The earth and the fullness
with which it is stored,
The world and its dwellers
belong to the Lord;
For He on the seas its
foundations has laid,
And firm on the waters its
pillars has stayed.
Psalms 24
Spike was leaving his crypt for the night, pulling on his coat and partway out of the door, when she appeared.
“Oh, what are you doing here?” he asked.
She pushed past him. She walked to the center of the room where a shaft of moonlight slipped through the windows. She faced him, but said nothing.
“Right. Well. I was just leaving,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay.”
He moved through the door. She remained, sheathed in the shifting light that fell around her.
“Hey, Somnambu-lady,” he shouted. “I said I was leaving.”
“Don’t,” she said, quietly.
Spike leaned on the door. He smirked.
“I can smell you, Slayer,” he said. He inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes, savoring her scent. “Your blood is just simmering.”
Buffy was disgusted, but still she stayed.
Spike walked back to her. As he passed, he reached for her hand to lead her. She pulled away. Which hurt him. He was slow to learn. He held his hands up instead. “After you,” he said.
Buffy climbed down into dark tomb. Spike followed. He lighted a single candle, knowing that she preferred that one small light in the dark.
Buffy undressed, slowly, methodically, while he watched. She would not let him touch her. He knew that. Not unless ripping was involved. Not unless she first undressed him. Those were her rules. It was her game.
She lay back naked on the bed, his bed. And as he removed his clothes, she averted her eyes. She heard only the sound of her own breath – calm, level, measured breaths.
As Spike slid over her, cold hands on her hips, she brought her body to meet his.
But he froze. He studied her face.
“Well, Slayer,” he said, half leering, half-disbelieving. “This is unexpected.”
Buffy stared up at him, defiant. “What do you even mean?” she said.
Spike dipped his head to her navel.
“You must know,” he said. With only his eyes, he looked up at her face. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Menstrual blood.”
Buffy tightened beneath him. He pinned her.
“I want it,” he said, voice rough with need.
“No,” she said. She struggled, but he held her fast.
“Let me, Buffy,” he said. “Let me have it. It’s blood.”
“No. Let me go,” she said again. She dug her nails into his shoulders, pushing him.
Spike bent to her belly again, caressing the skin with his cheek.
“Let me have it,” he begged. “It’s blood I can have...”
Buffy’s face twisted in revulsion. She gripped fistfuls of his hair. “Get off me, Spike,” she said, trembling. “As usual, this was a mistake.”
“Yet you’re here,” Spike said, taking her small wrists in his hands. The weight of his body pressed her down. “You meant for me to have it.”
She bucked against him. “Skip the Freud. Just...” Buffy swallowed hard. She relaxed her hold on him. She smoothed her hands over his ears to the back of his neck. She shifted beneath him, trying to capture him within the cage of her legs.
“No no no,” he said, “I want blood. Your blood, Slayer. The fullness of the earth. Let me have it.”
She was pushing him away, turning his face aside even as he fought against her. With her open palms she shoved at him, slapping him, forcing him away. But then, fists finding hair again, she guided him down. Her knees buckled as she drew him in.
The cold blade of his tongue met her flesh. He tasted her blood. Drank her in. Buffy fell back, broken by the sacrifice. She fought against the climax when it came, held against it in the same way she resisted him. It was the lowest surrender, yet it swelled in her, a blinding, tearing pain that consumed her as he consumed her. The spreading, nullifying fire that devoured her, destroying everything.
It overtook her, drowned her. Not pain, but so near it stopped the beating of her heart. Her breath seized in her chest. For a moment, she was dead again.
“Stop,” she sobbed when at last she could draw breath. “Stop, Spike. Please.”
But he didn’t. He would not.
She took his shoulders roughly and flipped him onto the bed. In a movement so swift he barely saw it, she was astride him, molding her body to his in a kind of ravening desperation.
Now she had him where he belonged again. The defeat in his eyes shamed her.
“You’ve ruined me,” he whispered raggedly. “You must know it. You have ruined me.”
“Shh,” she soothed him. She caressed his face with the backs of her fingers. “It’s a dream. It’s not real,” she said.
“Oh, thank god,” he said. Spike gazed up at her, visibly relieved. Not Spike. William. “For a minute there I thought...”
“It’s so easy, confusing the two,” she said.
“But you gave him your blood. Didn’t you?” he said. But it wasn’t William who spoke. It was Angel.
“What?” Buffy said.
Something... went wrong. She was alone in a dark place where slimy things groped at her. Crawling in a filthy cave, naked and exposed. The voice fell on her, each word heavy as a river stone. Bitter, disappointed, disapproving. Angel’s voice. She was afraid and so ashamed.
You gave him your blood.
~*~
Buffy awoke, unable to breathe. Heart pounding. The dream was still all over her. She thought she might be sick.
She clawed her way from sweaty bedclothes. Stumbling, she raced to the bathroom. She drew a glass of water, then sat on the bathtub’s edge, rolling the cool glass surface back and forth over her forehead. She lingered, eyes closed, willing her pulse to slow.
The line between memory and dream blurred. She had done things with Spike, deplorable things. But had they…? Had she? Tears welled behind her eyelids. She let them fall - big, slow, useless tears. But they seemed to help relieve the tension within. She brought her breathing under control. She shook off the shakiness. Soon she felt physically fine. Slayer healing seemed to cover even dream trauma.
Only Angel’s words still haunted her, sickened her with dread.
You gave him your blood…
Buffy splashed her face with cool water. She cracked the bathroom door enough to look out at the bed. Still asleep. Good. She held on to the door, watching him. The first part had been remembrance, she knew. Not dreams. She tiptoed from the room with the absurd feeling that everyone would know, just as Angel had known and was displeased.
To her relief, downstairs was sedate. The entry hall smelled of frying eggs and cinnamon. Dawn and Xander were immersed in books at the dining room table. Dawn had her smoothie on hand; Xander his coffee mug. Giles was in the kitchen, brewing tea. He waved to Buffy as she passed.
No bleak chasms. No dirty little secrets. Just friends, with books.
“So,” she said. “What’s with the Research World Cup down here?”
“Hey Buffster. Grab a seat. Have a read,” Xander said. He barely glanced from his page.
Dawn looked up. “Morning, Buffy. You sleep okay?”
Buffy sat down, affecting a look of nonchalance. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. I’m just initiating small talk. It’s a thing,” Dawn said. She sipped her smoothie.
Buffy pulled a dusty volume forth from the stacks.
Xander said, “Dawn’s got roses. I have demon curses. It’s hardly fair, but...”
“Demon curses? Has someone been demon cursed? Is that added to the list?” Buffy asked.
“His is a sidebar project. He should be looking up all references to that Thellian guy,” Dawn said. Xander, ignoring her advice as he had all morning, continued to read.
Buffy flipped idly through the book. The yellowed pages, crisped by centuries of dry rot, contained sentences aplenty in languages she couldn’t read. “Thellian,” she repeated to herself. “What kind of stupid name is...?”
Xander closed his book, marking his place with his finger. “What’s up?” he asked.
“You mean other than the public humiliation and general overwhelmed-ness?” she asked. “Oh, nothing.”
“So it’s true, what Giles said about Triumvirate?”
“Monster mashed us. If Lorne hadn’t turned up, I’d be sporting a new line of piercings right now,” she said.
“I don’t get that,” Dawn said.
“They were planning on torture,” Buffy explained.
“No. Not that. What was Lorne doing there in the first place? He’s supposed to be in hiding,” Dawn said.
“And why didn’t Angel swoop in a la Errol Flynn? One would think, him being the hero type, that he would hop in and bail out. Score some Robin Hood points with the leading babe,” Xander said.
“Well, I...” Buffy floundered. She closed the book with a thunk. A puff of dust drifted into the air. “You know what? I don’t know. I mean, I used to know. I used to be pretty good at this. I keep fumbling around like this, someone’s gonna get dead and...”
“Buffy, stop,” Xander said. “If you haven’t noticed, we aren’t in Sunnydale anymore. This is London. It’s a big, established city with things older than Angel, or Spike, or even Giles...”
From the kitchen, Giles called, “I heard that.”
“But London’s not on a Hellmouth,” Buffy protested. “Low on the demonic barometer.”
“True, but...” Xander said. He leaned in. “I think of it like this: In Sunnydale, we were world champions at air hockey. Best of the best. Unbeatable. Because it was small town Sunnydale. Hellmouth bred chaos, which was in our favor.
“But here, we’ve stepped up to the big leagues, only it’s not air hockey any more. It’s ice hockey. Way more dangerous. Way more organized. I mean, we’re talking highly entrenched teams of toothly evil,” Xander said. “So we just need to regroup and adapt. Get organized. Keep an eye out for details, which we’re doing...” he gestured around the table at the books. “Meanwhile, we’ll Frodo through like always.”
Buffy gave a quick nod. “You’re right. From now on, I’m Organization Girl. I’m Details Girl. I’m... Willow!”
This left Xander scratching his head until he saw Willow in the entry hall.
Buffy grabbed Willow in a rough embrace.
“You’re home,” Buffy said. She buried her face in Willow’s hair.
“Emotions much?” Willow laughed. “I was only gone a week. Are you feeling okay? Where’s William?”
Buffy stepped back. “What? Are we joined at the hip? Whither thou goest...”
Xander, again, was scratching his head. “I feel a case of better-stay-out-of-it-ness coming on,” he said.
“Again, I ask,” Willow said. “You look... have you been sleeping okay?”
Buffy felt her shoulders drop. She scrubbed her hands over her face. “There have been nightmares.”
Willow looked alarmed. “Were they prophetic? Did someone try to kill you? Were spiders involved?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so,” Buffy said. She moved away. She felt all skittish again. “They were just dreams.”
“Normal people have nightmares all the time,” Dawn said. “I’ve read about it.”
Willow brushed Buffy’s hair from her shoulders. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, we beefed the obfuscation spell on the Flat. If demons decide to make a house call, we’re even more officially unlisted.”
Giles came in, snacking on a scone. “That’s excellent news. Good to have you home, Willow. Now I’ve another project, I’m afraid.”
“The supervamp spell. I’ve been itching to get a peek,” Willow said, rubbing her hands together.
Giles interrupted. “Actually, this one supercedes for the time being. We’ll need it for our trip to the archive this evening. One of the texts we uncovered is locked with a tricky incantation...”
“Oh, did you try Vendregills?” Willow asked.
“I did, and nothing. It pre-dates his work. Will you have a look?”
Willow’s brows wriggled. “There’s not a book crafted this witch can’t crack,” she said.
“Good,” Giles said. “I’ll go get it.”
Xander turned to Buffy. “They’re going to the archive tonight. I’m going with. I’m the muscle. There could be tunneling,” he said.
“Nighttime tunneling? Should I be concerned?” Buffy said.
“Not at all,” Dawn said. “Xander’s providing all the proper lighting and tools. Plus, he knows safety protocol. And we’re going at night to avoid pesky tourists with cameras and questions.”
Giles was heading upstairs as Andrew was coming down them. Andrew skirted Willow, Buffy and Xander without raising his eyes from the floor. He slammed his book down on the table.
Willow said, “Hey Andrew. You okay?”
Andrew spun theatrically in his chair. He glared up at them, eyes steely.
“Scaly bitch got my Scooby watch,” Andrew said. “Bitch’s going down.”
“I give you the new face of Andrew,” Xander said. “He’s just achieved the anger phase.”
~*~
Giles went into his rooms with only the thought of the book on his mind. There were dozens heaped on his writing table. He cursed to himself for keeping such a cluttered work area, but he really had been engrossed of late. So much so, he never saw William come in.
“We need a word, Rupert,” he said.
Giles cut his eyes at William.
“I don’t think we do,” he said. He continued to shuffle through his books.
William collared him into the chair. Giles made an effort to keep his feet, but fell just the same.
“You see, Spike,” Giles said, miffed. “This kind of behavior gives weight to my reservations.”
“Save it, Rupert. This is about Angel,” William said.
Giles uncreased his shirtsleeves. “Yes, well. He’s remaining in London, you know.”
William edged onto the corner of Giles’ desk. “Good. Safe here. We can keep him out of trouble,” he said.
“Do come to your point, Spike. Willow’s waiting for me,” Giles said.
William said, “Angel mentioned before signing away his part in the Shanshu Prophecy.”
Giles shook his head, at a loss.
“Can he do that? Sign off on a prophecy?” William asked.
“I-I suppose it is possible. I’m sure it depends on many variables. Why the concern?” Giles said.
“Can he get it back?”
Frustrated, Giles said, “I don’t know enough about it...”
William’s brow creased with concentration. “He’s unique in the world again, yeah? Vampire with a soul. One and only, now I’m a real boy.”
“Yes, I supposed, but...” Giles said.
“Can he get it back?”
“Get what back?” Giles asked, firmly.
“The prophecy, Rupert,” William said. He scoffed. “They call you a quick study.”
“Perhaps I’m at a loss for why you would want to help Angel,” Giles said.
William crossed his arms. “I’ve been helping out for years now. Got my soul back.”
“Yet I still recall the century of evil-doing before that,” Giles said.
“Fine. I was evil. I got over it,” William said.
Giles got up from his chair, sputtering. “You don’t get over evil like it’s a bad stomach bug,” he said. “It takes years of penance and atonement. Preferably in a remote monastery in Argentina.”
“Oh, you’d like that,” William put in.
“Obviously,” Giles said.
“How many times do I have to die to prove my loyalty to you?”
“I’d say at least once more,” Giles said.
William slipped from the desk and squared with Giles. “Sod off,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care what you would or would not like. I’m here for Buffy,” he said. “And Dawn. Willow, too. And sometimes even Andrew and Xander.”
“And Angel, apparently,” Giles said.
William backed down. “The Shanshu Prophecy says that a vampire with a soul will play a pivotal role in the apocalypse,” he said.
Giles sat back down. “But which apocalypse? We’ve had several.”
“I’m thinking it’s bigger than that,” William said.
Giles looked up, then down again.
William said, in a quieter tone, “I’ve never seen this prophecy thing. I don’t know much about the way they work. But if Angel signed something over to the Circle of the Black Thorn, he was counting on having a Plan B. Get it?”
“You,” Giles said, getting the picture.
“And now he doesn’t have that back up,” William said.
Giles sagged against the wingback arms of his chair. “Oh dear,” he said.
“Bloody well right, oh dear,” William said.
Giles got up again. After a handful of seconds, he renewed the attack on the stacks of books on his desk. “We’ll, um, look into this Shanshu business. We must have something recorded in our archives. As for signing pacts with devils, I don’t think I need to tell you how treacherous such matters can be.”
“Then we’ll keep a lookout for him, too,” William said.
~*~
Nighna spread a map across the lacquered mahogany table. She poked a sharp, plum-colored fingernail at a street so insignificant in the scheme it looked like a varicose vein.
“This is where I found him,” she said. “But my men have been through this area again and again. And nothing. Witch moves fast.”
Across the room, Luxe stretched his legs on the supple suede lounge chaise he knew could only belong to Lalaine. He swirled a three-malt scotch in its crystal tumbler.
“It does not matter,” he called back to Nighna. “Once the Priestess arrives, she will crack their shell.”
Nighna moved to the chaise. “You’re calling her Priestess now?”
“She prefers it,” Luxe said. He craned his neck to see her. “Drink?”
Nighna flicked her wrist. “Thanks. No,” she said. “Does Thellian know you’re drinking his scotch?”
Luxe drained the tumbler, refilled it. “Thellian cares nothing for scotch. It is for his guests,” he said.
Nighna drifted toward the picture window. Everyone who visited the apartment did exactly that. The view had an almost hypnotic effect. She watched the daytime traffic parade under the window. The lorries, the tugboats, the trains – the great back and forth of it always made her chuckle.
“You aren’t his guest, Luxe,” Nighna said.
Luxe drank down half his glass. He felt luxuriant and pleasantly buzzed. “You are right. I am a high-stakes house sitter,” he said. “Keeper of keys.”
“You’re drunk,” Nighna said. She clasped her hands behind her. She knew Luxe was a tell-all, forget it later kind of drunk. Her day was looking up. She slipped over to the bar, picked up the crystal decanter and joined Luxe on the leather chaise.
“Tell me,” she said, refilling his glass. “How does Thellian intend to rid Angel of that bothersome soul of his?”
Luxe eyed her. “It will take more than fine liquor to get me to talk,” Luxe said. His words slurred sloppily all over his languid French accent.
Nighna fingered Luxe’s earlobe. She tucked his hair behind his ear. She bent close and whispered, “Now you’re playing my game.”
Several hours and the rest of the scotch later, Nighna plied Luxe for all he was worth. And then, she plied him again for fun. They managed to get to Thellian’s bed, which, as far as either could tell, had never been slept in.
Nighna curved toward him. She let her hands rove where they may beneath the sheets.
“Your Priestess, she wouldn’t mind this,” Nighna asked.
Luxe laughed. It was a groggy, throaty sound. “We are not bound by their rules,” he said. “In fact, this would be her style. You, and me.”
Nighna arched her brows. “You naughty little Frenchman,” she said.
“And what of your scholarly petit amis, Monsieur Wells?”
“I still have hopes for him,” Nighna said. “Right now, my interest lies with Angel.”
“Why is that?” Luxe said.
Nighna withdrew from Luxe’s embrace. “No fair, Luxe. You said you would play,” she answered.
“C’est vrai,” Luxe said. “Thellian has no plan to dispose of Angel’s precious soul.”
Nighna recoiled now. “You... can’t be serious. You are a liar.”
Luxe licked his lips. He reclined against the pillows. He said nothing.
Nighna realized then that her game had played out. It was over that fast, and she had lost. Luxe would tell her nothing.
“Surely you don’t think you can try the same trick twice, Nighna. I recall Vienna too well, my darling,” he said. “Besides, I gave you an answer to your question. Perhaps next time,” he skimmed her shin with his toes, “you can ask the right one. Or, an even better idea: You can ask him all about his plans when he returns from Russia.”
Nighna slid from the bed. Luxe watched with amusement as she gathered her scattered clothes and stalked from the room without a further word.
She would be back. It was their way. Had been for, oh, centuries. Still, it felt good to be the one on top.
~*~
William found Buffy in the kitchen. She was standing over the sink, a canister of mixed nuts in her hands. She would shake it, sift through the contents, then shake it again.
“Looking for the toy surprise?” he asked.
“Ugh, no. Cashews,” Buffy said. “Why do they even put peanuts in here?”
William came up beside her. “Presumably to eat,” he said. “You don’t like them?”
“Only as peanut butter. And then, only creamy. Others all gone?” she asked.
“No, they’re here. All but Willow. She’s picking Kennedy up at the airport,” he said.
Buffy turned the canister. “Good. That’s...” she sighed. “Much as I really, really hate it, we need Kennedy right now. Hmm. Almonds are good, too.” She found one, ate it, did the can shaky shake again.
“Did you ever see the fish in a peanut?” William asked.
Buffy glanced at him. “A fish? In peanuts. Get out.”
“No, look,” he said. He took a whole peanut from the canister. “Hold out your hand.”
She did. He put the kernel in her palm and split it lengthwise with his thumbnail. It broke neatly in half. He turned both halves over in her hand, and there it was. A perfect little fish shape, complete with tail, right in the head of a peanut.
“Look at that,” she said. “A fishy. How did you...?”
“My mum,” William said. A small smile twitched the corners of his lips. “She had a garden and grew them.”
“You can grow peanuts?” Buffy said.
“Yes. Contrary to the popular belief that they are hatched,” William said.
Buffy laughed. “I’m still reeling from the revelation that the earth is hollow,” she said.
And then, awkward silence ensued.
“About the other night,” William said. Only making things more awkward.
“No. Don’t. Worry about it,” Buffy said.
More awkwardness. More silence.
Finally, they both said, “How...?”
William held up his hands. “No. You first.”
“How did we survive the things that happened before? Not ‘we’ as in us, but humans we. And by before, I mean...”
“Wait,” he said. “What?”
Buffy started again. “Okay, I do mean we. How do you and I survive the things before? What we did to each other? How do we expect...?” Then she changed course completely. “And this thing thing you have going on. It’s your thing, not mine. And what does fullness of the earth mean, anyway?”
“Have you gone completely Bridget Jones?” he asked.
“Just hang on,” Buffy said, fervently. “I’m off. See? Off in right field. Off my nut. Off the wagon. Whatever. Just off. William, we have to do better.”
“Oh,” he said. Then, “I know. I know it. I’m off, too. Rebuilt from an atomic level, outside and in, but I still have the same geography of scars. I continue to make the same... bone-headed mistakes. But, it’s not what I think we should talk about.”
“It’s not?”
“We need to talk about Angel.”
“Angel,” Buffy said, her voice small.
Buffy examined the little fish shape in the peanut. It was a simple, surprising little detail she would not have noticed. She never even knew to look. That kind of thing happened with William, and sometimes even before when he was Spike. They were daily details, seemingly miniscule but still important, things that made her feel that there were still the favorable kinds of mysteries to see.
The mere mention of Angel turned all of that upside down. She could never sufficiently explain to herself why reason and logic left her anytime he came in to the room or wandered into her thoughts. Nor could she tell herself why she felt he could always see her, even when she tried to hide.
“Hey, Somnambu-lady,” William said.
Buffy jolted from her thoughts. “What did you say?” she asked.
“You were zoning,” William said. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” she said, hazily. “I think you need to tell me everything about when you worked for Wolfram & Hart.”
“I never...” William said quickly.
“With Angel,” she amended. She tried and failed to conceal the fact that she stumbled over saying his name.
He shrugged. “There’s a lot to tell,” he said.
“It may be important,” she said.
Giles came into the kitchen. He drew up short, realizing he had interrupted their conversation. He shot a crabwise glance William’s way before turning to Buffy.
“We, um, intend this to be an all-night expedition,” Giles said. “There should be nothing to worry about, but should you need us, call this number.” He produced a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “It’s my beeper. We’ll be several meters below ground most of the time, so our phones will have no reception.”
“I take it Willow cracked the code on the mystery tome,” William said.
Giles was unable to conceal his pride. He said, “It was remarkably simple for Willow. She said it was like picking the lock on a teenage girl’s diary.”
Andrew and Dawn appeared in the doorway, burdened with gear and heavy packs.
“So I was thinking,” Andrew said, continuing his conversation from the stairs, “creepy dungeon crawl equals campfire comfort food. I packed a thermos of hot cocoa, stuff for s’mores and licorice whips.”
Dawn crinkled her nose, “Ew. Red or black?”
“Red, duh,” Andrew said. “I also brought some printouts of some ghost stories, in case we wanted to share a few...”
“Andrew’s returned, bearing snacks,” William said.
“Dawn,” Buffy called. “Be careful, okay?”
Dawn wobbled over to her, penguin-like, and kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll be fine. Xander’s already in the car though, so we should head out.”
Giles gave Buffy’s arm a squeeze, then shouldered his own pack. He and Dawn left.
Andrew said, “We’ll be back tomorrow night, so don’t worry. And it’ll be great, because I’m fixing Mexican.”
“With real avocados?” Buffy asked.
“Muy buena, Senorita,” Andrew said, saluting to them.
They heard Andrew open and close the front door.
Neither spoke, though, until, seconds later, they heard the door open and shut once more. Andrew always forgets something, Buffy thought.
Once they were sure the others were gone, William told Buffy everything about his time at Wolfram & Hart, from the day he pulled his Genie-in-the-Bottle act to their final battle. By the time he finished the tale, dusky clouds had clotted the sky, and Kennedy’s plane from Paris landed at London-Heathrow.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Some bloodplay in this chapter in the form of a flashback to Season 6.