[Reviews - 119]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 2319 times

- Text Size +




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……………………………………………………..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Thanks Enchantress - I kinda always need to give Spike a hard time, that way when it all works out for him at the end (and it will because he's my Spike and I will make him happy have no fear) its even better.

Thanks Rockerbaby, glad you like

Thanks for the long review DreamGirl and your mention of A/C helped me allow angel to be in the story without being a bad guy. I always give him a hard time it's nice to have a chance to be nice about him.

Cheers Seraiza hope I can keep surprising you.

Rana - I made you squeel -go me. Tried to imagine your fangirl dance but then my mind went of on one and now Spike's Sexy dance is all I can think about.

Christinenj - Thanks for reviewing I promise not to abandon this story again.





You must login (register) to review.