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A/N - Any correctness of grammer and/or spelling contained here in is the sole property of the proof reader (April). The author claims no legal ownership there of.

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For once it seemed that fate was on her side, conspiring with her duplicitous lover coincidence to ensure that she was at his side at the moment she rose. That she was there to support him when she woke screaming like the damned creature she had become.

She had lingered at his side far longer than she planned, until the sun was fully risen and her stomach rumbled its esurient demand for breakfast. Wary of Angel's growing suspicion and unwilling to face the prying questions of the others, she had meant to leave hours before and slip unnoticed back into her lover's bed. But Spike's hand had warmed within her own and despite the ache of cold and inactivity she had found herself incapable of relinquishing its comfort.

It had only been when he had released her hand to scrub at the sluggish flow of tears that had finally broken through his emotional torpor that she had felt herself released from the captivation of his closeness. "I should go," she'd told him in a funereal whisper. "Will you be ok?"

He'd nodded absently and she’d stood to leave, a little hurt, unsure if he had been aware of her at all. His voice had stopped her halfway up the stairs. "Buffy," he'd murmured in a voice so hoarse it sounded as if it hadn't been used for months. "Thanks." And if her heart had swelled a little, then she would make no apology for it.

Angel had been awake, showered and waiting when she returned to their room, his face characteristically blank, and she'd felt a twinge of annoyance at his lack of expression. "Where did you go?" he'd asked, and the slight accusation in his monotone had irked her.

"I was with Spike," she'd snapped. Damn it, she'd done nothing wrong and she wasn't about to squirm. "I figured he'd need a bit of support. It's not like he's getting any from his family." She wasn't sure then if it was she or Angel who was most surprised at her outburst. She honestly hadn't realised how angry she was at her boyfriend for his abandonment of Spike.

"Buffy." His tone had been soft and reasoning, and that had done little to improve her mood. "He's not my family anymore. I'm not responsible for him."

For a moment she'd wanted to argue, to ask when he’d pronounced himself absolved of responsibility for his kin. Had wanted to ask if not him, then who—who was Spike to turn to? But then she'd felt an exhausted indifference come over her and she'd shaken her head at him, too tired to fight the disdainful sneer she'd felt curling her lips. "No, I guess he's not," she'd agreed coolly. "You know, maybe he's better off that way." Angel hadn't followed her when she left.

She'd found Faith and Dawn in the kitchen when she went in search of nourishment, her sister’s face full of undisguised grief and concern. "How is he?" she'd asked tentatively, and Faith had tilted her head and softened her expression as they waited for her answer.

"I don't know," she'd admitted, suddenly emotional in the presence of sympathetic ears. "He's so...I don't know, so broken. He's not even crying. He's trying to be brave but I can see it's killing him and I can't help him. I just feel so useless."

She hadn't meant to be so candid, especially not in front of Dawn, but the words had come anyway and when Dawn wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders with a small sigh and a gentle, "Oh Buffy," and Faith had poured her a coffee and produced a croissant, she'd been able to mange a wan, tearful smile and was glad she'd let them in.

"You're doing all you can, B," Faith had assured her in a tone that anyone who didn't know her might have mistake for dismissive. But her huge doe eyes had been all understanding and support.

It has been so much easier to get along with Faith since Sunnydale, though whether it is due to a tempering of the brunette's rebellious spirit or her own mellowing, she isn't sure. Or maybe in a world full of slayers, they didn't feel as competitive as once they did. Whatever the cause, she is grateful now for Faith's friendship.

Willow had come into the kitchen a little while later, on her way back from the infirmary, laden with painkillers and searching for bottled water. She'd felt an intense desire to be elsewhere, and when Willow had tried to talk to her, she'd stood abruptly and left without a glance at the redhead.

Moving through the hotel, she'd been waylaid by an agitated Giles bringing the unwelcome news that Cassy, whom Buffy guiltily remembered as annoyingly sullen and indolent, had slipped into a coma during the night and that Kennedy was likely to follow her sooner rather than later. The meeting had delayed her for several minutes, and when she finally managed to make it down to the briefing room, the assembled slayers had been querulous and argumentative, unwilling to extend their slaying duties to cover for the dwindling numbers of active slayers.

By the time she'd finally made it back the kitchen, it was nearly midday and she was anxious to check on Spike. The microwave had seemed to take forever to warm the blood she had bought for him, and she'd found herself drumming her fingers impatiently on the counter top.

"Buffy." Xander's voice grated on her straining nerves, and she'd kept her back to him in an effort to control her temper as she'd asked him what she could do for him

"Had a long talk with Faith and Dawn last night," he'd told her, and his voice had had that deep richness to it he always got when he needed to say something important. "Well, Dawn talked, I listened and Faith threatened." He'd given a small nervous laugh and as she'd turned to face him she'd been surprised to see him looking awkward and penitent. Their eyes had met and he'd sighed, one of those big whole-body sighs that lift your shoulders. "I've been an ass," he admitted sheepishly.

Affection and history had tugged at her heart, and she'd felt her mouth turn up despite her determination to stay mad at him. "Try more like a big jerk." She'd crossed her arms and fixed him with look of childish accusation.

He'd nodded and made another try for a smile. "Guilty." For a moment he'd studied his shoes before looking at her again, his eyes so warm and sincere that she felt the final traces of resentment thaw like summer snow. "I'm sorry, Buffy."

"I know." Somehow, forgiving Xander had always been ridiculously easy. "It's okay."

"I shouldn't have taken everything out on you." His tight-lipped smile had turned rueful as he'd continued with slight reluctance. "Or on Spike. It's just she—"

"I know." She'd cut him off. No need to drag the painful confession from him. "We know. It's ok."

And so it was gone twelve when she finally returned to the basement, a mug of tepid pig’s blood in her hands. "It got a bit cold," she'd apologised quietly as she'd set the mug down beside him. "I doesn't look too appetising." A moment’s thought and she'd amended. "Not that blood ever looks very appetising. Well, not to me, but…" She'd broken off, embarrassed by her ramblings, but she needn't have worried; he was miles away from her, lost in his own thoughts, his own grief and trepidation.

"Spike." His name and a hand on his shoulder had been enough to bring him back to her, and she'd offered him a small smile. "Hey."

"Buffy?" He'd shaken his head as if clearing his thoughts and placed his hand over hers as it slid down his bicep. The contact had seemed to take them both by surprise and they'd stilled in place, eyes locked, fingers moving to twine together.

She couldn't have moved then even if she'd wanted to. She'd felt connected to him so deeply in that instant that she had been certain nothing could intrude on the moment. It was then that Carlotta had screamed.

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It is time for her to open her eyes. She understands this deep in her core of her being: it is time to wake up, time to become. The tiny muscles of her eyelids are numb and sluggish, unwilling servants of her slowly-awakening mind, and it seems an almost Herculean effort to finally force them open.

Spike. She sees him clearly even in the dim light, and the familiar sensations of love flow over her, along with a strong instinctive voice that names him "sire," and for a moment she feels complete peace; Love, kinship and devotion suffuse her being and she wonders for a moment if she has been blessed with heaven.

Then her eyes slide to his left, to the small blonde girl huddled against him, her head tilted to look into his eyes, her small hand intertwined with his. With twin cries of recognition she feels herself fracture, as if her nature, so united just a moment ago, is now torn brutally in two. The slayer: heaven’s bright and chosen daughter; it burns her eyes to look at it, hurts her sensitive ears to hear the relentless pounding of its powerful heart. It must be destroyed—she must destroy it, tear ragged holes in its hideous hallowed carcass and let its sanctified blood drench her skin. Destroy it, kill it, make it scream and burn and suffer. She must destroy it.

The slayer: sister, warrior, protector. They are kindred, the same. No, never the same—destroy it. They are the same; their blood sings with the same passion of destiny. They were created to protect—no, to cleanse: to wipe away all that is vile and dark.

Vile and dark, like the squirming parasite she can feel melding itself into her body, into her mind. It is a malevolent, formless thing devoid of intelligence but not of purpose. And what purpose has it? What malicious certainty of design? Drink, Kill, Corrupt.

In a moment of agonising clarity, she understands what it is to be both nothing and everything, to exist as some twin-headed Orthos or antithetic Gemini. She understands clearly for just the briefest of moments the contradiction that she has become, the irreconcilable fragmentation of her being, and she screams.

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A/N Another chappy, I'm ticking along steadily with this story.

Many thanks to the good people of Reviewland

Hey Vamps, ooh can I have a Spike shaped reward? please, I'll be good all year.

Hi Pin. I try not to let my readers slack off too much. Mature Buffy takes a bit of getting used to doesn't she, I might write something based in season two soon just so I can play with really childish Buffy.

Hey CordyKitten, honestly I'm as much in teh dark as you ;) My writting is what we call in the world of poorly designed software, organic in development. I was reading Kalystens fabulous Heaven's Key and at chapter 12 she said 'half way there, only twelve more chapters' i have no idea anyone was that structured in their approach.

Prophecygirl, yeah I've always though tthe Buffy get turned flicks were kinda weak (there are of course a few dark and extremely well written exceptions) I think that although source of power in slayers and vampires are in some ways kindred this makes it more important that the essence of the slayer be as far removed from the demonic as possible. so yeah unsupportable conflict





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