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As he watched the limousine take her away there were two forces that buoyed him up. Two things that kept him from crumbling, just like the concrete, in a sobbing heap in front of Illyria and anyone else who cared to gawk.

One was love. The other was hate. He loved the way she felt in his arms. Loved the way her eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled. And, the way her voice took to lilting, the way only hers could, when she talked about every little girl's fantasy, and secretly every boy's too, about a white dress and veil.

She'd described it in such detail that he could see it in his mind's eye. Nothing, not even the delicate lace of her gown was left unknown to him. And he was surprised, when the full picture came into focus, how closely it matched his own vision of her. A vision that was not the fractured light that shone through Willow's misguided spell. No, what she had described to him, for her, and by extension him, was a true vision of love.

And, somehow she would have it. That was his promise to her.

He loved how she mutilated the English language to the point that what came out of her mouth wasn't English at all, but instead was a language all her own. He loved that, even after years of being around her, and a year of being apart, he was only now beginning to decipher the subtleties and meaning of Buffy Summers.

They just don't make them like that anymore. And they shouldn't. She's one of a kind.

But the hate is what kept him standing. It kept him up, when all he wanted to do was fall. The idea that Angelus had anything to do with this, or that his actions might upset one hair on her head, made him positively shake with rage. The rage kept him warm. It had to, because the second Buffy left, he felt something leave his body. He wasn't sure what it was, but the space it left in him was a cold and hollow void in the center of his being and it was rapidly spreading, rendering his limbs numb and useless. The rage kept him up. It made him feel. It kept him warm when he was not, and he was thankful for it.

Illyria noticed the set in his jaw and the stiffness of the vampire's limbs as he slowly crawled up from the pavement. She had offered assistance but he disregarded her presence as though she had been a nuisance to him. He'd pushed her away as if she were nothing more than wind in his ear.

"Where are you going?" she asked, as he slowly walked away from her.

"To find Angelus."

The cadence of the vampire's voice, and the venom it carried with it, made Illyria fear for what he would do, should he find his quarry, so she followed.

"You cannot fight him," she said as she kept pace with him.

He stared ahead, "Can't I?"

"In your weakened state, he is sure to kill you."

He shook his head, still refusing to look at her, "I'm dead already. The body just forgot for a while. Maybe he'll finish the job," he sneered, "Or maybe, I'll kill him first. Flip a coin, Highness. Doesn't mean much to me, either way."

"But it means something to me, Spike."

The Texas twang forced him to turn, "Stop it!" he hissed, "You're not her so don't try and pull the heartstrings now," he spread his palm over his chest, "I hear tell this heart doesn't beat, anyway," his face was hard as a marble statue, "Never quite believed it, until now," he whispered.


"The heart in this cavity has also ceased its proper function," Illyria said, shifting back to her natural state, "Yet somehow when Wesley ceased to be, I felt a rage I could not contain. I felt a need to do violence that I could not explain. I understand some of what you feel at this moment. Yet, you cannot be the warrior your mate requires, if you are not. Fighting Angelus now, when your weakness is so pronounced as to be inescapable, is not only ill-advised but it is foolhardy."

Spike tilted his head in contemplation of her, and blinked, "Mate?"

Illyria combed over the words she had chosen. The syntax of the human language was clumsy and awkward, perhaps the words she had chosen did not convey the meaning she intended, "She is your companion, is she not, that is how she functions for you?"

"Yeah, just hadn't heard it put quite like that, before," he shook the cobwebs from his head, "Very well. What do you suggest?"

She slowly turned Spike back to his apartment, "No warrior goes into battle without rest, counsel and stratagem."
*************

Buffy woke to a headache, stale air, heat, darkness and the taste of blood in her mouth. She moaned a little as her head swam in the syrup that hung thick in the air. The smell was so viscous that the weight of pushing air through her lungs caused pain.

Buffy cursed herself for forgetting everything Spike had tried to tell her in the first thirty seconds of the fight. It was stupid of her to think that Drusilla would fight fair. Drusilla wasn't Spike, who despite the occasional homicidal urge or two always engaged her on an even playing field.

No, this was Drusilla she was dealing with. With her, all bets were off.

She called out into the black, "Drusilla, I know you're here," she squinted at the hazy shadows that crossed her vision, "And I know you can see me. Got to say, this isn't your best move. Spike will be coming for me, soon. When he finds out you've hurt me," she smirked, "Things are gonna go bad for you, pretty fast. Let me go, and maybe he won't dust your ass."

"I know that. Miss Edith knows too. But sometimes a mother has to make sacrifices to bring her family together again. Miss Edith misses her William and I miss mine. If he wants you, all he has to do is give me what I want."

Drusilla stepped forward until she was face to face with Buffy. Buffy could see that Drusilla was holding something in her hand; the movement of it was creating little shimmers in the dark. "All he has to do is give Miss Edith a present. Then I can go be with her, and we'll all be a family again."

Something about her tone cut through the pain in Buffy's head. She tried to move but felt the heaviness of metal at her wrists. This was not good. How would Spike handle this? "Dru," she said, "this isn't very ladylike of you. What would Miss Edith say if she knew you'd treated a guest like this?"

"I know. But, it was the only way to keep you here until the guests of honor arrived," she produced a blade from somewhere out of the blackness. Buffy hissed as she felt the cold steel tip press against the skin of her throat and felt the wetness of her blood as it oozed over the blade, "Until then, I want to have some fun."
*****************************

Angel went over that night again in his head. Holland had stood there, in the driving rain, and smiled at him. Everything he'd ever cared about was gone, or nearly so, and all he could do was stand there looking smug telling him that he was still the Powers' puppet. How could that be so? He'd done well. Taking over the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart had been a good move. So why was Holland still so smug.

Angel thought back to the conversation they'd had in that alley behind the Hotel:

"No need to threaten me," Holland said, "I'm already dead. I can't get much deader." Holland looked thoughtfully at Illyria as she carried the charred remains of Spike and sighed, "It really is too bad that you threw in the towel so soon, Angel. The Powers are still hoping that this turns out for you, really. The straightforward approach, you know, visions and such, didn't seem to be getting the message through to that incredibly dense skull of yours. They felt that a more non-traditional approach might be of some help. So they reached into their bag of tricks and pulled out a golden oldie," he smiled, "This one hasn't been used for millennia. But, I guess, when trying to get through to someone like you, one must be able to think outside the box."

"Does your yammering have a point? I've got things to do."

"You always were a pleasant fellow, Angel. Getting to my point, the Home Office was given carte blanche in its dealing with you, and your cohorts. The Powers wanted to see how you would respond. Think of it like a rat in a maze. The Powers wanted to see how you would react to their little psychodrama. I must say, the Home Office is impressed with your marks thus far, but the play isn't over yet. It still has a third act. Your colorful friend, there," Holland nodded his head in the direction of the church, "is the lynchpin. I suggest you do whatever you have to do to keep him alive, so to speak. He has a significant part in your redemption, Angel. In fact, he is the key to you getting everything you want."

"You expect me to believe that the Powers knew about what the Home Office was doing, and they did nothing to stop it?"

Holland rolled his eyes, "Oh, you really are one-dimensional aren't you? Angel, just as the office in Los Angeles is, or rather was thanks to you, a branch of Wolfram and Hart, the Home Office functions as a subsidiary, or branch, of the Powers. So, yes, they knew. And now, the cost of a building and several valued employees has to be added to my monthly expense report," he sighed, "I despise paperwork. I'd better get the nose to the grindstone. Take care, Angel," Holland said as he disappeared into the mists, "I'll be in touch."
*************************

"Thanks for coming, Bit, you too Red. It's nice to know that cooler heads sometimes do prevail. If it hadn't been for Blue, I don't think I would have been able to reach out and ask for your help with this. I'm not thinking clearly, and I need your help. That crypt keeper in the business suit took Buffy someplace that I wish she wasn't, and told me to wait for sundown tomorrow before I go after her. There are so many things that could happen to her between now and sundown tomorrow. Dru could have already," he shivered at the thought, "The things she learned from her Daddy..." He closed his eyes. For an instant he thought he was back in that nightmare. He could smell her blood, just as strongly as if Buffy were standing right in front of him. She was bleeding.

He opened his eyes to find Dawn staring at him with concern in her eyes, and no blood anywhere in sight, "Dru, she could..."

"No, Spike, don't think like that. There must be some reason Drusilla wants Buffy," Dawn said, "Can you remember how she used to think? I mean, you were with her for a hundred or so years, right? There must be some kind of sense in all her craziness."

"Her kind of madness seldom makes sense, Little Bit."

"But you did," Willow said, "In a weird loopy-loop kind of way. You made sense, when you were crazy. Maybe we just have to find a good translator."

"But Dru is no mastermind of evil. She doesn't think for herself. She can't. Angelus took that away from her. We have to know who's behind her, pulling the strings," Spike nodded grimly, "I was right the first time, Blue. We have to find Angelus. And, when I do, I'll take his head off."
**************************************************

Before Angel could comprehend what was happening, he found himself suspended in mid air, pinned to the back wall of his hotel room, held in place only by the force of Spike's grip.

"Thought I was weak as a kitten didn't you?" Spike hissed, his eyes shining with rage, "Thought you could take her and do the kinds of things to her that you used to do to me and Dru? I might take your head for even thinking it. But I'll let you tell me all about the master plan. Then, I'll take your head off. And, if I find out that she's even chipped a perfectly manicured nail, I'll take your head off again, just because I can."

"Not...my...plan," Angel wheezed, trying to pry Spike's fingers from his throat.

Spike's grip tightened, "Not yours? Whose is it then?"

"The Powers."

Spike let go of Angel and he slid down the wall in a heap, "Start talking, Angel. Now."





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