was the mid-nineteenth century copy of the volume laying open on the desk in the glow of the computer, which displayed a corresponding scan of the original ancient text.




Despite the time and efficiency constraints his office demanded, he was still a sensualist, preferring the subtle smell of wax and wick and the touch of the page to the professed convenience of vernacular technology.




He could hear the chanting of the monks and novitiates, late as usual, he noted, in completion of their evening devotionals, gently echoing up the hallway of the priory, and the after curfew conclusion of a game of pick-up by the residents of the Mission, along with all the normal nocturnal sounds of the streets and neighborhoods outside the courtyard walls.




He knew the perpetrator of the knock as much by its timing as by the timbre of hand on wood, confident and firm and at the end of the Mission's day.




"Enter," he said.




It was Francisco as expected.




He came in and stood awaiting, with the respect due his senior and elder, the motion to sit and proceed with the nightly report.




Sebastian motioned for him to sit and turned his attentions briefly to the computer and text on his desk advancing the pages on both before addressing his adjunct.




"She has arrived." The elder said. It was not a question, merely a statement of fact requiring little confirmation.




Cisco long ago ceased wondering if Sebastian possessed vestiges of his own gift, reasoning that he had no more or less than any other of his years and experience.




"Yes," he replied, "...as you said she would."




"Not as I have said," Sebastian countered with mild chastisement in his tone, "...as these say." He gestured to the tomes displayed on the desk. Francisco handed him the clipboard that listed all the pertinent facts and statistics, detailing the Mission’s day: beds filled, expected to be filled, meals served, issues pending, staff on duty, etc. Sebastian glanced at it and laid it on the desk. "And..." was all he said.




Francisco looked at him with feigned confusion as he unceremoniously plopped into the chair.




"They haven't killed each other yet, if that's what you mean," Cisco answered.




Sebastian chuckled lightly, "…you knew the day would come when The Slayer would show up on our doorstep for one reason or another; it was inevitable."




"I knew, maybe not for the same reasons you did, but I knew she’d come. What I don't know is under what circumstances she will be leaving."




"You weren't able to read her," Sebastian asked with some concern. He felt it crucial to their success that they have at least some understanding of what was going on in the minds of the major participants.




"I haven't met her yet, haven‘t even seen her. Duncan has been keeping me informed of their…"




"Do I need to add the units on eavesdropping and gossiping to the daily studies again," Sebastian asked.




"No, no, it's not an issue that needs addr..." Cisco began, "… you are joking...aren't you?"




Sebastian raised an eyebrow then turning somber he spoke, "...you will meet her; examine her to ensure her intentions, in all the areas we discussed, are suited to our needs."




"I will… as the opportunity arises."




"Soon," he asked. It was more of an order than a question.




"Tomorrow actually, I’m curious to see what she's like."




"She seems very much as he said." Sebastian continued, "…I could see them from the window," he added in response to Francisco's unvoiced query of how he knew.




"Eavesdropping," Cisco asked rhetorically. "Then you know their…reunion, wasn't completely without incident."




"To be expected, given what he has told us of their history."




"That's what bothers me."




Sebastian looked puzzled at Cisco's last words.




"Their history," he began to clarify, "…it wasn't exactly stellar."




"Such things never are. You know that."




"There just seem to be too many…variables."




Sebastian's tone turned a little more serious, "whether he goes with her, or he goes after her, it does not matter, just that he goes."




"I know, but," Cisco sighed, "…can't I hope that this proceeds as amicably as possible, for Spike's sake, at least?"




"The fates don't care if it is amicable, does not their ‘history’ prove that already," the elder priest added, knowing it to be true even though it would not ease the younger's concerns.




"Either way it will cause them both pain," Cisco said.




"Pain is part of the vampire's nature, and it is said, a Slayer's strength is forged of pain.” The elder priest inhaled sharply before he began again. “I am fond of him as well," Sebastian reassured, "…but you have read them all…" he gestured toward the books that littered his desk and the rest of the study, "… nearly as much as I have. Do not interfere, Cisco," he added gravely, "… allow the fates to run their course."




"I will," he said. Cisco had personal experience with challenging the fates, he knew the consequences well. "It's just…things seem to be falling… too… neatly into place."




"Did you doubt that they would," he asked knowing the answer was yes. "You are forever the skeptic. The prophecies are in convergence and right on schedule"




"We will be visiting the Watcher, then?"




"Yes, we leave after vespers Sunday. Is that sufficient time?"




Cisco nodded as he rose, he stopped at the door and turned for permission to exit.




"You may proceed."




"Thank you, Father."




Cisco closed the door as he exited the study.




"You were listening," Sebastian asked as soon as he was sure Francisco was well out of hearing range.




"It is all as it should be," came the answer from outside the open window.




The wake of wings guttered out the candles leaving Sebastian in the dim computer glow.

"Morning Sunshine," Spike said. He was sitting cross-legged atop the fridge at the foot of the bed pecking away at the laptop's keyboard.


"Huh…oh…morning," Buffy yawned and stretched.


"Ready for breakfast?" He nodded toward the shelf an arm’s length from the pillow without looking up from the keyboard. There sat a breakfast tray with milk, juice, toast and cereal, and a small vase with three sunny little flowers. "Got eggs and sausages in the microwave."


"Yum," she yawned again. "What time is it?"


"Ten-thirty," he was still typing intently.


"Good sleep," she stretched, "…you said there were eggs?"


He shut the microwave door with an elbow and it started to hum.


Buffy looked at the tray. She picked up a flower and sniffed it. "You're going to make me fat," she said, putting the flower back in the vase. "Smells good," she added quietly.


The microwave dinged.


"You could stand a few, Love, and besides…" he said, finally looking up from the laptop. He opened the microwave and handed the plate across the bed to her. "…there weren't many leftovers from last night."


"Yeah, I was hungry. What cha working on?"


"Oh, uh…dissertation…final….it's late."


"Dissertation?"


"Bachelors'."


"Wow…in what?"


"Uh…ha…behavioral sciences…need it for here. Uh, got you some stuff," he said as he went back to pecking at the keyboard. "…shower stuff, and some clothes."


"Sorry, ripe," she asked, pouring milk over the cereal, the eggs and sausages already gone.


"No…not too…just thought you might like…."


"Yeah, pretty grungy."


"Done," Spike said, pushing the send button. He closed the laptop and slid off the fridge.


"I gotta go back to work," he said, plugging the charger into the laptop and depositing it on the shelf. "There's clean towels in the wardrobe and, uh…you'll need the badge to get back in if you leave staff quarters. We'll go get your car and stuff tonight."


"It's a rental…not mine…have to turn it in soon."


"We can do that too. Come out when you want. I'll be in the offices…uh…they're back the hall behind the main desk."


"Kay," she said and he was out the door.


Maybe I should make an appointment, she thought.





----------





The shower felt extremely good. It had been four days since her last one and that had been in a seedy motel in East Los Angeles. She had actually been rather wary about being naked long enough to get the soap rinsed off.


The room had been cheap enough, it had to be, she couldn’t afford much; that’s why she was only getting a room every three or four days. The guy in the office had been scarier than any of the demons she had seen in the neighborhood and he was human. The room smelled funny and the air conditioner dripped and rumbled loudly, and while the room had looked clean, it just didn’t feel that way.

She had not even turned down the bed that night, but slept on top of the covers. The tub there had been old, yellowed and worn with scratches and rust stains on the bottom and sides, the water hadn’t been hot and did not come out of the showerhead evenly and she could hear the pipes rattle even worse than the AC when the toilet flushed in the room next door.


This might be a community bathroom shared by everybody, but it was clean and bright and shiny, with burnished stainless steel fixtures and creamy ivory and blue tile. It smelled good, clean, piney fresh. The water was hot and came out fast, and the showerhead adjusted to just the right pressure. It made her feel like singing. She restrained herself to a loud, cadenced humming of a song she had heard on the car radio a few days ago as she robustly scrubbed, dancing in the streaming water in time.


She hadn’t found any soap or body wash in the stuff Spike had gotten her, only antiperspirant, shampoo, conditioner and some lotion, so she had raided what was obviously his stash of manly personal care items in a plastic bin on the floor of the wardrobe. Ya just gotta love a man with more toiletries than me, she thought.


In a mesh bag that was still a bit damp she had found a bar of very hard brown soap in a case. She did not recognize the writing stamped into it, as obviously he had used it and it was not as deeply embossed in the bar as it would have been fresh out of the wrapper; it looked foreign, Asian or Arabic-like maybe, but it had smelled simply wonderful when she sniffed it: sorta lemony, spicy vanilla-y with a hint of fresh cut lawn.


She shut off the delightfully hot water and reached for the towels; wrapping her hair in one and herself in the other. A gust of steam billowed out of the enclosure doors when she opened them. She was vigorously rubbing her hair with the towel and absently heading in the direction of the bench where she had left her clean clothes and toiletries, still bouncing with the rhythm of her hum when she unexpectedly tripped over something cold and hard at mid-thigh level. She stumbled but managed to keep her footing, at least until momentum made her take another step. Her foot came down a tad too hard knocking over something that sounded very metallic and slosh-y. The bucket went over, its soapy disinfectant contents spilling across the tile floor. The hair towel was down leaving wet, shampoo tangled hair falling over her eyes, the other one was coming loose as well, and her next step sent her sliding across the slick tiles. Luckily, slender, but strong, female arms caught her before she landed on her ass.


“Whoa there. Are you okay?” The young woman helping her up was unusually tall and very slim, gangly, with dark lank hair, but she had the most astonishing bright green eyes and a pleasant smile.


“I’m fine. Thank you. You caught me before I hit,” Buffy said pushing the hair towel up and securing both it and the other one better when she saw what she had tripped over: A middle-aged woman in a wheelchair holding a mop.


“You got to keep on the no-skids when it’s wet,” The woman in the wheelchair said reaching down to set up the mop bucket and wringer, “…slimier than a Chaos’ antlers when it’s all soaped up, don’t ya know,” she finished. The bucket now righted, she wheeled over to check out the rescued Slayer.


“Can’t have Spike’s Slayer all bruised up in a showering accident. That won’t do, “ she said giving Buffy a once over, satisfied that she was uninjured only startled by the near fall.


“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Clumsy. I didn’t hurt you when I tripped over you did I? “ Buffy apologized. Her feet began to slide on the wet tiles again and the lanky woman steered her to the bench by her clothes.


“You’re Buffy, right,” The wheelchair woman did not wait for her to answer, she knew she was, “…I’m Sister Katherine, call me Kate, assistant administrator here.”


“And I’m D’shelle,” the tall woman said handing Buffy an extra towel to dry off with, “I just work here. You are as pretty as he said you were.”


“We probably should have waited until you were done before we started. Our fault. Just wanted to get a jump-start on the chores. We rotate cleaning duties in staff quarters.”


“I didn’t mean to disrupt the schedule,” Buffy began still drying her hair.


“Oh, no, Child, you didn’t, floor probably needed another go over anyway, as long as you’re alright. Like I said, just wouldn’t do for you to get hurt here, from the way he talks about you, Spike would be all bent out of shape if you got so much as a scratch here, outside of the line of duty. Boy’s in love with you, don‘t ya know.”


“So Spike talks about me a lot?” Buffy said drying off her legs.


“Well, not obsessively, no, but he’s been with us for over seven years, get him started on his Slayer and…”


“So you know I’m The Slayer?” She was relieved when she did not have to hide her calling; it always made things so much easier.


That got a chuckle from both women and Buffy blushed, wondering just what he had told them.


“And that he’s a….”


“Seven years,” Kate cut her off, “…boy talks a lot, don’t ya know. All the staff knows, most of the regular volunteers too, but not the residents.”



“Unless you’ve been here as long as I have,” D’shelle added, “…you find out after a while.”


“God, you are as pretty as he said you were,” Kate blurted out when Buffy had finally finished drying her hair and shook it out, “…but I thought you were a blond?”


“Sometimes,” that actually made her blush more than the fact she was wet and naked beneath the towel, “but not lately.” She had decided not to bother coloring her hair quite a few years ago, about the same time Dawn decided to start bleaching hers and only highlighted occasionally. Suddenly she was acutely aware that it probably needed some brightening up and that she should have done that before she got here …before he saw me.


I must look a sight, she thought… like something the vamps drug in. Definitely not his ‘goldilocks’ anymore… Summer’s hair was naturally on the brunette side leaning towards auburn.


“Anyway Child,” Sister Kate said turning her attentions back to the mop, “…we should let you get dressed. D’shelle’s almost got the floor cleaned up and we have work to do elsewhere. Always busy don’t ya know.”


Buffy could see the lanky woman sigh as she wrung out the mop and suddenly felt that she should make up for them having to do the floor twice. “Is there something I could do to help? I mean, I don’t really have anything to do while I‘m here, Spike‘s working and…”


“Sure we could find you something to keep from getting bored. We can always use help in the kitchen, especially this time of year, “ Kate said.


“I really can’t cook very well, “Buffy said. “I usually burn the Jell-O.”


“Nothing so complicated as that Child,” Kate replied.


D’shelle blanched when she understood where Kate was heading, that’s not where they usually start out, she thought, cleaning and making beds were easy, that is a test of fortitude usually reserved for seasoned volunteers.


“Just helping out the little ones in the lunchroom. “ Kate continued helping D’shelle put the mops and bucket in the utility locker. The lanky woman cringed slightly, but Buffy did not see her.


“Oh, I could do that!” Buffy exclaimed, excited at the prospect of being useful.


She might be a demon slayer, D’shelle thought, but she doesn’t know what she is in for.


“Righty then,” Kate added as she wheeled to the door, “…lunch is at twelve and kitchen’s in the basement, just wonder on down, they’ll put you to work.”


The Lanky woman stuck her head around the door on her way out and said, “It’s not too bad, really, just watch the peas.” She let the door close behind her and tried to catch up to Kate’s wheelchair. “They’re evil, “ she continued quietly so Sister Kate would not hear.


“Peas?” Buffy said aloud with a wrinkly nose as she gathered her clothes to get dressed.






----------




"Miss Summers..."


She turned to find a monk in brown robes addressing her. He had a pleasant and friendly voice, but she could not help staring at the scar on his cheek.


"I'm sorry," she said when she realized that she was staring at him. "You must be Duncan, uh, Brother Duncan?" She took the hand he extended to her and shook it.


"Yes, I am. You can call me Duncan or even Dunk, if you like, and you are Buffy." It was not a question though it did ask her permission to be on a first name basis.


"Yes," she said.


"Spike has told us a lot about you over the years. I feel that I know you."


"I thought you were a priest," she asked hoping that was not too intrusive a question.


"When Spike and I first met, I was, technically I still am. I'm just not currently...serving in that capacity." He said leaving the subject open.


"I'd like to welcome you to our Mission, please feel at home. Father Sebastian, head of our Order, has asked me to extend his welcome as well. He regrets that his schedule today will not allow him to speak with you personally: he has asked me to schedule some time, tomorrow perhaps, to meet with you. He has some business he would like to discuss with you...Slayer business...nothing of an immediate or pressing nature, of course. Is it safe to assume you will be staying with us that long?"


"I, uh, don't really have a schedule to keep," she said, "...so yeah, I'm free and I guess I'll be staying here, if that's alright?"


"Yes, certainly." Duncan went on "...Father Sebastian has also asked me to see to your accommodations."


"Accommodations?"


"Uh...you are staying with Spike...if another room would be more suitable we can certainly make one available."


"No, that's okay,' she said then realized she was talking to a priest...monk? "Oh!" She added quickly, "...Is that okay?"


"Actually, according to staff rules," he paused to mentally review them, "...it should be fine, but officially," he added lightly touching the girdle of his robes "...no."


Buffy thought her face must have dropped when he spoke because the monk's tone became noticeably lighter with his next words.


"No, it's just...the staff rooms are small and Spike can be..." he trailed off. "Don't get me wrong, I am his friend, but..."


"Yeah, I know how Spike can be," she said, "...No, I'm okay with the accommodations.”


"Good, well...from the friend, not the priest," Brother Duncan said confusingly.


Buffy understood him.


"Father Sebastian doesn't really need to know," he said with an air of conspiracy, "...but, Buffy, if the accommodations do become a bit, um...you will let us know, myself or Father Francisco," he gestured to the priest now manning the main desk by way of introduction.


"I will, thank you," she said. "I was hoping to find Spike, to talk to him, but I can see he's busy." She could see him talking with someone in one of the cubicles that flanked the area behind the desk.


"Yes, it's back-to-school time, very busy for us. We offer a variety of programs within the community, at the moment we are matching children and their families with the specific social service agencies that can help them: subsidized lunches, English as a second language, tutoring, family counseling, backpacks with school supplies, special educational needs, it is a busy time. If it's urgent I can..."


"No, no, not urgent," Buffy said. "I met Sister Kate in the shower earlier; she said you could use a hand in the kitchen?"


"Ah, yes...corn...yes, hands are welcome in all capacities here. I'll take you to her; perhaps give you a small tour of the Mission along the way."


"Thank you." She was going to ask about the 'corn' but figured it had something to do with the 'peas'...succotash?"


"I'd like that," she said.


"Did Spike tell you about the basement," he asked, as they started toward the kitchens.





----------





Diced carrots, they were evil, and banana cream pudding, and many, many children, small children, pre-schoolers. By 1:30 in the afternoon the Slayer sat, defeated, in the middle of the pre-school lunchroom wiping pudding off her arms with a napkin. She needed another shower and they had pulled her hair completely out of the hair tie in directions she didn't know were possible and she was sure there was pudding in it and carrots down her top. Defeated, utterly.


Father Francisco rescued her from the cleanup.


"Spike said once that you have some counseling experience," he asked not seeming to notice her total lack of composure after two hours in the 'war room' as the other kitchen helpers called it.


"Just high school guidance type stuff. I'm not really qualified..." she answered still wiping the pudding and other foodstuffs off.


"You're good with kids."


She shrugged and looked at the mess in the room around her.


His look conceded that it probably was not as bad as she thought it was. "School aged," he added," and you can use a computer, yes?"


Again, she shrugged and nodded. "A little, I guess."


"And you survived...this, so I think you can handle it. We are short handed up there. Do you think you could pitch in? It's just matching kids with the appropriate social services on the computer, and there is a good desk guide. It's mostly in the interviewing process. We could really use your help." His smile, let alone the sparkle in his eyes, could convince her.


She had to admit he was very persuasive and sort of cute, for a priest. Buffy could not tell how old he was, he had that ageless look, and there was a look of mystery about him. She wondered, briefly, if he was a vampire or some other type of demon; but no, he was just charismatic. She thought maybe she could help out. It had to be better than this.


"I'll try," she said as she took the arm he offered to help her up off the floor.


"That's all we ask. Thank you. Uh, you might want to..." he pointed to her hair, "...carrot. The next appointment wave doesn't start until two, see Brother Duncan, he'll show you everything."


As he left her to straighten her ponytail and shake the carrots out of her hair and top, Cisco mentally flipped the switch that allowed him the sanity to function in the real world off briefly to allow the facts of his read of the Slayer in to his consciousness.


Spike isn’t far off in his perceptions of her, is he? Cisco thought as he headed up the stairs to the offices, …even if they are colored by his love, they are accurate. She’ll do, he thought, she ,will do.


It was exactly as they were hoping, yet that only made him feel more uneasy.




----------





She was so nervous. Brother Duncan had given her a very quick run-down of the process; he had set up the computer on the appropriate windows and stuck post-it’s on all the pertinent pages of the desk guide. He had told her she would do just fine and ushered the first family in with a smile.


Then he left. How could he leave? She wondered, I can’t do this, I don’t know how to do this. I haven’t done anything like this since I worked for Principal Wood at Sunnydale High, that was years ago. This is important stuff, how could he just leave me all alone to do it. I’m gonna mess it up. She realized that the family was staring at her while she was having her lack-of–confidence-in-herself attack.


"Please, sit down,” She said anxiously, looking at the application card the man handed her, “…Mr. and Mrs… hope I don’t mangle this too much…Ravishankar…God, I really hope that was the last name, not the Ramaling- ling-gashar part. She smiled hesitantly as she gestured for them to sit even though there were six of them, counting the children, and only four chairs. “My name is Buffy Summers, how can I help you today?”


“My parents don’t speak English well, but I do.” The girl, who was the oldest of the children spoke, she looked to be about ten or eleven years old with the composure of someone much older, and had stayed standing while the other three children scrambled up on the two remaining chairs left by their parents. “My name is Parvatii, and I usually translate for them.”


“Well, okay, great, Parvatii,” Buffy tried not to wince, it didn’t roll off her tongue quite the same way it did off the girl’s, and she hated messing up people’s names. From the way the little girl smiled back at her, she could tell that she did maul it, but not too badly.


“I’d be very happy if you could translate for me, to them, as well. Would you?”


“Surely,” the girl said back.


Buffy sat down in the chair behind the desk. Well, that’s a start, I guess, she thought.


The scenario repeated itself a total of fourteen times before the line of families waiting in the corridor dwindled to nothing.


“Tired?” Father Francisco asked as he looked over the stack of finished forms and report print outs she handed him.


“Is it like this every day? That was so many.” Buffy commented a little drained by the day’s activities. It had been a few months since she had a ‘day’ job, she had forgotten what it was like. She had also forgotten to take a break, which was sort of on purpose, she didn’t want to keep anybody waiting in the corridor for longer than a quick bathroom trip. So, yeah, I am tired, but a little bit satisfied. She felt like she had done some small bit of good, and without killing any demons – it felt really good.


“School starts in five days, so next week will be just as bad. After that things slowly get back to normal,” Cisco said, scribbling on a post-it pad and sticking them on a few of the reports.


Buffy thought that ‘normal’ was probably pretty hectic too.


“Did I do okay? I hope I didn’t mess them up too badly,” she said craning her neck to see what he was sticking on the reports.


“No, you did well. Missed a few programs here and there on some of them, just supplemental stuff, nothing major. Spike can fix them next week. Overall, you did good.” He tucked the stack into a folder and smiled. “Now, see, it wasn’t that bad was it? You got the hang of it really quick too; we were only expecting you to process about four or five. We can close up shop early and that’s always good on a Friday night. Spike’s got some plans, I think.”


“Really?” She found that idea very pleasing.




----------





Dawn knew the contents of the trunks well, Buffy didn’t know that she knew, but she did, she knew them extremely well. She had watched Spike pick locks many times back in Sunnydale and being the curious child that she had been, she secretly cultivated the art on her own: neither the trunk locks or the additional padlocks on them proved to be much of a challenge.


Many days after getting home from school or from one of her sessions with the Monsignor, when she was alone in the apartment while Buffy was out slaying or reconnoitering for potentials or was unconsciously trolling for the next in the string of doomed-before-they-even-began relationships, she would lock herself in the utility room and go through the contents of the trunks, always careful to bring the acid-free gloves snatched from the restoration rooms of the Vatican galleries, so as not to add any further deterioration to their contents, some dated to antiquity, though most of the contents were relatively modern.


It was only the small foot locker that she was intent on today and its contents, while not the newest of the collection, were the most interesting to her.


Dawn was stressed out, first day of classes was on Monday, and she had only gotten her registration confirmation today in the mail, …snail-mail, with a 3:40 pm delivery …what…Stanford’s never heard of e-mail?... That meant not much time for planning. She would even have to stop at the book store between classes, assuming that she could find it, and her classes and assuming the Bart and bus schedules were half-way right and she even made it there for class.


She needed some relaxation, some light reading…besides, need to make sure nothing got broken in shipment, right…


She remembered when Buffy had found them, it was shortly after Andrew had let slip that Spike was alive and well and living in L.A. or at least had been - after his un-ghosting and before the firestorm, the fall of the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart. It had been the only time Buffy had ever laid hands on Andrew in anger, not even anger really, more like pure rage.


I don’t believe I jumped in between them that day, dumb me… she mused, giving the hairpin a final twist and popping the latch open. It was scary to see her like that. It was even scarier to see Buffy the way she was for weeks, even months, afterward.


Dawn understood it though. Buffy really did love him and though she still couldn’t admit it to anyone, at the time, especially to herself. She had seen him burn, disintegrate into a pile of sparkly ashes in the bowels of the Hellmouth, cleansing it with the white light of his… soul. Dawn let out a louder chuckle than she had intended and had to look around to make sure there was no one to hear.


Buffy had refused to talk about it, but Dawn knew. When the pillowcase was still drenched from tears when she made her sister’s bed for her in the morning, she knew. She knew who the tears were for, especially when that stupid Zippo would fall out and she’d have to crawl under Buffy’s bed to get it and put it back. God! Don’t ever touch the Zippo!


Dawn had ached for her sister then; she had watched him die for Good, only to be told, accidentally and years later, that he didn’t, but then that he did, again, most likely. They hadn’t heard anything from Angel for over a year after Giles told had gone to L.A. to identify Wesley’s body and then that was only him calling Giles and Willow for information about some ancient Hawaiian lava demon who had resurfaced and was frightening the tourists with bad ‘Tiny Bubbles’ karaoke; he never said anything about Spike.


Buffy had been pretty upset with everybody when she found the trunks.


It had been during one of the seismic upheavals that periodically rocked the Apennine peninsula from time to time, this one had collapsed one of the subterranean TrenItalia tunnels into some hitherto undiscovered catacombs and there had been sightings of unusual beasts, so Buffy went to check it out.


She looked like hell when she’d gotten back to the apartment that day, dirty, bruised, her shirt ripped, cursing at Step-Bitc…Teresa… It was obvious that she and Hank’s latest wife had had it out over Buffy’s wanting to borrow the car again. Plus she had fallen through a catacomb floor into another concealed chamber. She had told Dawn that she had found some stuff down there, not icky stuff, just some trunks and that they needed to get them before anyone else found them.


Dawn had borrowed their neighbor Giovanni’s old delivery truck, he had a crush on her so it wasn’t difficult to get the keys and she could drive a standard. Buffy had been surprised her little sister could flirt so well in Italian, when she could barely get by even with a phrase book.


The trunks had been with them ever since. Like part of the family… Buffy never allowed her to get in them… as if … allow me… Dawn scoffed to herself. She always said the contents were just research-y stuff for Giles and Willow, but never sent them to them. After Dawn figured out how to work the old tape machine …BetaMax…who knew… Buffy had bought at Giovanni’s pawn shop and stashed in one on the mid-sized steamers, she knew why.


No videos today…she thought as she lifted the lid and began to feel her way through the packing peanuts. Pictures, maybe later…and…she pulled out a bubble wrapped parcel then reached in deeper...there it is! It was old and tattered but still kept its contents safe and secure.


The portfolio still held the receipt from the little shop in Coventry where Lydia had purchased it over a decade ago. Dawn unzipped it but only pulled its contents out far enough to carefully leaf through the pages each one separated by its own protective acid-free cover.


Ahh… the camel, one on my favorites…she pulled it all the way out and began to read.








13 March, 1857

My Dearest Anne,

My deepest apologies if this post reaches you later than expected, horrid weather has forced a diversion of our journey. Our plans to travel by ship from Istanbul have been replaced with an overland sojourn through Turkistan. I admit some disappointment on my part as I had hoped to see the Black Sea again as lovely as when we last saw it together. The delay will still allow us the reach Chowringhee by 1st May barring further delays.

Young William did have opportunity for his promised camel ride earlier than expected. I believe he is presently recounting the event to you in his letter, needless, it will not soon become his favorite transport, his camel spat and was unruly and I believe he was queasy the entire ride, though he soldiered on right honorably. We will be traveling by coach through to Lucknow and I am told that the rail is now part done from there.

William’s lessons are proceeding quite well and I must confess that I am not minding the endless hours of recitation of Childe Harold though be assured that I am taking care with my replies to his many requests for clarification of the meanings of the stanzas. Since his father was never one to pay much heed to poetry it is best that we finish all the cantos before we arrive.

His penmanship is much improved, as you have noted, the techniques from the New Orleans charter are indeed far better than trying to force the use of his right hand. We are presently working on reducing it to a more normal size, but I fear he will never have a neat hand.

His French, however, is horrid and I strongly recommend to you to consider King’s on Strand again as the languages are better learned there than at Harrow upon his return. As you have the next two years to decide, please pay company one day to one Maximillian Le Fountaine at King’s, he is head of lingua franca studies there and one conversation will attest that this is so.

In response to the concerns of your last letter, my contacts among my former regiment fellows have wired me that there is some slight trouble among the Sepoys, merely some confusion as to the new munitions. It is nothing to concern yourself with, be assured that I will keep your son safe until he is delivered to his father, indeed until I have delivered him back to you in good stead as well.



With my Love always,

Reginald W. Hartleigh

Capt. 19th Bengal Ret.


This one never failed to make her smile. She was tempted to unwrap the pictures that, more or less, went with the contents of the portfolio…same era anyway. Buffy had wrapped them herself over two months ago for shipment and Dawn didn’t think she could get the tape off the bubble wrap without it ripping it…mangled bubble wrap always a dead give-away. But that dress is to die for...Hell! I have bubble wrap and tape in my room!

She tore into it.


-----------



To be continued…

"You got the keys," Spike asked as he checked his pockets making sure he had everything.




"Yes, I’ve got them."




"Where exactly is it?"




"I don't know, exactly. Uh, catty-cornered from a demon bar, not the closest one…maybe second closest?"




"Flashy techno-type or more like Willy's?”




"More like Willy's."




"I know it; ‘bout a forty minute drive." Spike looked at her for a moment then reached out a hand to smooth Buffy's hair. His hand brushed her cheek and she instinctively leaned toward his touch. His fingers lingered intertwining with the loose tendrils behind her earlobe.




He slowly pulled his hand back revealing a tiny errant orange cube. "Carrot," he said.




"Argh," she sighed.
"



Not as bad as broccoli," Spike said with a chuckle as he deposited the offending vegetable in the trash. "Come on." They headed for the garage.






__________________________________________________________




It was the Saab that chirped and flashed when he clicked the key.




"Saab? Not what you usually drive." Buffy commented.




"First one I ever had to pay for, Love, usually just nicked 'em." He started the engine.




"Spike, how did you ever end up here," she asked as soon as they pulled out of the garage.




"Long story, Pet. How much of it do you already know?"




"Just what they told me, the official report…I guess."




"Yeah, ha, right," he scoffed.




"They said…Andrew said, you were working with Angel at Wolfram and Hart. He told me what went down when he came to get Dana…" Buffy looked at Spike to make sure he knew who she was talking about. It was obvious he did.




"Ah, yeah, Miss Psycho Slayerette with the hacksaw, like to forget that one, Love, but the arms still twinge now and again."




"Sorry, bad?"




"Not as bad as burning up or…other things."




"Andrew should have told me then, he shouldn't have waited two years."




"I asked him not to."




"Why," Buffy asked.




"I dunno… champion…sacrificed to save the world, blah, blah… it meant something, but not…"




"Spike, it means something, it means a lot…and you should have told me."




"I know," he said quietly.




Buffy realized she wasn't going to get any more explanation so she changed the subject.




"You worked with Angel, that's hard to believe, I mean you don't like each other. The only times I've ever really seen the two of you together you were pretty much trying to kill each other."




"Great, you taking his side now," Spike commented.




"No, no…just trying to understand how you got tangled up with Wolfram and Hart. They told me about the amulet and about the ghost thing, I just didn't expect that you would..."




"I didn't, not right away, got played by this ex-Wolfram and Hart cowboy lawyer for a few months first. Never really fell in with that fighting evil from the belly of the beast crap. I didn't…join up until Illyria, ‘til Fred."




"Illyria? That's some demon god, one of the 'Old Ones'. It killed Fred," Buffy continued hesitantly, not entirely sure of the facts in that matter.




Spike nodded. "Killed her, hollowed her out. Destroyed her soul and used her body to walk the earth again."




"You killed it, you and Angel," she asked.




"No…" He laughed. "She joined the team."




"Wow, no wonder nobody trusted you guys back then."




"Nobody trusted Angel," he corrected her, "…we didn't either, so smart move, Love. Cordelia,” he began before she interrupted.




"Cordy was there, I thought she was in a coma or something?"




"Cheerleader’s all dead now." Spike paused, he didn't know if Buffy knew that, and by her face, she did not. "Sorry," he added quietly then went on."Cordelia came out of it long enough to help us call out cowboy lawyer Doyl…Lindsey, and gave Angel some vision or whatever about taking down the Circle of the Black Thorn, the senior partners' lackeys on this plane."




"And you guys did it, took them all out,"




Spike felt the need to correct her again. "Well, except for one," he said.




"There's one left," she inquired.




"Angel."




"Angel was a member of the Circle?" She was stunned by that revelation. They had left that part out when they recounted the story to her.




"Got himself inducted, all part of the plan, of course," he added more or less sarcastically.




"You gotta be major league bad for the Black Thorn to…" she started to say. Spike just looked at her with his 'I told you so' look.




"Anyway," Buffy said trying to route the conversation away from a place she did not want to go to right now, "…the Senior Partners retaliated."




"Yeah, don't remember much after the battle, falling down and passing out mostly. I think it was Illyria who brought us to the Mission. They found Gunn…" He noticed from her puzzled look that she did not know who he was talking about and added, "Charles Gunn, a mortal...one of Angel's Avengers. They found him, uh, what was left of him anyway, on the street in front of the Mission; at least they got him to a hospital. He's still alive, sort of. Last I heard he was learning to talk again, but he'll never… They found Angel and me smoldering in the sun by the back retaining wall, where the courtyard is now, three or four days later, it was an empty lot then. There's a month, month and a half, that I don't remember much of anything, pain…chained down in the basement of the rectory, brown and black robe-types tendin' us…"




"Obviously, they got you back to health," she said.




"Obviously. Five or six months later Angel left, went after…you know about his mongrel, right," Spike was hoping that she did.




Buffy nodded, "Nina? Yeah."




He went on, "Angel went after his mongrel. I left about a month later."




"And…" she probed.




He sighed. "Bad move…no place to go, no money to get there, and having a soul severely cramps the vamp lifestyle, about six weeks later…you get tired sleepin' in alleys and eating rats. Ended up in all the wrong places at all the wrong times."




She just looked the 'and' at him this time.




"…like in hand cuffs at the county jail and not willingly."




"You coulda got out easily enough."




"Pet, a hundred and thirty plus years of running, angry mobs, Slayers, demon hunters, other demons...gets old. It was time to stop running. I had one phone call, I used it, and the Mission was the only number I knew. The rest…well…" he left it at that, "...and you," he began again before she could ask him to go into detail. "The little boy said you went to Europe, rounding up stray Slayerettes, never figured you for the ex-patriot type, Love. Why'd you stay?"




"Ran into Dad in Rome," she said, not elaborating further.




"Big family reunion, yeah," Spike probed.




"Huh, yeah." She answered unconvincingly.




Spike gave her the 'and' look again. She tisked then sighed.




"Mom never told us, when Dad went …incognito, he remarried."




He still had the 'and' look on his face when she looked over.




"Hate her. Dawn hates her, too. At least Dad put a better roof over our heads than I could and he got Dawn back to school. She hated that too, at first, had to repeat tenth grade after she failed the placement test, but she got through it okay, college too," she added.




"What about you?"




"What, school? I tried for a couple semesters, too distracted, so, yeah, still 'too dumb for college' Buffy.'”




He laughed a little at the comment. "Too distracted," he asked.




"…with the slaying, and the rounding up, and the long-distance conferencing," she explained. “Jet-setting, er, Metro-ing’s more like it, across Europe after stray wanna-be’s, extremely tiring.




"Ah-huh, Dad doesn't know, does he? Thought you learned that lesson with your Mum."




"Mom at least understood the Slayer thing…well, eventually, sorta…Dad would never…and Step-Bitch, that's what Dawn and I call her behind her back, ha…she was constantly getting on our case, especially Dawn's, and not just at first, she kept at it. They were always fighting." Buffy scoffed then went on, "I really wanted to bring Dawn back here, but…he's our dad." She was starting to get misty-eyed.




Spike decided it was time to change the subject before the water works started. "You said something about issues, Slayer-type issues…pending apocalypse, yeah," he asked hopefully.




"No. I wish."




"Yeah, so what then?"




"It's not that simple."




"So explain it to me, Love."




"Guess we've got the time," she conceded, taking a moment to organize her thoughts before continuing.




"It’s just, it’s too much, we don't have the resources, we don't have the Watchers, we don't have…okay, it’s like there are too many girls, too many Slayers to…manage…control…guide, keep track of, train…not just physically… the power is too…" Buffy sighed.




"Oh, I get it, Pet," he said, glancing her way while negotiating the turn on to the freeway.




Buffy wondered if he really did or if he was just humoring her.




"Giles can't do it all, I mean, he tries…but even what he's teaching them, the Slayer doctrine, whatever…it was never…entirely right. He's not using the old Watchers Council guidelines, thank God, but…" She glanced at him checking if he was getting it.




"Still right there with you, Love," he nodded.



"Unless we're monitoring their every move, they're going off in their own directions, following their own rules. It’s like they don't have the judgment to be a Slayer…not without, making it worse, or hurting themselves or the people around them, or getting themselves killed, for the stupidest reasons…and what's left of the Watchers Council, the few that survived and the former Watchers, they…" she trailed off with a scoff.




Spike finished for her, "…they can't really help you, Love, cause they're not onboard either, and some of them are against you."




"Right. I shoulda just asked you," she said.




"Wouldn't hurt once in a while," he added.




"Yeah, I know," she said quietly, then continued, "…and the Power, the Slayer power… it’s not consistent, it’s fading in some and…"




"Like ebbs and tides," he commented.




She nodded, "and organized evil, here at least, after Wolfram and Hart pulled out of L.A. …"




"…too busy scrambling for the crumbs, but… crumbs are almost all swept up now, Love."




"Yeah…and the First: scrunched, but not gone and definitely not the only source of evil in the world." She let out a long sigh.




"That's the nature of evil…"




"…and the Hellmouth…"




"…put a stopper in it, just blows out somewhere else…"




"That about covers it, and I miss Willow and Xander…and Giles," she scoffed, "…even though we haven't been…close, in a while…and I missed you."




"Yeah, right. Is this the place," he asked.




"I think so, uh, looks like it."




"…and I'll wager it's the one with the big orange boot on it," Spike said nodding at the sedan parked across the street from the space he pulled into.




"Oh, shi…”






________________________________________________________






Rupert tossed in bed unable to get to sleep again. He blamed the August heat and a late night of pouring over the compounds bills for tonight’s bout of insomnia. Willow, Andrew and several of the girls who had good bookkeeping skills did the actual accounting; the figures were always accurate, that was the problem.




There simply was not enough money generated by the trusts to sustain the main compound let alone the satellites. Just in the past three years, they had to reduce health insurance coverage four times, to where it was now virtually worthless for a group of young women who were often prone to injury simply by the nature of their calling and required more than the normal amount of trips to the emergency room. In addition, caring for the institutionalized Slayers and Potentials, though their numbers were dwindling in proportion with those being called, was also fast becoming an issue. They would soon have to look further into the possibility of handling that task in-house, which they were damn ill equipped to do adequately.




Rising fuel costs had severely limited travel reimbursements as well, and the whole organization was on a “no non-essential personnel movement authorized” restriction for the last eighteen months. Even Faith, who had been visiting rather frequently in recent months…why is she here this time…he wondered, had been taking the bus and paying for it out of pocket. Not to mention the phone and internet bills.




He had already called in all his markers and fairly begged all his contacts who had the means for help, with some success; but it was still not enough. It seemed as though they could handle all the evils that the world could throw at them, but not their creditors.





Buffy was finally coming home and the last thing he wanted was for her to arrive to a financial disaster; she had enough monetary woes after Joyce had passed away. There were enough other things for her to deal with.





Damn, it’s bleeding hot! He thought, flinging off the sheet and tugging at his t-shirt. He cursed the main house’s lack of central air.
The small unit in the window was virtually worthless.





Reluctantly, he arose, depositing the sweat damp t-shirt on the bed post. Intent upon adjusting the bloody thing to its highest setting, electric bill be damned; he’d tap his retirement fund again to pay it next month.





“Bloody Hell!” He suddenly scowled picking his bare foot up off the soaked carpet nearly half way from the bed to the window. As if on cue, the unit began to vibrate and rattle. Gingerly, Rupert tried to skirt the wet carpet that was squishing water between his toes…that’s going to smell horribly before it dries in this heat, another sodding thing we can’t afford to fix…to unplug the bleeding thing.





Succeeding with only a minor electrical shock from the outlet when he yanked out the cord, he proceeded to the balcony door. There may be some breeze off the sea tonight… he thought fumbling in the moonlight with the latch. Opening it, he supposed he had heard something fluttering in the leaves of the rubber plant on the balcony and stepped outside to check. Nothing there… not even a wisp of breeze, sleep deprivation taking its toll, Ripper… he thought. Spying the unopened bottle of Glen Livet on the dresser, he headed across the room for it. There would be no going back to sleep tonight in any case. He would forgo the glass, taking the entire bottle with him down the stairs to the study.





He turned on the desk light and swiveled his chair round to face the credenza behind the desk. He pulled the cover off the mirror Willow had presented him with as a gift years ago.





While she was pregnant with Tara Rose, Willow had taken a sabbatical from teaching; she had spent a lot of her spare time scouring the thrift stores and antique shops around the Bay Area looking for whatever called to her. The mirror was something that had called to her; though she recounted to him that she hadn’t expected it to do so literally, and certainly not to call her by name and plead with her to buy it and give it to him, which is precisely what it did.





After gazing into it for a moment to no avail, Rupert gave it a hearty slap on the side of its frame.





“Wake up you sot!”





The glass misted over slightly, giving off a faint glow and then dimmed again. “Wesley!” He shouted at it.





It responded with a string of slurred British slang worthy of a merchant marine.





“Oh-ho,” he scoffed,”…quit your complaining, you dozy berk, you’re dead, what bloody reasons do you have for always being pissed?” He took a swig from the bottle and set it down on the credenza.





The spirit of the late Wesley Windom-Pryce in the mirror sobered somewhat, “…looks like you’re well on your way to joining me…”






_______________________________________________________






Spike pulled into a parking space across from the booted rental. "Couldn't have found a better space, Pet," he asked, noting the twenty minute parking restrictions on the signs on that side of the street.





“It was out of gas," Buffy said, "…I was lucky I got it out of traffic…I can't afford this." She took the stack of tickets off the windshield and looked at the boot. "We could…" she began.





"No. We couldn't" Spike said taking the stack of tickets from her. He sighed, "I'll take care of it. Get your stuff." He squinted to read the tow notice stuck on the driver's window. "Get the paperwork too, the rental agreement…" He sighed heavily and pulled out his phone. "It was scheduled to get towed about two hours ago…good for us they‘re running late." He punched in the number from the tow notice, "…paperwork, Love…" he said holding out his hand.





She handed him the envelope. Spike popped the trunk on the Saab as the call connected, and the tow truck had turned the corner and was backing into position as he was hanging up.





He put the towing and impound fees on his credit card. Buffy had to sign for the receipt of the vehicle. They gave her the forms with the information to get it straightened out with the rental company. All she could do was stare at it. She sat down on the curb. Spike took them from her and put them in the envelope with the rest, throwing it all on the dash.





"I can't afford this; there must be four hundred dollars’ worth of tickets…."





"Closer to six," he interjected.





"…and towing…"





"Paid it," he said.





"…overdue fees…"






"Did you have a security deposit?"





"Uh, yes, thirty five hundred," she said.





"Credit card," he asked.





"Cash, don't have a credit card."





"That…might be a good thing," he said half under his breath before he asked, "how much overdue was it?"





"Uh, almost three weeks."





"Over mileage," he asked.





She nodded.





"Out of gas, towed and impounded, kiss that cash goodbye, Lamb, then some."





"That was all I had," she said.





"I'll get the difference, Love, and the tickets. It'll be okay."





"I can't pay you back…"





"Don't worry about it, Pet. I got it. Come on, promised you dinner, let's go."





She snuffled and wiped her eyes as he helped her up from the curb.






_______________________________________________________






Faith hung up the phone and sighed heavily. Not too serious… they‘re gonna be alright… Cops! Humgph! She was relieved that Stacy and Janice hadn’t been hurt badly, but she was extremely annoyed that the Boston P.D. thought it necessary to haul them in for a drug test. Dumb assess, they spend half the night saving your sorry assess from things that you take one look at, drop your doughnut, and head for the station shrink and what, you see them on the street obviously in need of some medical attention, limping home...so, they were a little wobbly on their feet…had good cause.





Stopping at the fridge on her way back to the bedroom, she drained the last of the milk straight from the container; giving it a toss at the trash. Two points for me… she thought as the milk container settled in on top of yesterday’s Thai take-out boxes. She scanned the contents of the refrigerator …no more Thai?… and settled on half a ham salad sandwich left over from Xander’s lunch and a handful of grapes.





Padding lightly into the bedroom while popping the last grape into her mouth, she carefully got into bed and reached over Xander to put the phone back on the hook. Xander took the opportunity to give her a surprise tickle in the ribs as the phone settled into its cradle and she jumped, nearly knocking him out of bed.





“Don’t do that!” She shrieked and gave him a playful slap.





“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said, shifting position and not bothering to turn on the bedside light as Faith nestled in next to him, “…everything alright on the Boston front?”





“No, well…yeah,” she said settling back onto her pillow, “…nobody’s seriously hurt, just two of the girls had a run-in with Boston’s boys in blue.” Again…she added to herself.





“They doing anything to deserve it,” he asked, knowing that most of Faith’s own clashes with the police were self-inflicted.





“No, just walking home after a fight, couple of Bvashkavars, cops thought they were a little wobbly, hauled them in for a drug test.”





Demon’s got them that bad? He asked





No… yeah, they did a little damage, but…Janice said somebody was shooting darts at ‘em…after,” she said,”…one nicked Stacy, made her a little… stoned.”





“Bvashkavar’s using dart guns now,” Xander asked.






________________________________________________







"So, how's everybody...the Scooby's," Spike asked once they had settled into the booth.





Buffy shrugged. "Umh...Willow's a mom now."





"Yeah!" Spike was surprised yet happy for her, "...how'd she manage that, she still...she still with Kennedy?"





"Off and on, with Kennedy, so they say, and sperm donor, I guess...really don’t know. Tara Rose, she’s...almost five now. Kennedy spends most of her time away, South America, Asia and Australia."





"Wil’d make a good mum," he chuckled a little,"...and Xander?"





"He’s doing okay, has a small construction business on the side, but mostly he helps Giles run the place. I guess he and Faith are sorta together, off and on, when she’s here. She’s in charge of the east coast squad; they’re based out of Boston."





"And Anya," he asked wondering where she was in all this.





"You didn’t know? No, how could you know. Bringers got her; she didn’t make it out of the High School."





"Sorry, Love. I didn’t know. How’d the boy take it?"





She shrugged again. "He was tore up, wouldn’t admit it, but a few months later, the calls...it was pretty bad, but he...”





"Don’t say ’got over it’, Pet," Spike commented.





"I won’t, he didn’t."





"Giles," Spike asked changing the subject.





"Giles is...Giles. Overworked."





"You said you two weren’t that close anymore, what happened," he asked.





"You know what happened."





Spike hoped that was not the real reason, but her eyes said that it was.





"I’m sorry," he said with a heavy sigh.





"It’s not your fault," she said.





"Yeah, how’d you figure that," he asked knowing a lot of the distance between the two was because of him. "Buffy, you need him, he’s more your dad..."





"...than my Dad," she finished for him. "Yeah. I know. Wasn’t just that, I mean…he knew and he didn’t tell me. There’s been a lot of that and not all of it lately."






"I’m sorry," he whispered and nursed a sip of his drink. "What about the little boy, Andrew," he inquired after a slightly uncomfortable silence.





"Uh, he’s still with us...work in progress," she said. They both had a faint laugh. "Actually, he really does a lot to keep us all together."





"Wood?"





"He has L.A., about thirty to forty girls. I’m surprised you two haven’t..."





"No, we haven’t. Most of the Slayerettes I’ve run across ...well, they’re pretty much...rogue."





"Yeah, seems to be an issue," she said quickly under her breath. She was getting tired of talking shop and was ready for a topic change.





Slowly she leaned close and kissed him. He felt her tongue slip between his lips and glide across the edges of his teeth.





After a prolonged moment of wondering if she tasted like sweet almond or cyanide, he pulled away, deciding on both with a hint of wormwood: intoxicating, addictive and deadly, and simply looked at her.





"Was that confusing," she asked. "I can clarify it," once again she leaned close and he did as well.




A little later, the sound of plates being set on the table broke the spell of the moment.





Spike took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, with the second sip he downed it.





"Argh...woo."





"You okay," Buffy asked taking a sip of hers.





"Too fast," he said his voice hoarse from the straight whiskey or the kiss or both.





"That’s what you get when you slam it," she commented reaching for one of the empty appetizer plates and a fork. She started poking at the hot selection of goodies on the platter that had appeared on the table a few minutes ago while they were preoccupied.





"No, not the drink," he said still raspy, vocal cords still stinging, "...long time." He cleared his throat and reached for the other plate.





She looked at him with a little half smile and said, "yeah, right." There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.





"No...really," he said cutting his eyes toward her as he speared a shrimp.





"Really," she asked with sincere surprise.





"Well, yeah," He said.





She laughed. “You mean, seven years and you haven’t…” Buffy began popping half a spring roll into her mouth.





“No”





“Not even once,” she questioned, “…with anybody? “





“Well…half,” he added quickly turning his attentions back to the plate of appetizers.





Buffy noticed his evasive shifts in position, the subtle sullenness of his tone and she couldn’t resist it, an opportunity to make him uncomfortable, like manna from heaven …must be the Slayer in me that makes me jump on every opportunity to torture him, neah…he’s just so cute when he squirms.





“Half,” she said carefully timing her next tidbit for maximum effect and almost losing the entire mouthful in the process. “What do you mean half…” she paused, “there is no half. You either did or didn’t.”





He wobbled his head slightly and scoffed as he thought how he would say it. “Harmony, and yeah… Half.”





Harmony she could handle, but the half was puzzling her.





“Half?” She asked again.





“We were under the influence of supernatural forces, started, didn’t finish. She tore into me. She wasn’t herself and I sent her arse end over…” he paused eyeing the prawns, “… appetite,” and settling for a stuffed mushroom instead after sniffing it for stray garlic.





“Just once or…” Buffy began, eyeing him sideways while picking at her plate. She had never considered Harmony a threat in any way, mortal or vampire, but Harm and Spike did have a thing going for a while.





“Pl-ease, “he said, “Harmony?” He scoffed lightly. “Half,” added ardently and speared another shrimp.





She gave the little half-shrug that meant she was satisfied with that response, but kept staring at him.





“What?”





“Aren’t you going to ask?”





“No.”





“Aren’t you curious?”





“No.”






“Why not?”





He sighed. She was not going to let it alone until he answered.





“Cause it makes me crazy to think about you with….anyone, so I try not to think about it at all,” his voice tapered to a whisper. “So, no, rather not know.” He was extremely happy to see their meals on their way to the table. Food, one of her best diversions, he thought, relieved at getting off the hook.





The trays no sooner hit the table when the pager went off.






To be continued...

"Something wrong at the Mission?" Buffy asked.



"No, but we gotta go. I'll explain on the way," he motioned to the waitress.



"Yeah, yeah,” the peppy waitress said, "...know the drill. Puppy box coming up." He slid the credit card on to the tray and flashed an obviously forced smile as she loaded it with their plates.



He lifted his glass but found it empty. Spying hers, he reached across and helped himself to a hefty draught of it making a face at the sweetness of the amaretto.



“Hey,” she said wondering what it was that was making him all bad moody, “…I'm not the one driving, so don’t be getting yourself all…influenced.



"One drink, vampire constitution, I'm fine," he snapped, sliding out of the booth. “Let’s go.”



Rhonda packed up their meals and even salvaged the rest of the appetizers which she handed to Buffy in a styrofoam container on their way out the door.



__________



“Is this something Slayer-y or can I eat now?” Buffy asked after fastening her seatbelt. “I mean, what could possibly be so important to merit a page at 11:22 on a Friday night.”



“Have at it, Love,” he said, searching the CD pocket on the visor, obviously looking for something. “…and not exactly gonna put in for the day turn, don’t fancy turning into a big pile of dust cause it's a nice day in Northridge, Pet.”



He flipped down the visor and all the papers from earlier, his and hers, scattered.



“This what you’re looking’ for?” Buffy asked, wiping sauce from the food container it had landed in off of it. Another badge, she strained to look at it under the Saab’s dim courtesy light. William P. Hartleigh, State of California, Dept. of Human Services, Certified Crisis Counselor, she stared at it in the dim light, not quite believing her eyes.



“You’re a fucking rape councilor?” She blurted out, not knowing if it was the fact that surprised her more or her reaction to it.



“S-sometimes,” was all he could manage without an awkwardly long pause. “There’s more to it than that,” he said fumbling with the pile of paper that had suddenly acquired a life of its own.



“Over compensating a little aren't we?”



“No, yeah…no, maybe…I dunno… didn't want to go there yet,” he mumbled under his breath still trying to collect the rental paperwork that now cluttered the floor of the driver’s side, succeeding only in having the bulk of it slip beneath the pedals.



“Hand me the torch, would you,” he asked, “…it’s in the glove compartment.”



She opened it and began rummaging through its contents.



“Buffy,” he began after a long breath “…I can’t say as I don’t know why…I know why, can give you a thousand reasons why…



“Thought you didn’t want to go there,” she fairly snapped at him. She knew the why…figured that out long time ago, sometime between the time you ran out of the bathroom and Xander came in. But she still couldn’t help the scowl she was now giving him.



“Can I please finish before you give me the face?” He said calmly. “That’s really cheating you know.”



She gave a shrug and an eye roll and returned to searching the glove compartment intently. Don’t really wanna go there either, she thought.



“What I still don’t know is,” he went on, “really…why I didn’t.”



“Oh, what, you wish you had raped me?” She asked angrily.



“No, that’s not what I…” he sighed and shook his head, discouraged. “And no, it’s not overcompensating, getting the…” Just stop talking now, Spike, you’re in deep enough as it is.



Finally finding the flashlight, she hands it to him; their fingertips touching briefly as they had many years ago and the memories came pouring as if only moments had passed since.



You were going to use a spell on me…it wasn't for you…I wanted something… anything to make these feelings stop…I just wanted it to stop …I have feelings for you…I do…but it's not love…I could never trust you enough for it to be love…I know you felt it ... when I was inside you...gonna make you feel it…ask me again why I could never love you...Buffy, my God, I…because I stopped you...something I should have done a long time ago.



Words, memories came flooding in, loose-ing a hoard of personal demons she’d thought she’d slain long ago.



He’d felt them too; but for him, they were all too familiar, demons he lived with every day.



“Look I …”



“No,” she stopped him, “…you were right … let’s just not go there…yet, okay. Neither one of us is ready for it. “After a few calming breathes she added “…besides, Slayer here.” She stared out the window as he started the car and pulled out.



Uneasy silence was a demon she had grown accustomed to over the years from her friends, her family, herself, and now it was here in the car threatening to choke them. She had to say something soon or she knew the demon was gonna win.



“I just don’t get it,” she said calmly…trying, really trying here.



“Had to earn my keep…what you think the monks just let me stay there out of the goodness of their hearts”… God! Could you have said anything lamer than that, Willie-boy, they run a Bloody mission for God’s, sake. “They put me to work.”



“So you’re Mister Social Worker Vampire now?”



“It sure as hell wasn’t my idea, I mean it’s what they do…well, on top of the demons and such…” he trailed off. ”County of Los Angeles had a lot to do with it too.”



She crinkled her face in curiosity.



“The handcuffs,” he referred back to their small talk earlier over dinner, which now seemed like days ago to her, ”… Sebastian got me out and got me off with community service.”



“To be served at the Mission,” she said, “…convenient.” She wished she'd asked Rhonda for a plastic cup for the drink before they left the restaurant, she could so use it right about now.



“Just saying… I pay my debts. Can’t say as I fancied changing beds and doing laundry for the rest of my un-life, and gets Bloody boring just manning the desk, anything else…”



“Requires a degree in social services; behavioral science.” William the Bloody… Scourge of Europe…slayer of Slayers… “They sent you to school.”



“More like sent school to me, on-line, great for the sunlight impaired.
Had to intern to get all the credits, never took m'self off the list, I guess. Besides, after tonight didn't think you'd bitch so much about something I actually get paid for.”



“You seem to work enough at the Mission.”



“Don’t actually get paid for that. I mean, there’s a stipend, not much, goes right back to the coffers, Love.”



Saint Spike…can I heave now? “Guess if it pays the parking tickets.”



“That it does,” he conceded, “…that and data processing, paper work for the state.” Even he was embarrassed at that.



She let out a “K-heh” and tried to stifle a laugh.



“You laughing at me?” he asked. “You are laughing at me.”



“No!” She said adamantly, trying so hard not to let the sheer hilarity of it show and nearly dumping the forgotten food container all over the floor and dashboard in the process.



“Worse'n wearing a dozy cow-hen on your head.” He murmured.



“Wha…”



“Nothin’.”



It all made sense so, maybe she could deal. The Big Bad gets any more goody-goody and I don’t think I can stand it!



“If that’s how you get your money now, guess it beats the hell out of kitten poker.”



“Still play,” he said, “…and the regular kind too and this is part-time only three or four nights a month, when nobody else is available, not like its every day.”



-----------



At least he gets a good parking space…Buffy thought as they pulled into the emergency room parking lot. She was more or less numb from the day’s events. I’m about to get out of this car and do what, wait in some hospital waiting room while he…wow, too much, too much to grasp right now…need a demon to slay…plenty of demons here, just none I can deal with. Do I really want this…? She looks at the man in the driver’s seat about to get out of the car and knows the answer. Yeah…I do… the heat of the day had not dissipated, she was hot and sticky and very bothered in more ways than she wanted to think about.



“You gonna stay out here,” he asked, “…gonna be a while, air conditioned inside.”



Reluctantly she got out of the car and followed him across the ambulance entranceway.



The emergency room was fuller than she had expected it to be, not that she had ever made a habit of noticing emergency room occupancy before…hell, it was always my emergency when I was in Sunnydale Memorial’s: either me or potentials or Dawn or Tara or Mom…had it go there, didn’t I… and same in Europe… at least they have music here.



She grabbed a rumpled two year old copy of Cosmopolitan off the nearest end table and looked around for a seat; the only unoccupied one was between the sticky over-active toddler and his very…very… pregnant mother and the old guy with the oozy toe.



The loud speaker crackled faintly … Doctor Randal to recovery room six stat…then resumed its music …want your leather studded kiss in the sand… Gaga!…God, does it have to be that one… she thought as the toddler smeared spit covered lollipop over the empty seat she had been eying…want your bad, bad…



Spike finished talking with the triage nurse on duty and looked over to her standing there, then to the overcrowded, rather germy looking waiting room and cocked his head for her to follow him through the triage doors.



Ooh la la, watch out for romance… He held the swinging door open waiting; she took the magazine with her.



The elevator ride was silent except for the ‘rah rah’s.’



“Hello Nance,” he said to the nurse on duty at the desk.



“’Bout time, Spike,” the attractive auburn haired woman said handing him the clipboards with a smile that was absolutely salacious, “…full house; rooms one and two are ready whenever you are, three’s still in emergency, be another hour at least.”



“Three, dealin' em in spades tonight are we? Sorry, Love, you caught me out and about.”



“Friday night.”



“Nance, this is Buffy, the ER’s a bit crowded, ya mind?”



“No, got the desk to myself tonight, Roland’s off and Kelly and Kim have the floor, I could use the company.” She turned her attention to Buffy, “Buffy, was it,” she glanced to Spike for confirmation on the name; he nodded almost imperceptively, still going over the clipboards. “Hi, I’m Nancy Porter, there’s a waiting room down the hall, the light switch is on the left. No coffee though, we turn it off after visiting hours. You can stay out here if you want. I could really use the company after I get these orders in the computer and I’ve got a fresh pot on back here, just help yourself.” She nodded towards a little alcove at the end of the counter.



Spike looked up from the clipboards, “Kev’s here, again?” He asked with dismay, putting the other clipboards on the desk.



“Yeah, you missed the two times he’s been here since you last saw him.”



“Boy should just check himself in to the morgue, he keeps this up,” Spike slid the other clipboards across the desk to her. Nancy shrugged and sighed in agreement.



Buffy was pretty sure she should not be listening, patient privacy issues and all, and tried to busy herself with the outdated magazine as she sat on the bench across from the nurse’s station.



“Gonna be a long night, Pet,” he said to her, “…I can call Cisco to come get you, if you don’t want to stay?”



Buffy quickly shook her head and re-busied herself with the tattered magazine. That was your last chance out, you stupid, dumb…bint… she thought, ruffling the pages…now you’re stuck here with Florence-un-buckling-his-belt–with-her-eyes-Nightingale…besides…How to Understand Your Man, page 127…really need to read that one. Surprising herself, she actually read the article, it didn’t help, and the next one ‘Twelve Things You Can do With Your Tongue That Will Make Him Scream’; twenty minutes later she was bored nearly to tears and could think of at least six more.



“You’re the one, aren’t you?” Florence, er, Nancy asked her.



“I’m sorry, what?”



“You are his disclosure,” she said with certainty and the smuggest smile Buffy had seen since Sunnydale caved-in.



“I'm his…huh…what?”



“Never mind,” she said filling her cup from the coffee pot in the alcove, “…employee privacy, not supposed to talk about it but everybody does.”



Buffy’s look of total confusion made her chuckle sending a wisp of steam up from her cup as she sipped it.



“What do you mean?” Buffy asked her curiosity piqued.



“It’s just unusual, on the employment application,” she sipped again offering Buffy a cup, “…they ask have you ever been convicted of, suspected of, or perpetrated a crime: robbery, felony assault,” she emphasized the last, stirring her coffee intently.



Buffy decided she would have that coffee after all.



“For his job, well, you usually don’t mark yes. I mean, the convenience store knock off, sure, he wasn’t convicted, he pleaded out and it never went to trial, but in his position, even if you were Chester the Molester, you don’t disclose it on the application unless there was a record of it on file somewhere that could be reviewed, proved, and you sure as hell don’t disclose an ‘attempted’ there was never a record of, not if you actually want the job anyway. So, you’re her, you’re his disclosure, have to be with the way he looks at you.” She concluded with another sip.



“And you got this all off his application,” Buffy asked.



“No, he just talks a lot over…” she stared at the dregs in her cup, looking up; she continued”…hot chocolate actually.”



Buffy looked at her and suddenly thought of little marshmallows.



“And, come on,” Nancy said refilling her cup, “… every single female on the floor this side of dead and a few of the guys too, would kill to get that look out of him; the one he has when he looks at you.”



“So he does a lot of socializing with the staff here,” she asked fanning the hot coffee.



No, not really, maybe a little, a lot of small talk mostly. I think he really doesn’t like all the attention he gets, with the eyes…”



“And the hair,” Buffy added.



“And the accent,” Nancy went on.



“And the abs,” Buffy sighed.



“Yeah, that too,” the nurse inquired.



Buffy nodded sheepishly.



“I’m really impressed. Practically every young thing fresh out of candy stripes tries to make a play for him. He talks with a few of us more personally, he’s sort of our sexy matty mystery man; good to talk to, great as a friend, anything more and they say he’s a little… cold.



Buffy’s eyes grew large until she realized that wasn’t what she had meant. Nancy laughed at her expression and then Buffy did too.



“He's really good at what he does you know. He did me a few years ago when my ex went on the rampage; there I was all blaming myself and wanting nothing but to go back to him.”



“What exactly does he do,” she asked.



“Listens mostly, talks to them, recommends programs, and gives a preliminary evaluation to the shrinks and the cops.”



Sounds a lot like what he does at the Mission… Buffy thought.



They had a good girl talk until number three was ready to be brought up. Nancy excused herself when Roland popped in with the proverbial clipboard for her to enter into the computer. Spike popped back in as well. Buffy thought Nancy’s smile was salacious; Roland’s had redefined the word. Was he checking out Spike’s ass on his way out? Hell yes he was.



“Good to see you two getting on,” he said a bit surprised at the fact and looking really tired. He opened the cabinet under the coffee alcove and asked, “Nance, you got any…”



“No, all out, it’s on the list, “she said apologetically, “… coffee’s good though.”



“Thanks, Love,” he grabbed a cup off the stack and poured a cup. Taking a sip, he asked Buffy, “ you okay, Pet, still got two to go, not too late to call for a ride?”



“No, I’m good.”



He swapped clipboards and headed back to work.



Buffy and Nancy talked again after the data was entered, then Buffy headed to the darkened waiting room to curl up for a quick nap.



___________

To be continued...

It was after four in the morning when he nudged her awake. Sleepily she sat up on the waiting room bench stretching and yawning.



“You ready to head home,” he asked tentatively in that quiet almost accent-less voice she had only heard him use once or twice in the time she’d known him; William’s voice she always called it and it always got to her.



Home, she thought …odd, how a single bed at the Mission was looking pretty much like home right now.



“Yeah,” she answered groggily, her voice sounding almost as tiny as his had a moment ago.



Not sure that she would take it; he reached out his hand for hers and it was the best forty feet to the elevator walk he’d ever had, with a half asleep Slayer in tow.



The lift landed on the ground floor with a jolt and Buffy caught a heel in the space between elevator and lobby floor on her way out the door; his instinct to catch her clashing with hers to not let him, both meeting in a half pushed off attempt at steadying her that Mister Ooziness-seeping-through-the-freshly-bandaged-toe observed with a leer.



The heat hit like a tidal wave as they walked the short distance from the emergency entrance to the car and neither said a word until they were out of the parking lot.



“You spent a lot of money tonight,” she said figuring it was going to be far easier to talk about money than about his choice of part-time occupation. “On me,” she went on, “…on the rental. I really can’t afford to pay you back, you know.”



“S’okay, Pet. Don’t worry about it.”



“I mean I’m broke. The deposit on the car, that was all Dawn and I had left after settling all the apartment bills and airfare and I don’t know how much Giles and the others can spare or even....”



“It’s alright, ‘nuff in the bank to cover it, Love.”



“The budget for the Compound and ‘everybody’ is pretty tight already, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to get a job, a paying one I mean, I have the feeling that I’ll be pretty busy with the Slayer stuff when I do get up there.”



“For once, Slayer, could you just let me take care of it.”



“Maybe we could make an arrangement, you know, take it out in trade,” she said a little teasingly.



Spike hit the brakes hard and the Saab screeched and spun into the intersection. “You just don’t get it do you, Pet?”



“Spike! What the …” She shouted, bracing herself against the dash as the Saab skidded to a halt.



“Look, Love, I didn’t pay the Bloody tickets so you would feel obligated.”



“How else am I supposed to feel?”



“Now, how should I know…just not like that! I mean you,” he scoffed, “…you come here and … you… you make with the kissing and the tongue…that thing you do… that all just because you’re, what, grateful I paid off a few tickets? I don’t want…”



“That’s it! That’s it. You don’t want me anymore! What, I’m too old for you now? ‘Things not as high…not as firm?’, she said mocking his old tone.”



“Not what I meant,” He scoffed again; “…will you just listen to me for once. You come here and you look all…like that, all....Buffy.



“All Buffy? All Buffy, what the hell is that supposed to mean…”



“I just can’t win this… can I… no matter what I say.”



“Well then, maybe you should stop talking so damn much and just do something!”



“What do you want me to do?” Spike was exasperated with this. “I don’t know, do I? What the hell you want me to do?



“Maybe not be such a dick head. What do you want to do?”



“What I want,” he scoffed, “… huh, ha…what I want right now‘d make you way more ‘an skittish.”



“Huh, what?”



“Nothing… No… No! ... Not nothing! ... I want you, you damn thick headed Bint! S’all I ever wanted since first time I saw you.”



“The first time you saw me, Spike, you were trying to kill me!”



“Yeah,” he snickered.



Did he just snicker? She thought… He did too snicker!



“…well…never said I always knew exactly what I wanted to do with you first back then.”



“Gah! You’re a pig, Spike!”



They continued, never noticing the lights or the sirens until the police officer knocked on the window.



“Hello Spike,” the police officer said.



“Lo Kenny,” Spike said lowering the window and looking around as if just now realizing where they were and that car was sitting crossways in the middle of the intersection. The early pre-rush hour traffic was backed up three blocks in all directions.



“I thought that was you, so eh … what’s up,” he asked eyeing the obviously upset and near to tears blonde in the passenger’s seat.



“Uh…we…had a spat,” was all that Spike could manage.



“You know the drill,” Kenny said, “…license and registration and step out of the car.”



Spike got out his wallet for the license and retrieved the registration from the visor CD pocket and handed them to the officer then opened the door and got out.



“You too, Miss uh…” the officer added through the open door. He seemed to be looking her over thoroughly. Part of the job… she guessed.



“Summers, Buffy Summers,” she supplied; the policeman’s eyes got a little bigger and he eyed her a bit more acutely with a slightly different glint in his eye. God, did he tell everybody about me … she thought as she complied with the request.



He turned to address Spike again and Buffy thought she caught a bit of a macho ‘thumbs up’ being shot Spike’s way.



“Okay if my partner, Jenner, there,” Officer Boring nodded by way of the cocky, starched uniform, obviously fresh-out-of-the academy rookie who was fondling his Taser as he paced back and forth behind him, “… moves the vehicle out of traffic. He’s a dumb ass but I think he can get it to the curb without causing a pile-up.”



“Oh, uh…yeah …I’m sorry didn’t realize…



“Rookie there is a stickler, so I got to put you through the paces;
plus, your car is facing the wrong direction in the middle of an intersection on Reseda Blvd at 4:37 am.”



“I can explain…”



“Yeah, so get to ‘splaining while I get the kit ready and, Spike, make sure your story sorta-kinda matches the one your girlfriend’s gonna be telling my partner…I don’t want to have to take you in.



Officer Jenner addressed himself to Buffy once he had parked the Saab, “…you have any Identification Miss?”



“Identi… yeah, passport and driver’s license.” Where are they…She had to think hard on that,”…i-in the duffle in the trunk.”



“Let’s go have a look then,” he said, “…and can you tell me what is going on here?”



“We were having a fight is all.”



“You two fight often?”



She let out a strained laugh and then thought better of it. God! Buffy, practice some of that discretion Giles always used to talk about. It took her a moment or two of staring into nowhere to come up with an answer that she hoped would not make things worse. “Not recently,” she said watching the other officer giving Spike a field sobriety test and getting a breathalyzer out of the patrol car. She answered his questions as best she could without out- and-out lying, and she hoped without sticking her foot in her mouth and getting either of them in trouble.



She had a sudden sense of panic when the policeman popped the truck and asked her to retrieve her I.D. …What if he searches the car…my weapons bag is in there and god only knows what Spike has stashed in it.



The two police officers exchanged clipboards and I-pads and compared notes briefly; Officer Boring gave all the I.D.s to Jenner with instructions to run them.



“Your stories are pretty close.” the officer said. “I have to write you up on a traffic violation though, that is, if there is nothing else,” he glanced to Buffy for confirmation.



What! She thought… there is a hell of a lot else. And it is none of your damn business… that’s between me and my vampire.



“Right then,” Office Boring cleared his throat as he handed Spike the citation.



Officer Jenner strode up from behind Spike and his partner, handing Officer Boring the I-pad on his way toward Buffy. “Ms. Summers,” he said loudly, grabbing the handcuffs from his belt.



“Ms. Summers, you have the right to remain silent…” he clicked the cuffs on her left wrist pulled it behind her back and started on the right “… anything you….”



“What the hell are you doing?” She said as she spun around and wrenched the remaining cuff out of his hands. She eyed the Taser and planned a flying kick if he tried to use it.



Spike started, but Officer Boring held him back. “There’s a warrant out on your girlfriend, Spike,” he said quickly, indicating the I-pad.



“Jenner! Chill it Rookie, that’s an order!” He shouted to his panicked partner who was fumbling with the Taser that was apparently now stuck in his belt. “Grand theft auto, rental car,” he continued to Spike. “And it’s covered in the statements! Dumb Ass!” He shouted to Jenner with emphasis. “Hasn’t cleared the board yet.” He touched the pad a few times and tossed it back to Jenner who was being circled by one tired and very brassed-off Slayer.



‘Pending, transaction clearing!’ flashed on its screen. The younger officer already red-faced from the alleged handcuffing looked sheepish as he warily retrieved his cuffs from the Slayer who had already managed to force the hinge on the one that had been around her wrist.



“Jenner, get your sorry ass in the car. Now! “ He chastised the younger man. “Really sorry about that, he’s a dumb ass!” He said smiling apologetically at Buffy. “Still have that poker game every Thursday,” he said to Spike, “…come on down and leave some of your money.”



Spike waited until the police car turned the corner then he slammed the Saab’s driver’s door so hard the force disengaged the latch and it bounced back open at him. He kicked at it with all the emotion he was feeling. It bounced off the frame and clattered loudly onto the sidewalk.



Buffy cringed at the sound of clanking twisting metal the force of the blow reverberating through the width of the Saab making her step back onto the street and away from her door. Enough… she thought, starting around the Saab not knowing if she was going to belt some sense into him when she got there or tell him it was all okay.



He turned and headed toward the building smashing fists and forearms hard into the wall. The string of curses coming out of him made her think twice about patting him on the back and telling him it was okay. Damn stupid vampire.



A single ray of the dawning sun shone over the roof tops catching her in the face as she rounded the back of the Saab reminding her suddenly that they had to get home. She stopped and looked at him looking like he was about to get frisked with his head hanging down between his elbows. At least the cursing is down to a loud mumble now, let him cool off on his own, you’ve had your head snapped off enough for one day, she thought. Since she was already on that side of the car, she retrieved the door from where it had skidded to on the sidewalk and tried to rehang it on the mangled hinge.



A moment later a half muffled ‘ep’ from her as she managed to save a finger from being pinched caught his attention.


__________________________________________________________



Spike crumbled the cigarette pack and threw it in the back. He searched the console for the spare pack, finding it under a myriad of junk. Gotta clean this heap out, he thought. The spare held one lone and crumbly specimen; that was enough.



He checked one pocket then another for a lighter, finally finding one. He tried it but it would not light. …really hate disposables, he thought.



After several unsuccessful thumb wrenching tries and one flying flint it joined the credit and debit cards and the crumpled pack on the floor of the back seat. He let out a scoffing sigh.



Buffy reached deep into her jeans pocket. She handed him the lighter. He took it and lit the cigarette, then started to hand it back to her when he noticed the nick on the bottom edge.



He flipped the lighter upside down in his one free hand and examined the bottom carefully, trying to keep one eye on the road. He looked at the dent on the one side and the scratch on the top. This was his lighter. He hadn't seen it since... Wait a minute; she has had it all this time, must have taken it with her when we went through the seal to face the First. He thought about the implications of that and almost ran another light.



He glanced sideways at her, hoping she would not see. She didn't, she was busy trying to hold back the tears by looking out the side window, completely avoiding him. That's good...he thought. I don't have to worry about her seeing me.



She looked over at him with her best 'I'm not crying I'm just very upset and angry face' and held out her hand for the lighter.



She wants it back, what's that mean... His eyes met hers for a moment before he hurriedly looked back to the road in front of them.



He couldn't stay mad at her, well actually after tonight he probably could, but not as mad as he wanted to be. He handed it back to her, his hand lingering in hers a lot longer than, or not as long as, he intended it to, he wasn't sure. They both looked out their respective side windows for a moment then he had to remember to drive. It was very quiet for the rest of the ride.

Spike was still angry when they got back to the mission. The door of the Saab falling off its hinge again and clattering loudly on to the concrete floor of the garage did not improve his mood, neither did having to skirt the morning sun streaming into the courtyard between the garage and the staff’s smoking patio just outside the hallway to his cell. Buffy had tried, once or twice, during the drive back to talk to him but for once, it was Spike who would have none of it.




"It's not the bloody car door or the soddin' money..." he took a long deep calming breath as he put her stuff down in the room.



“Look, Love,” he began, “...it’s just, you just...” he scoffed in frustration. “I can’t talk to you when I’m angry... and I am angry,” he said unequivocally.



Buffy wanted to…hell, she didn’t know what she wanted to do. She was gob-smacked. She was tired and she was hot and she was cranky and she was entirely and absolutely certain that she preferred that they fight physically, way more, than like this…this was hell…and not the good kind.



Spike was looking at her, just staring, and she could not tell what he was thinking.



“Spike, I…”



“Tired,” he said, stopping her words with a hand, “… need some sleep…going to the basement.” He looked at her again. “Look, just…just be here in the … “ he was going to say morning, way too late for that… Just be here,” he silently mouthed a ‘please’ as he averted his gaze.



Buffy stood behind the pile of duffels and bags on the floor trying to absorb it all. It was un-absorb-y. After a while she realized that he was still standing there in the doorway. Is he waiting for an answer…that wasn’t really a question?



With her quietly voiced “Kay”, he gave a slight acknowledgement, turned and headed down the hallway.



She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, then her face wrinkled with emotion and she dropped into the bed. After a few wrenching sobs into the pillow that still smelled so damn mockingly good, she sat up. She had to think this out.



Snuffling, Buffy sat in the middle of the bed hugging her knees to her chest and rocking slightly; the back and forth motion being the only thing keeping her from bursting into full tears. This was not what I came here for. It’d be sooo much easier to just jump his undead bones and be done with it, all this talking’s hard. Now he was unbelievably pissed at her… over what? If it’s not the money…she tried to add it up in her head but couldn’t… couple a thousand, at least… then what…. a stupid comment, that’s what set him off… damn stupid little comment…. he didn’t really think I just want to sleep with him because I feel obligated, he can’t think that… can he? I mean, after all….after every…God! How did this get so….



She barely heard the knock on the door and wasn’t really sure that the sound had come out of her in response was anything even remotely resembling the ‘come-in’ she was trying for.



“Hey, I just saw Spike in the hall and he didn’t …” Cisco stopped as soon as he had the door open enough to see her “…look…too hap…o-oh, it really didn’t go well, did it?”



“Officially, this was our first real date, you know,” she said wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “… and it was the date from Hell.” She couldn’t finish without the tears overflowing her eyes and her voice getting all waver-y and hiccup-y.



Cisco knew where Spike kept his box of tissues; he grabbed them from the drawer as the door to Spike’s cell quietly went shut.


_______________________________________________________

Spike listened until he heard the steel bar slide into its keeper and the bolt latch securely before he turned his attention to the vermin that was squeaking loudly in the center of the cellar’s main and only dormitory room.


“She doesn’t look like much,” Rudy swanked, in louder than his usual annoying voice, deliberately trying to goad. “A little past her prime, I’d say, not as fresh as most. They say this one’s got, oh, how should I put it,” he paused for effect checking for reaction from the target of his taunts, “…bit of an unusual technique.” Wax, Jake, Sami and the others snickered quietly in the corner. The females of the gang shushed them wanting to settle down and get some sleep.



The Navoxnova bristled in its chrysalis poking out a feeler for more sensory input as if listening.



“They say she likes it cold, dead, and from the quality of our company,” he puffed up even more. “I’d say she must like it more Mic than Limey…”



Spike was on him before he could finish the word, slamming him to the floor. Rudy flinched when his skull hit the concrete.



“Don’t,” he knocked the younger vamps head on the floor again, with force, as if needing the extra emphasis to his snarled words.



“Insult,” the third bash cracked bone against concrete.



“The Lady, “ blood sprayed into the pores of the cement.



“Ever,” vertebrae dislocated popping audibly.



“Again.” He punctuated his last word with a thrust that bounced Rudy off the floor, sending him rolling for cover, clutching his throbbing head.



Spike sat in the corner back against the cold bricks. He pulled his knees up and crossed his arms over them as a pillow. The navoxnova gently lowered its feeler and stroked his shoulder; he did not protest.


________________________________________________________



London, 1878:



Anne looked at the exhibit box with some satisfaction. She and her son, William, had been working on it for the past few weeks. It was to be a present for her nephew on his tenth birthday. He had a penchant for collecting insects and this display box would be the perfect gift.



Carefully, she slid the glass panes into each of its ten compartments. It could sit open on his shelf proudly displaying five collections on each side and still fold neatly into a single case complete with a handle for carrying. Contented with their efforts, she folded it up into its compact form and engaged the latch.



She had made a felt and satin cover for the box, colorfully embroidered with various butterflies, beetles and bugs. It sat on the arm of her chair near the fireplace. As she rose to retrieve it, the coughing began. It was a bad spell this day; by the time she reached the chair, there was blood all through her kerchief and she could do nothing but try to catch her breath and slump into it.



She would have to remember to hide the kerchief in her sewing basket and replace it from the supply of fresh ones she kept there, before William arrived home. She did not like to distress her son with her ailments and bloody kerchiefs were always most distressing; making him want to send straight away for Doctor Gull. They both knew he could do nothing for her but make her comfortable and ease his concerns a bit.



After a time, she heard the key in the lock of the door downstairs. “William, is that you,” she said as loudly as she could. The coughing spells often taking her voice, it sounded to her as if she had croaked it, but he had heard. She heard his reply drift up the stairs ahead of him. Hurriedly, she slid the soiled kerchief into the sewing basket and tucked its successor into the pocket of her skirt.



“Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry for arriving home so late. I got carried away with the presses.” His words were interspersed with the sounds of his coming up the stairs.


“I hope your day was pleasant, Mother,” he said to her with a smile, as he entered the parlor.



“It was,” she replied, “...and yours?”



“Uneventful,” he said.



“Molly left supper warming on the stove for us before I dismissed her for the evening,” Anne said.



“I shall accompany you to dinner, then,” he said extending a bent arm to her with a chivalrous flourish and helping her rise from the chair.



“And you shall tell me all about those scoundrel presses trying to carry you away from me,” she said teasingly.



“I shall,” he laughed, “...I shall indeed.” William escorted his mother to the dining room and they had an enjoyable evening meal.



As was their custom, they retired back to the parlor for coffee. Anne busied herself with her stitching and William read the evening papers.



Rising from his chair, William deposited the newspaper on the table, noticing the exhibit box there, he commented, “I see you have been working on Georgie’s box. Is it finished yet?”



“Yes, except for the cover,” she said gathering it from its resting place on the arm of the chair and handing it to him. “Would you, please.”



He walked to her chair and took the cover. “I shall, he said, “...and I have that jar of specimens I told him I would collect for him, his ‘London Lepidoptera.’ I will fix them in this evening, so it will all be ready when Aunt Gwen arrives.”



“I hate that part so,” she said. “I think that it must hurt them to spend their eternity so harshly pinned to a display.”



“They are dead, Mother. Dead things don’t feel,” he said trying to comfort her. Sometimes he thought his mother to be yearning for her days in Bengal; the notion that bugs have feelings about how they spend eternity seeming so eastern to him, like sacred cows and such. I should take her back there before...she would love it so...sometimes, I miss it too...he thought, though he knew her health would not permit the trip.



“I will take care pinning them to our gift,” he said.



“I know you will.”



“Would you like for me to fix the fire before I attend to it,” he asked thoughtfully, “...there is a chill in the air.”



“No. No, I think I shall retire. I am weary,” she said tucking her stitching into the sewing basket and adeptly secreting the soiled kerchief into the bag she would take upstairs with her.



“Good night, then,” he said leaning in to kiss her cheek as he had done every night since he returned home to her. He helped her up from the chair. “Take care on the stairs,” he added.



“I shall and good night to you as well, don’t stay up to late ...skewering ...the specimens.”



“I won’t,” he promised. He straightened the parlor and collected the box and its cover before he went to the study; it was just enough time to hear her bedroom door shut. Knowing that she was safely up the stairs and in bed, he could breathe easier. He had missed eight years of their lives as son and mother while on the plantations with his father and had been trying to make up for it ever since he’d returned to England.



More and more each day, he could see the colour in her face turn as grey as the London skies and it troubled him. He knew that death was inevitable for us all, but he did not have to like it.



He took the box and the jar of specimens into the study and prepared to mount them. Arranging several of the moths on the backing, he pinned them on. He needed one particularly handsome specimen to be the focal point of the display. All of the large ones were less than adequate; they were rather plain and of common variety. It was a somewhat small one that ultimately caught his eye with luminous blue and green wings.



“You’re a pretty one, “he said aloud as he collected it from the pile on the desk.



William laid it out on the backing and carefully pinned one wing.



The shriek startled him so much that his rapid rise sent the chair skidding across the hardwood floor. He had never before heard anything like the sound it made, akin to a scream resonating from within the very core. It was not exceptionally loud, being proportionate with the size of the specimen, but it was profound and impassioned.



The cyan wings flapped frantically against the backing of the box. William hastily unpinned the tiny greenwing and it promptly flew in spirals upward, seemingly to look him in the face, fluttering and vocalizing. He had to swat at it. It kept flying in his face and around his ears all the way to the window.



Once he had flung open the window, the tiny scrapper promptly fluttered away leaving William in a fog. He stood dazed at the open window. Perhaps there was too much cyanide in the specimen jar, he thought, trying to rationalize what had occurred...Mother was right; it is too late for skewering.



Georgie’s gift could wait for another day, he was going to bed.



Oddly enough, he would smell camellia blossoms in his dreams this night.

Buffy was dreaming, no, actually she was just unconsciously replaying the conversation she had with Cisco earlier in its entirety for the third time since he had left the room and she had sniffled herself to sleep. His words seemed so simple, so easy, so why were they so damn hard to actually do?



She was up to the last things the priest said before he left … he’ll be fine, the Navoxnova likes him. I’ll go down later and make sure it isn’t trying to cocoon him again…likes to wrap him up…gets a bit sticky…when the knock on the door woke her. It was Duncan informing her that Father Sebastian had cleared a block of time in his schedule and would be able to see her in an hour. It was a summons if she had ever heard one and she needed a shower before she made her appearance.


___________



The noonday sun was shining brightly over the Slayer compound as Xander ran the squeegee down the glass one last time before pronouncing the job done. The glass in the massive second story bay window needed re-glazing anyway, might as well replace it now as wait for later after the panes had fallen out and it needed to be swept up off the terrace below. The new prismatic panes sparkled a bit more than regular glass and looking out over the grounds was like looking through those amber-colored shooters sunglasses but the window was now vamp-safe.



He was pleased with the glazing, but not so sure how he felt about the situation in general.



He missed Buffy, badly, and he knew that Willow and Giles did as well. Sure there were the visits; three or four, sometimes even five times a year, always business though with the promises of time spent just hanging out, watching a movie, having a night out on the town or even just talking the way they used to always left unfulfilled. There was never enough time and then there was the residual uneasiness of them disavowing her back during the last days in Sunnydale still hovering over them all these years later, he still couldn’t believe it had come to that, what were they thinking, sending her out into the night filled with Turok-hans and Bringers, whose sole purpose of existence was to kill Slayers, destroy the line starting with her and it was them: him, Willow, Giles, even Dawn, who threw her out of her our house into that night. Ah, but we Buffy- bashed first and bitched her out and blamed it all on her, he thought, before we tossed her out. With friends like us, who needs enemies?



There was only one… damn him…boy, that was redundant, Xand. It had to be him, the only one that stood by her, the only one that…believed in her. Grudgingly, he had to give him credit for that. He suddenly remembered the relief he felt when the peroxided pest went after her that night, knocking Faith on her ass and telling them all what splendid, caring, grateful friends they had been. It was the only time he had really hoped, even prayed, that he found her.



Remembering the conversation when Dawn first got back: “Just what is she going to do if she does find him,” he said, “…stake his sorry…”



“Xander!” Dawn and Willow both chorused back as they sorted and unpacked boxes.



“I can hope, can’t I? I mean, he could have called her, told her, vampires can use a telephone. I know this, point is he didn’t. She didn’t either but nobody seems to notice that.”



You know what it’s been like for her. She’s been handling Europe alone for all these years since…” Willow began.



“Hey! Standing here, right here.” Dawn protested “… not alone, I was there!”



“You know what I mean, you were a big help; you were her entire support system after we all came back here.” Willow felt a twinge of guilt. Her own reasons for coming back seemed selfish to her now, especially after Kennedy and she had begun to grow apart so shortly afterward. I should have went back to help her out. It’s not like they really needed me here. She was my best friend, is, she is my best friend, I hope…



“Hey, Buffy is a big Slayer now, she handled it,” he quipped.



“That is the point, Xander, she is a big girl now: none of us are kids anymore,” Willow said. “She is capable of making her own decisions without our help.”



“Guys, it’s been years, how do we even know there will be…
well, sparkage? I mean, how do we know ole Captain Peroxide hasn’t been varnishing every…” he stopped when he noticed the daggers being thrown at him from the sets of eyes pointed his way.



“What? Just saying maybe evil”…sharp, sharp daggers… “okay,” he conceded “… formally known as evil-dead-stalker guy finally got the message and moved on.”



“He loves her and even you know it, so quit pretending to be so opposed to the idea of a vamp in the house…again,” Willow added.



“I just don’t trust him not to hurt her…again.”



“I know, but sometimes you just have to trust even if it seems unreasonable. Xander, I don’t really think it is unreasonable. It feels …right… this time.” Willow busied herself with folding the unpacked clothes rather than try to explain what she had meant.



“His last relationship did last 118 years. You can’t exactly call that fickle,” Dawn added. “Besides, Buffy is finally able to admit it, she really is. I mean it. She has crossed the river Nile and landed on the other side. She loves him and she will find him.”



“Yeah but with Buffy’s track record with men…” Xander reconsidered finishing that thought as he looked at the two women staring at him, “...maps, I meant maps, she can’t read the…besides, I’d have to do more to get these rooms ready, those windows aren’t exactly…” as if on cue the breeze rattled the old glass panes.



“Well, maybe you should get some more of that vamp glass, the stuff they had you use on that night club, just in case, you know, she can make it from L.A. to San Francisco” Willow added.



He just sighed and shook his head…you’d think I’d have learned to pick my battles by now …the girls had won, again.



Turned out, it was actually cheaper than the regular grade, not that much demand and the old glass was about to fall out with the next good gust of wind anyway. The sight of the mini-van coming through the gate brought him back to the present; Faith was back. He gathered the rest of his tools and got ready to go greet her. He was really anxious to hear the news.


__________




Buffy felt acutely uneasy in Father Sebastian's study. The furnishings were comfy enough; it was the presence of the man himself that made her apprehensive.




"Can I offer you something to drink, Miss Summers," he asked, taking the stopper out of the carafe on the tray on his desk.




"No. Thank you. I'm fine," she said, trying not to fidget in the chair, "...and please, call me Buffy."




He replaced the stopper and sat down at his desk.



"First...Buffy," he said uncomfortable with the familiarity. "I would like to welcome you to the Mission. I hope your stay here will be pleasant," he paused then added,"...and uneventful in the 'Slayer’ sense."





"It has been, so far," she lied. "Brother Duncan said you had some 'business' to discuss with me. Does the Mission, or the Order, have need of a Slayer? I thought you guys were pretty much able to handle any demon-type issues on your own."




"We are not without...means…in that area, no, any routine matters of the "demon-type“, as you say, are generally resolved, promptly, within the Order and Spike and several others handle such matters in the community at large adequately. No, there are matters of a much broader scope we need to discuss."




"Broader scope," she asked.




"Shall we cover the personal issues first or the ones of a more general nature," he asked, settling back in his chair for a long conversation.



"Personal issues," she inquired, "I wasn't aware I had any...I mean, with you, anyway."



"Your sister, Dawn," he said, matter-of-factly.



"Dawn, what about Dawn," Buffy asked, beginning to get worried that this might be leading to something very bad.



"She is the Key."



Buffy was afraid of this. "Was." she said. "She was the Key. Past tense."



"Is," Father Sebastian corrected, "...she still is. When the Order made her human it did not change her essence; she will always be the Key, until the day she...dies…,” he said, “… and in all probability, even after that."




His words disturbed her. It had always been stuck somewhere in the back of Buffy’s mind, that Dawn would never be safe, never really be free of being the Key. She’d always thought...what if Glory wasn't the only one who knew Dawn was the Key. What if there were others...




"The order came into possession of the Key long ago," he began. "We were entrusted with the task of keeping it out of the hands of those who would attempt to use its power for the forces of darkness. There were, and still are, many that would use it for dark purposes, fortunately few have even an inkling of how to do so, that knowledge was lost millennia ago. Glorificus knew of one of the ways to use the Key, there are others."




Buffy had long feared this and now this priest was telling her it was so.




"Little was known," Father Sebastian continued, "...when we first gained custody of it, about the power of the Key and we still know little about its full range. It is hoped that now that the Key has sentient form it, or more appropriately, she, may be able to control the power independently, consciously."




"You want to use her for your own purposes," Buffy began. She was troubled with the direction this meeting was taking.



"I won't allow that."




"We don't wish to use her at all," he tried to reassure her, "...neither do we wish to see her used." His tone was soothing, "...wrongly used it would be disastrous for the universe, conceivably even to the point of annihilating it entirely."




"Then why even bring it up," she rushed to point out, "...why not just forget that she is the Key."



"But that it was that simple," he mused. "No, neither you, nor I, nor the Powers that Be, can change the fact that she is the Key; it is an absolute, a simple truth, irrefutable.




"Is she in danger," Buffy demanded.




"Not presently, not that we know of," he said, "but the potential is omnipresent. I have no doubt that it will need to be addressed in the future. The Order was wise in entrusting her to you."




"But," Buffy said more in response to what he wasn’t saying than to what he was, "...you want to take her away from me."



"No, to the contrary, I assure you. The key still needs to be protected from the forces of evil," he paused, "...and now that she has reached the age of maturity, the only way to safeguard the power of the Key is through Dawn. You can no longer protect her."



"I will always protect her," she said a warning tone in her voice.



"You will always try," he replied, "but you will not always be able to do so. In truth, you haven't been able to protect her for some time now."



Her look told him that he was not wrong.



"It is not your fault, such is the nature of life, but you already know this and that is not what we are discussing here."



Oddly, that was reassuring to her.




"To keep it safe she must be aware of it, she must understand it. She is, perhaps, the only one who can," he went on, "...and if it can be used in a positive way, it is Dawn who will have to discover how. If the power of the Key is ever to be actualized, it is through her, and her alone, otherwise it is corrupt and no good can ever come of power corrupted."



In her heart, Buffy knew this was true.



"What do you mean 'actualize' the power of the Key," she asked. "I thought if the barriers between dimensions broke down Chaos would follow."



"Yes," he said, "if they break down arbitrarily; they can be opened under controlled circumstances with little harm. They are unlocked and accessed all the time. I believe you have acquaintance with a practitioner of Wicca, a witch?"



Willow, Buffy thought; she nodded. "Yes."



"She can transverse dimensions: open a door, a window, step through it. She does so frequently, does she not?"



"I...guess she does," she had never really thought about it, but that was in effect what Willow did when she went to the astral plane, or even when she conjured something other worldly.


"Even you have,” he continued, “several times." She looked at him questioningly.



"You were brought back from a heavenly dimension," he elaborated, "...and I believe you once visited the shadow men, the original watchers and did you not?



Neither experience had been pleasant for her nor could she imagine why anyone would want to do it voluntarily, though rationally she could see the advantage in it.




"I won't let you or anyone else use her to open those doors against her will."




"We would not try," he said, "nor would we allow it, that is, in truth, the reason she came to you. No, this would only happen with her consent, she would have to be the one to use the power of the Key."



Buffy could sense the sincerity in his words. "I believe you," she said.



"That is good," he said, somewhat relieved that he would not have to use extraordinary methods to try to persuade her of an intent that was truly genuine.



For the first time during their conversation, Father Sebastian smiled and Buffy thought he might be both a charming and formidable ally.



"So, you want to teach her about the power of the Key, about her powers" she asked.



"No," he said, "...that is not our intention either, we cannot teach her anything about her power," he paused to arrange his next words carefully, "...she must come to her own enlightenment."



“Understand, there is little we know about the Key that would be of any use to her, we could teach her of her power only in a detached way, our knowledge of the Key is strictly in its ethereal form, not in its mortal one. We will, of course, make available any resources we have should she wish them. No, we merely wish to observe the path she takes more closely, at most to steer her away from the darkness and toward the light. Her natural inclinations have led her in directions that are for the most part, consistent with the forces of light, but she is human, she has all the human failings that could lead her astray and that would be dangerous for us all."



"So, what are you saying then," she asked confused by his words.



"Simply that we wish to observe her more closely than we have done in the past, in the event that intervention should become necessary when she does realize her power."



"Oh," she said.



"You have misgivings, I can see," he said, "...and I understand them, it is not something that must be done right away, but eventually she will need more knowledge; as I said, she may even seek it out. We want to ensure she seeks it in the right places. You may decide at your leisure but be aware that the time is coming. Soon," Sebastian added as he rose and went to the window.



"I will think about it," she said actually meaning that she would.




"Is there anything else, personal, I mean, before we get on with the Slayer stuff, "she asked.



"There is one more thing of a personal nature that we need to discuss."



Buffy could not possibly think of anything more personal they could talk about. She was wrong.



"Spike," he said, "...you plan on taking him with you when you go."

"I, I..." she stuttered not knowing how to answer. Well, yes, that's what I was planning, I mean, I spent the better part of this last month desperately trying to find him and now that I have, well...it just isn't going as well as I imagined it would...but then what was I imagining...she could feel her face flush...nothing realistic that's for sure...I mean what did I expect, that he'd just...and then he didn't...and why is that?...is it me?...Dumb ass, of course it's me...I mean why should he, after everything we...and I just show up and want...he is right, I don't know what it is I do want...

　

"You need him," Sebastian said startling her back from the place her thoughts had taken her. God, I hope he doesn't know what I was thinking.

　

"You will need him," Sebastian went on not knowing of her musings; he was looking somewhat absently out the window as he spoke. "He no longer has obligations to us; he is free to do as he chooses and go where he pleases. He will always be welcome here but it is time, perhaps, that he moves on."

"Moving on," she laughed grimly to herself, or so she thought, she had, in fact, said it aloud and Father Sebastian had heard.

"Sometimes moving on simply means coming around to the beginning again," he said vaguely, "...and while we are on the subject of moving on, we need to discuss some matters of a more general nature." Father Sebastian turned from the window and returned to his desk.

First, the First…” he began.

　

This was just getting better and better, she thought.

　
----------
　

Cisco caught him mid-way in the staff corridor.” She’s already gone.” Spike froze in his tracks, his face blank.

“No. Oh. No! ,” Cisco added quickly, realizing how that sounded to the vampires ears, “…not ‘gone’ gone just, uh, Sebastian…beckoned.”

“Thank God,” the vampire “… mouthed almost silently with a sign of relief, and then made a face at the irony. Cisco made one in return and replied with a shrug that had long been a symbol of unspoken understanding between the two of them.

“That’s … just as bad innit?”

There was no reply that could be made for that particular question. The vampire knows the … or at least, Cisco reconsidered, he knows exactly what Sebastian wants him to know about it, no more, no less. The thought had crossed his mind that the same perhaps was true in his case as well, but this was not the time to be ruminating about it.

Cisco glanced at this watch and made another face that was also mutually understood. “Gotta go, patrolling night, meet you there.” Cisco started off at a jog, turning to add, “…central district, off at seven.” Spike did not have time to respond, he didn’t have to; it was the scheduled night for a round of find the bad, pound the bad. He suddenly sussed it that he was just as late as Cisco and the monks of Dagon, while generally tolerant souls, were not saints and one was going to be very brassed off at him about now. He took off in Cisco’s wake.

_________
　

Dawn sat on her legs in the middle of the floor in Rose’s room combing tangled Barbie doll hair. The mid-day sun shining in detailed patterns through the pink lace curtains. She couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday morning, afternoon, whatever, than this. Rose was bright for her age and very imaginative and, while Dawn would never admit it, she missed this - having no cares, no worries. It sometimes seemed to her that her own childhood had been too short.

It was short, dumb ass; I’m really only, what now, eleven, twelve? She hated it, every now and then, knowing, and she knew more than anybody, especially after all those sessions in Rome with the Monsignor.

Dad had balked when she said she was going to have lessons with him. “We’re not Catholic,” he had said “I know,” she countered back. “We’re not really anything. But that’s not why I’m going; it’s for school, Religions of the World 102. I have to pass it or they will hold me back another year.” She lied, but he bought it. She just had to know and now she did and she was okay with it, usually. Nobody else would be, that’s why she never told them, not even Buffy. If Spike had been there, maybe she would have told him. Maybe. But it was her secret wasn’t it and she planned to keep it, forever - to herself.

　

Rose let out a squeal. She had that little furry thing… what did she call it, ZuZu?... must be her favorite, she always has it near. It was scurrying around her in erratic circles and she was trying to catch it.

Dawn smiled then she couldn’t hold back the giggles any longer. Rose squealed even more. Dawn reached out and almost caught it, but it stopped short and rose up on its hind legs; she was sure that it hissed at her and then it shot itself under the dresser.

She was startled, they didn’t make toys that real when she was…well, ever.

Rose frowned then pouted out a petulant “Bad ZuZu!” After a moment, she added, “I’m sorry Auntie Dawn. Zuzu doesn’t like you. He won’t tell me why. But I love you.” She pouted again and Dawn just had to smile at such a sweet little face.

“It’s okay. I’ll try to make friends with him then, next time we play.”

“I’d like for you to be friends!” Rose exclaimed. “Hair all done yet?” she asked spying the Barbie box.

“Nope, there’s still two more. Wanna help?” Dawn asked.

“Gimme, gimme!” Rose said and did that cute little grabby thing with both hands.

Dawn handed her a doll. She took it then frowned. Dawn made a ‘what?’ face.

“Need a comb.”

Dawn made an exaggerated “Oh” noise and started to rummage through the bottom of the box. Not finding one immediately she said, “You know, I used to cut all my Barbie’s hair off when I had them, they never needed a comb.”

“I do too! But I fix’em before Mama finds out.”

Not by the looks of these…very imaginative child, Dawn thought.

“Rose, Xander! Rose, where you are sweetie!” Willow’s voice echoed lightly through the doorway.

“In here Mama!” Rose yelled. “Auntie Dawn is here too!” she bounced up and grabbed Dawn’s hand. If she had been bigger and stronger, she would have fairly dragged her to the door, as it was Dawn was hard pressed to get up fast enough not to have the tiny hands slip off and send them both tumbling.

They reached the door way as Willow was putting the briefcase down. Rose detached from Dawn’s hand and fling herself at her mother who she was surprised to see caught her in her arms with ease.

“Hey Dawnie, Xander pawned her off on you, huh?” She kissed her daughter with an exaggerated ‘smooch’.

　

__________________________________________________________

“It’s not gone,” he glanced at her, “…but you know this already.” He eyed her, finding the confirmation he was looking for in her eyes. “It is...” He paused, “…vivid in your dreams.” She nodded confirmation.

“And it is, shall we say, very angry with you.”

“I’m the Slayer, sorta used to evil wanting to kick my ass.”

She cringed not intending for that to actually come out of her mouth quite like that.

“As I am, indeed, certain that you are,” he responded, his tone grave. “Our sources report that it has increased its activity level recently after…“he trailed off. “It is again trying to garner enough power from malevolence at large to manifest.”

Buffy could feel the twisting in the depths of her gut as he spoke, his words congealing in the motionless air of the study.

“It still,” he paused, searching, “… for lack of a better word … speaks… of the end of the Slayer line.”

“I won’t let it win, “she began, her expression steeling with determination.

“It has already won that battle,” he said. She snapped around to face him directly.

“You and she,” he began by way of explanation, “…the other…the darker slayer…Faith…” He scoffed conceptually at the incongruity of a chance-given name and a history that belied it “…you are the last.”

“Wha…” She was gob-smacked not even knowing what questions to ask.

“Let me not mislead you,” he began in earnest, rising from behind the desk, “…it is not the First, per se, that caused the end of the Slayer line.”

Buffy stared at him incredulously, not believing what she was hearing. He talks like we are all gone … already…like it was …there was that word again… destiny. Buffy knew what ultimately a Slayer’s destiny was all too well. If her mouth had dropped open, Sebastian did not let on when he meet and searched her eyes as he circled around her and moved toward the bookcase.

“No, that is merely destiny,” he continued and she cringed when she heard the word she had been thinking said out loud.

“Are you a religious person Miss Summers?” It was not a question for which he had a preconceived answer, for once.

“No…not particularly,” she answered hesitantly.

“I had thought as much,” there was no judgment in his tone. “But you are familiar with Judeo-Christian theology?” He cocked his head awaiting her response.

She pondered on that, wondering what exactly he meant, what he wanted her to say.

“The bible,” he clarified, his countenance still expecting a response.

As much as anyone… she supposed and shrugged at him.

“Book of Revelations. We are all numbered, each of us in kind,” he began and he thought…we are all marked as to our destiny. “The number of Slayers, do you know what that is Miss Summers?”

“I don’t think that’s in there,” she started.

He chuckled slightly, at least she knew that. “No. Actually, it isn’t, not in the standard versions.” He pulled an ancient tome from the shelf.

“Five thousand, Miss Summers. The number of Slayers is 5000 and you, what is your number?” He handed her the book: it was very old and bore a mark embossed on its cover, the symbol of the Slayer; she had memorized it from the wall of the training room, though she had never asked Giles what the true significance of it was. She had always known it was the ancient sign of the Slayer.

The book was marked with an attached embroidered satin ribbon to a page, she opened it; the last entry, the last entered in ink, for there were pages after it in pencil, read Buffy Anne Summers, California, USA: called 1999-deceased 1998, 2001, 2003 to present and in the margin, the number of the entry - 5000. She was the 5000th Slayer.

“But… I am not the last.” She began. “There are…”

Sebastian cut her off with a wave of his hand. “The witch’s spell produced not true Slayers. Why do you think their power fades or is inconsistent, while yours still grows? Faith’s still grows.” He stated it matter-of-factly, but there was some question in his eyes. He found his answer in hers.

“The power of the scythe, the power of the Guardians was spread upon all remaining with the potential, yes; but it was not from the same source. The source of the Slayer’s power was numbered from the beginning; that could not be altered. The power you refused from the Shadowmen when it was offered was the power of the daemon, the original source of the Slayers strength.

“It was a mistake,” she whispered,”… the wrong thing to do…I should have…

“No,” he said forcefully. “It was the only thing to do. Do not fault yourself or the Wicca, for that too, was predestined. To accept the essence of the daemon then would have been to forfeit,” he paused,”… humanity.”

Sebastian continued his thoughts silently; …that power was meant… not for you, but another Destiny.

“Wait, “she said, “…Kendra, Faith, if there were only supposed to be…”

“They exist though fate and,” he sighed, “… fate is fickle. They exist, or existed as the case may be, yes, but it is you who, by rite, claimed the title as the last daughter of Sinea, not they.

Her face crinkled and Sebastian had already become accustom to its interpretation in their brief acquaintance. He began his explanation.

“Your watcher, spoke the words, or at least their modern equivalent, ‘from ancient first to last’, sealing the prophecy, and you enjoined with the essence of the Sinea, the first of the line.”

I am the hand…God, that seemed so long ago… yet she heard the words in her mind as clear as day.

She understood, and the understanding opened up so many questions that demanded answers.

“He never told you? Of course, how could he have, he didn’t know and you did not acquire the book and it’s trappings until later.” Sebastian sighed heavily, “sit down Miss Summer’s; it seems our afternoon has just become a long one. Ask what you may, I will try to answer.”

There was much to explain, and after nearly nine hours in the study, Buffy’s brain had reached is saturation point and Sebastian’s had been tested to its limits of the virtues of patience with and tolerance of a less than classical modern education system. Both had reached a point of mutual satisfaction with the questions and with the explanations. When no more could be said, Buffy excused herself and the elder watched as she exited his study.

Who is like the beast that they may wage war with him…he thought as the door of the study closed behind her. Sebastian was pleased.

"I'm sorry," she said when he came into the room. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him.

"'bout what," he asked opening the wardrobe and removing some clothes and a towel.

“I dunno, last night … everything.”

“Everything, huh, that’s a big ball of shite to be carrying around like some bleedin’ bitty dung beetle, innit Slayer.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said more or less into the wardrobe there wasn’t the slightest hint of humor in his voice.

“Spike, what’s…”

“Just waiting for you to finish the thought, Pet,” His reply was aimed up the side of the wardrobe door ending with a cut-off glance at the portraits above.

“What , the apology? I meant it. I am sor…”

He scoffed and turned to face her. “Every time you say you’re sorry it’s followed by ‘but Spike’, no, no… ‘but William, I can’t keep doing this- its killing me’,” he mimicked her voice, “… and you storm off leaving me picking’ up and untangling my own innards from where they fell out at. Not doing it again, Slayer. Not. So don’t even say it.”

“I’m…” she didn’t say it, couldn’t say it again. She shook and hung her head. So this is what it feels like, getting staked through the heart. Damn stupid Vampire has a point, no getting around that. All she could do was nod understanding at her own part in the making of this mess.

“Isn’t this were you growl at me to ‘get out’,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Yeah. Usually.” His wasn’t much better than hers.

“So?”

“Don’t want you to go.” Their eyes met in that way that Buffy’s had only ever done with his, and his alone; over a distance, yet right there with him.

“Look, I need a shower.” It was Spike who broke away from the fast becoming languid gaze first.” It’s Saturday, it's a patrol night. I ‘m starting to smell like a froloftz; can’t have the baddies’ tipped off ‘fore we get to them.

“You want company,” she said, “with the … patrolling?” Helping him with the shower part sounded better to her, but since they were sorta still fighting with each other, she decided against mentioning it.

“Guess so,” he said grabbing the mesh bag of toiletries and starting for the door.

Buffy wasn’t sure if she nodded or not. She just stared as she watched him go out the door.

__________

They walked in silence, side by side, for quite some time before either of them said anything.

"Quiet night," Buffy eventually commented.

He looked all around, and she was sure he was going to completely ignore her before he finally said, "Yeah, it is."

"Is it always this quiet," she asked desperate to end the uncommunicativeness that had developed between, "...cause, if it is..."

"No."

She wondered if this was going to go on all night with the short, brusque replies.

Spike looked all around again before he spoke and Buffy was starting to think he was getting paranoid about something. She looked around, as well, to see if she could sense anything, but she could not, just a few stale demon smells, the creatures of the night had been out alright but apparently they decided to turn in early.

"No," he said again. "That’s Cisco. He’s about four, or so, blocks ahead of us and a block over. He's sort of clearing the way. Not on purpose, he just has a considerable reputation among the local beasties. No, there's something else, don't know what."

"I can't feel anything," she said then realized her words were a little ambiguous given their current personal situation. "Wrong," she added hurriedly, "here, I mean."

"You wouldn't, its subtle-like, no offence, Pet, but you wouldn't notice it if you didn't know the area, know the feel of it."

"Have you felt it before or just tonight," she asked.

"Before."

"For how long?”

"Tonight? Just the past few..." From the look she was giving him, he reasoned that was not what she meant, "...uh, over the past few years, now and then."

"Just here," she probed, "...or elsewhere?"

"Here and...other places," he said.

Buffy glared at him for not elucidating further.

"Here lately, Los Angeles when I was there," he shook his head. “Sunnydale...maybe," he said quickly, "...really can't tell."

"Sunnydale? Is it the First," she asked. Father Sebastian's conversation earlier only enhanced her concerns that that chapter may not be closed. "I mean, we didn't kill it, couldn't be killed, but I don't think it could have regrouped that much this soon, could it?"

"Said it 'wasn't time for me yet'...don't really know what it uses for a timepiece, Love, could of been gettin’ off too easy, could still be trying to pull my strings. I dunno. That wasn't the only thing swimmin' round in my head then. No, it feels different, not so much in my noggin, but...outside it," he said. "Sometimes, back then," he started then hesitated, "...it felt like I was being followed, being watched, thought it might have been Wood."

"Coulda been," Buffy said. Los Angeles, Sunnydale...could still be.

"No wasn't, well, most of the time anyway, it wasn't him...no, this doesn't feel...human. It's something else."

"Is it after us or..." she asked figuring that was probably a rhetorical question.

"Dunno, can't tell. Wager we'll find out when it wants us too. Buffy," he said actually looking at her instead of through her for the first time since this morning, "...don't get all paranoid cause I'm having' a wiggins. It's nothing, really, whatever it was, it's gone now. Don’t fret it. Pet"

No matter what it was, Spike seemed to have shaken it off and now that he was talking to her again Buffy wasn't going to press the issue, she changed the subject.

"What is with Cisco anyway," she found it hard to call him that, "...I mean, priests usually aren't demon hunters, unless they're like the exorcist or something, his head doesn't spin the whole way around does it? Cause Exorcist 360, always creepy," she shuddered.

"No," Spike had to laugh. "I don't think so, doesn’t go the whole 'round, anyway. Don't be fooled by his day job, he wasn't always a priest, used to be a pro if I understand right."

"Professional? Demon hunter?"

"Among other things."

"Thought I was...er, Slayers were," she corrected herself, "... the only 'professional' demon hunters, I mean, most of the other ones are only out for vengeance, right?

He shrugged. "Tangled with a few that weren't," he said, "...but most of them were, one way or another, tied up with the Council."

The streetlight was out in the alley they had turned into leaving only the moonlight filtering in from between the buildings in sporadic rays. Buffy was startled when Cisco crept up on them without her hearing, jumping when he touched her shoulder.

"Anything," he asked stepping back into one of the shafts of moonlight as Buffy spun around to confront the figure clad in black leather behind her.

The leather was well worn, but not shabby, and it fit him close revealing an amazingly athletic build. She had seen him in his day guise, black cassock to the floor and white collar; now in form fitting leather he looked to be a different person. He was stealthy, almost cat-like; he looked like he belonged stalking demons; he looked dangerous.

“No mate, nothing.” Spike said from his position in the darkness. Buffy noted he didn’t mention the ‘wiggins’ thing at all; she would have to ask why later.

“How did you… She asked she could see Spike smirking just on the edge of the moon light; at least that was better than sulking,” …do that. I am losing my touch. You knew he was back there didn’t you?” She directed the last question to Spike.

He gave a little half shrug half waggle and looked at the walls around them.

“I think Spike could smell me, my blood; vampire senses and all,” Cisco added,”…and I’ve got lots of practice being … stealthy, “he said cryptically.

“Vampire smelliness, still eew, and I didn’t know that stealthy went along with priest-y.” Buffy replied.

“Doesn’t; goes along with being Order of Ta...”

The screams cut him short and all three took off in their direction.

_______________

Rudy, Wax and the rest of the cellar dweller crowd, nine in all, were there; apparently honing in on two bunches of kids, teen agers or a little older, mixed genders, either making out or fighting or a little of both from the looks of ‘em. Bits of rusted rebar broken from the crumbling building walls, and old chain were no match for fangs. Rudy had the leader of one gang, the strongest looking male, anyway, by the hair, spiked purple Mohawk, with fangs sunk deep.

“Just hate to interrupt dinner,” Buffy said with her best Slayer voice. Tossing and catching her stake a few times in her hand, as they skidded to a stop in the blind’s entranceway.

“Well, well, well,” Rudy said letting lavender locks slump to the ground, dazed but not drained. “Looks like it gonna be a real good night.” His eyes blazing golden fixed on Buffy. “Looks like I’m gonna get me a Slayer.” He lunged.

“Over-dramatic poofter!” Spike said as the stake pulled out of Rudy’s back and he dissolved to dust a yard before his target. The fracas was on; the fang gang dropping their snacks, who promptly scurried, dragging their wounded along with them, and moved on the three of them in full game face.

Rudy would not be missed, his hold over the others, especially Wax and Jake was tenuous at best; but who ever won in this would become the new leader of the rag tag band of vamps, so the battle was on.

Spike shifted to game face as well.

Wax swung hard at him with the rebar, catching him in mid-forearm.

Spike heard the bone snap, it was weakened along the cut-line where Miss Psycho Slayerette had hacked the arm off years ago and though it had healed, then and since, it was never as strong as it should be. It now hung at an odd angle, splintered ends of ulna and radius, both, protruding from the riven and ragged-edged skin.

He winced, the pain wasn’t a concern, yet; it wouldn’t hit for a few minutes at least, and then only after the adrenaline of the battle subsided, but the arm would be useless for the rest of the fight. With a spinning kick, Spike detached the rebar from Wax’s hand and it went clattering into a pile of rubbish cans in the corner of the dead-end alleyway.

The kick to his mid-section sent Wax reeling back against the bricks of the building and Spike seized the opportunity to grab him by the neck with his one good hand, fingers penetrating sinew as he lifted him up off his feet and pinned him there.

Had Wax been a more seasoned fighter, or just a bit more intelligent, Spike might have been in trouble with the injured arm, but since he had just proven that he was the stupid git that Spike had always thought he was; Spike took a deserved moment to let him stew there suspended and turned his gaze to check on the others.

Buffy, he was certain, was holding her own; Rudy had been the only one of the batch that would have given her any trouble in his own right and he was dust. Cisco, on the other hand, while a highly skilled and adept fighter, was mortal with no super strength and no special healing abilities, and as such, was always vulnerable in a tussle. Spike caught him from the corner of his eye and was glad to see he had taken on the girls of the gang; they were all younger and therefore weaker than the remaining males, as long as they didn’t tire him out, with his human stamina, he’d be alright. Buffy was going at Jake and Sami simultaneously, using a busted-off push broom handle as a short staff.

Twirl, whirl, parry and thrust: the choreographed dance of The Slayer.

God, love to watch her do this, he thought as he held Wax by the neck at arm’s length, though the thought of her getting hurt terrified him to the core…still, a bloody thing a grace it is, Slayer, in full form.

She wasn’t in trouble, he knew it; these were young ones and not too smart at that and she was dustin’ ‘em with good dispatch if this was all that was left of them. He had always tried not to interfere when she fought, didn’t want to screw her up, make her slip, that’d be dangerous. Like he used to, he kept an eye and let her have at it; but God, he loved to watch.

He was lost in her dance: the composition of it, the economy of energy, the poetry of motion.

When he heard it he almost didn’t know what it was, just that it was coming fast and straight at her.

Nuff playing with this fuckin’ fledge, he closed the fingers around Wax’s neck til they met and let him drop; only dust hit the ground as he turned and dived.

It whirred past his ear as he reached her, catching him in the back of his shoulder as he tackled her down. The second one followed hard on the heels of the first, grazing Buffy’s arm as she fell, ripped from the battle with Jake by Spike’s lunge. The quail that sliced her arm hit home in the vamp, showering both her and Spike with dust as they hit the pavement.

Cisco had heard them too; they were a sound he was familiar with, crossbow, compression powered: deadly and accurate. He dusted Lace as he watched his friend and the Slayer’s impromptu duck and cover from the crossbow assault and the shower of vamp dust that followed. Sasha turned and went running, at least she’s smart enough to save it for another day, he thought. He took a much needed deep breath of air and moved on Sami, who was about to pounce on the Spike and Buffy pile before they could recover from the tumble of avoiding the crossbow quails. One good stab was all it took; his aim was true getting the heart from the back.

“Spike! Your arm!” Buffy shouted, rotating it just enough to see the extent of the damage which was also just enough to send the latent pain of it shooting up Spike’s arm.

“Good God Woman!” he grimaced, shaking off her hold on the injured arm and really looking at it for the first time, it was dangling there by virtue of skin. It was the timing of the rapidly receding adrenaline rush in his system more than the sight of the arm that sent the first wave of nausea through him.

“Your shoulder!” She grabbed at the metal shank protruding at a sharp angle from his back and tried yanking it out, but it snagged on shattered bone and would not give.

“Bloody Hell!” he shouted stifling the wave of pain and its accompanying queasiness. “Not enough somebody’s trying to kill us, you gotta try n’ finish the job!

“Sorry,” she fawned over him. “I want it out of you,” she frowned apologetically.

“I do too, Love,” he stammered, ”…but it ain’t coming out that way.”

“It’s probably barbed like this one,” Cisco interjected, he picked up the quail that had dusted Jake and showed it in example, “…just break it off. We’ll dig it out at the Mission. We need to get out of here.”

“Can’t,” Buffy said, “…Slayer’s strong, metal’s stronger.”

Her words baffled him. He looked at the quail in his hand, it was definitely made of wood; ash it looked like, or else it couldn’t have dusted Jake. Closer inspection revealed tiny grooves leading to vestibules buried in the shaft; this quail was doped. Poison.

He dropped to his knees behind Spike to check the one protruding from his shoulder blade. It had pierced the bone and was definitely stuck there and it also had the tiny grooves in its shaft, the difference between the two being this one was blued steel; pulling it out would tear up the shoulder pretty badly, in addition to requiring more strength than either he or the Slayer had. Still, it had to come out and soon before whatever was in the vestibules had a chance to work its way into Spike’s system. He sighed heavily and rocked back on his heels, looking for his field satchel. “We’ll push it through then,” he said spying the satchel a few yards away.

Buffy tried her best not to hurt Spike again as she attempted to comfort him, there wasn’t much she could do except hold his hand, the good one, to her surprise he was holding hers back.

“Your arm’s bleedin’ too, Love, “he nodded toward the already clotted trickle that streaked her arm, “…looks deep.”

She glanced at it, wishing that she hadn’t because the minute she saw it, it began to sting like a mother. “Flesh wound just grazed me.”