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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: Wow! I got such a good reception from you all- thank you- here is part 2:
Sorry, the paragraph formatting didn't seem to take on the first try,see if this is any better.
That seemed to help.








“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.









Chapter End Notes:
To be continued...



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