This is for Wolfspider, because tomorrow is her birthday and she asked so nicely for this. My thanks to everyone who's reviewed (it all means so much) but special thanks to Addie, Ariadne, AmyB, Bloodshedbaby, Slaymesoftly and Wolfspider. . . and a real special thanks to the couple of people who emailed me out of the blue with very nice reviews and kept me going during a really dark week. It almost all came crashing down this past week, but you guys kept me sane, each in your own ways. Slainte. . all of you. So when you get to the bottom, please, please let me know what you think. . . it really does help.
Nia
[A/N: Okay, so I lied, sort of. That last chapter was supposed to be longer (and a bit different), but um, my muse? That blond vampire? He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so . . . wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote that chapter the way he wanted it. So blame all that on him. I swear its not my fault. Dialogue again take from Angel the Series, episode 53, written by Tim Minear (same as the last chapter). And the ritual described herein is not complete, do not attempt anything like this at home. Title is Audioslave, only because the song was echoing in my head when I started writing this. . . perhaps it fits also. Quotes as attributed and I own nothing. Not even the computer this was typed on.]
Previously: Dawn has gone to the Homecoming Dance; Darla’s in active labor; Buffy and Spike have just shared a rather intense moment, and Tara’s out on the town. . . this picks up shortly after the last chapter.
Book Two, chapter 5. Last remaining light.
He either fears his fate too much,
or his deserts are small,
that dares not put it to the touch
to gain or lose it all
James Graham, Marquess of Montrose
the moment of a miracle is unending lightning . . .
Dylan Thomas, On the Marriage of a Virgin
Curl like smoke and breath again
down your throat inside your ribs
through your spine in every nerve
where I watch and wait and yield to the hurt
And if you don’t believe
the sun will rise
stand alone and greet
the coming night
in the last remaining light.
Chris Cornell, Audioslave,
The Last Remaining Light, eponymous album
They ran out of hot water half way through the shower. It hardly mattered to him, because the slight changes indicating they were running low on it didn’t register with him, and Buffy was shielded under his shoulders, so she didn’t notice them until it was too late. They’d wasted enough of it before they even stepped into the shower. He didn’t much care, but Buffy was complaining half-heartedly because her hair was still full of conditioner, so he pulled her into his arms and let the water rinse off her head.
Her teeth were chattering by the time they emerged from the cold water, her fingers and toes blue at the tips. Spike toweled her off, ignoring his own discomfort, anxious to get her comfortable.
Giving in to his curiosity, Spike asked while she was towel drying her hair, “‘s it always like this?”
“What?” Her hair covered her face, making her look like a bedraggled waif, causing a smile to grace his features.
“The bleedin’ pet, ‘s it always this way?”
She sighed, “yeah. Lasts for about forty-eight miserable hours, all crampy and bleah and I can’t go out because, hello, vampire magnet . . and its just. . but yeah.”
Tilting his head, Spike watched her run a comb through her hair, struggling with some of the tangles. Taking the comb away from her, he worked it through her hair, as she wrapped a large towel around her torso. “Had a problem with vamps before?”
“Couple of times. Enough to make me rethink patrolling.”
Dropping the comb onto the vanity, Spike turned to watch her face, “and the other?”
“Huh?”
“The pain, love. Cramps and, “ he wasn’t sure how to phrase this part of the question, because he’d never had to encounter this before. When he was human, suffering under the heavy morals of Victorian England, body parts were never mentioned much less bodily functions. After turning, he’d never spent much time with humans except to drink, so this was new information. He was struggling with how to ask the question, Buffy watching him closely, finally just blurting it out, “the amount, I guess.”
Bright pink blush bloomed on her cheeks, traveling across her shoulders and upper breasts. Not looking into his eyes, she just nodded in response.
“Hey? ‘S me, vampire, no need to go all missish on me now love.” His finger reached out to lift her chin, forcing her eyes upwards. “Tell me.”
“Just a benefit of being the Slayer.” She shrugged, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the conversation. Riley never wanted to talk about this, staying away from her when the mood swings got too rough, or worse, just pretend it was all in her head and that she should ‘buck up and take it like a man’.
Spike wasn’t stupid. Accurately guessing what path her train of thoughts followed, he pulled her into his arms, resting her head against his bare chest. “‘S all new to me, kitten. Wasn’t exactly talked about in my day, yeah?” Brushing a kiss against her temple, he murmured, “jus’ wanna make it better, don’t like seein’ you this way.”
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For the first time in a couple of weeks, easily since before Buffy came back, Tara was having a good time. As in a really good time. She hadn’t told anyone else where she was going, almost afraid to tell any of her housemates where she was going and more importantly who she was going out to meet. It was weird enough in her mind, no doubt it would e impossible to explain to anyone else.
Glancing over at her companion, Tara stifled a giggle. He wasn’t at all like what she’d thought on their first meeting. There’d been so much going on that time, she was afraid she was going to lose Willow and worried about being outed so violently to all Willow’s friends. It didn’t matter so much to her, since she’d always been quietly open about her preferences. Wasn’t like she was flamboyant, not at all, but it was more like she didn’t hide those preferences from people observant enough to notice.
So all things considered, it was kind of hard to imagine getting along with and even liking her current companion. But Oz was a likable guy, if a bit laconic and taciturn to a fault. He did have a wickedly dry sense of humor, which she appreciated, and he wasn’t hard to be around, not like some other guys. It was amazing the number of guys who would try to pick her up, despite knowing she was gay. What wasn’t surprising was the number of guys who wanted a threesome, but Tara wasn’t going there.
Thankfully, Oz was different. There was zero pressure, just . . . a weird bond they shared because of Willow. Through Oz, Tara got a glimpse into what kind of made Willow tick.
They were sitting in the Bronze, waiting for a band that Oz wanted to hear start their first set. The noise was escalating, the music pounding out a very dance-able beat and Tara couldn’t stop her feet from responding. Catching her restlessness from the corner of his eye, Oz took pity on her, asking, “wanna get out there and cut a rug?”
She was up off the chair before he’d finished talking, “let’s go” wafting over her shoulder as she walked toward the dance floor.
“After you,” he said to her back, a very slight smile on his face.
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Willow had laid out everything she would need for the summoning. All the herbs, all the right candles, her small cauldron, even an offering for the gods. It was all ready, waiting for her to cast the circle and start the ritual.
It was a sending and a summoning at once. She was going to prove to everyone that Spike was a liability, that it was dangerous for him to close to everyone . . . to Buffy and Dawn.
Deciding which gods to invoke had taken more time than she’d thought. There weren’t many directly associated with vampires, a few Egyptians and Celts aside, so she’d settled instead on invoking task-specific – Mercury for the messenger, Gwyn ap Nudd for the Wild Hunt (because Spike was, after all hell bound); Isis and Osiris because he ruled the underworld and Isis had raised Osiris from the dead with help from Anubis, among a few others.
She wanted to send a message, specifically to Buffy, but to the universe in general that Spike was dangerous – and she was summoning warriors to prove that to Buffy.
Concentrating hard, Willow closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath and began invoking the gods and goddesses she sought help from.
Standing in the middle of four candles, each at one of the corners, a fifth candle at her feet, Willow opened her eyes and called them forth. . .
“Deities of the north . . . “ and the flame sprung to life in a bright spark of light.
“Deities of the east . . . “ the north candle flared, arcing over to light the eastward candle, then receded.
“Deities of the south . . . “ this time both lit candles flared, met in the air above her and sparked the third candle to life.
Without turning around, Willow chanted again. “Deities of the west . . . “ three candles sparked, triangulating, joining together and igniting the last directional candle.
“Deities all . . . “ the four lights flared high, arcing over her head, arrowing down to ignite the candle at her feet.
“Hear my plea, heed my cry. Give flight to my message, let the arrows fly. True nature be revealed, let scales fall from every blind eye.”
Taking a deep breath, her voice faltered but didn’t break, “bring forth those enemies that can defeat him. Let Buffy see Spike for what he truly is – let them all see his true nature.”
Drawing her athame across her palm, Willow let three drops of her blood fall over the candle, landing directly in the flame. She bent down, grabbing the candle with her still bleeding hand, then set flame to the contents of her caudron.
“So mote it be.”
The candles flared, flames touched the ceiling then extinguished. Willow slumped to her knees, repeating, “so mote it be.”
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Dark fathomless ancient eyes focused their gaze upon the gaping mouth of hell. Amusement played about within the eternal, elemental consciousness and a rather ironic thought wafted back once the request was received.
Have a care what you wish for.
Prayer granted.
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Somewhere on the desolate high desert plains above what used to be part of Iran, a black robed cleric turned pleased eyes upon a warrior with a blue runic tattoo upon his brow. “We have located her. Your men are ready?”
“They are” was the terse reply.
“It is time. Activate them.”
Turning away from the elderly cleric, the warrior gave the command.
And over four thousand miles away, several teams of men got into position.
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Buffy was on the couch, feet propped up on the table, heating pad at her lower back, drinks, popcorn and chocolate all within easy reach. Spike was standing there at the kitchen doorway watching her.
She couldn’t remember if she’d ever been indulged like this. Looking down at herself, she thought hard to be all grumpy girl when I’m being pampered Buffy. Catching sight of him standing there leaning against the door jamb, she smiled. Who’d’ve thunk William the Bloody would be all caring guy. I really am kind of lucky.
He was trying not to laugh at her. She looked like a little kid, sitting in a too big chair surrounded by goodies. Pigtails, popcorn, big eyes, she was utterly adorable at the moment. And what made it even cuter were her expressions. He could always tell when she was talking to herself, she’d be a terrible bluffer, if she ever learned poker.
He could almost see the mental conversation just by her expressions alone. Suddenly a dreamy expression crossed her features and a Mona Lisa smile graced her features, her face aimed in his direction. Before he could ask, Buffy called him.
“Spike?”
“Yeah?” He stayed where he was, leaning against the doorway, ankles crossed hands in pockets, one shoulder against the wood.
“Spike?” Her voice had a bit of a whine to it now, but she was still too cute for words.
“Yeah?” He crossed his arms over his chest, a smile on his face.
“Spike” she was really whining now, but her eyes were smiling.
“Yes dear?” His smirk crossed over into genuine smile and his eyes were crinkling at the corners.
Her lower lip came out and he lost it. Deep chuckles sounded over the low hum of the television and he tried not to laugh as he asked “somethin’ you wanted pet?”
“Ahuh” fiddling with the throw blanket over her, Buffy lowered her eyes teasingly, deliberately keeping the pout in place.
“Gonna tell me what?” Oh gods, the little girl routine was gonna kill him.
Twirling one of her pigtails, Buffy whispered, “ahuh” then, “wanna kiss. Can I have a kiss?”
All playfulness was gone now, replaced with instant hot pulsing need. His nostrils flared and he moved away from the door, flowing toward her like a panther on the prowl. “Always. Any time.” A heartbeat pause. “Anywhere.”
His body was humming, every nerve ending fired with need for her. This was a first . . . Buffy making the first move. . . initiating this . . . between them. His brain was reeling, she wanted him, thoughts scattered. She wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.
Standing over her, Spike looked down, really looking at the woman-child before him. Sometimes she was so . . childlike, so innocent, uncertain, unsure . . . And then there were moments when she was pure wanton, world-weary hardened and cynical. And he loved each one of those moments, all of them.
Buffy looked up at him, watching while he struggled to keep his desire to pick her up under control. She realized, as he struggled for breath, that he was probably the most controlled person she knew, despite his inability to stick to a long-term plan, but that wasn’t what she . . . loved about him. What she did love was his loss of control around her.
Her hand came up, running up his thigh, tugging on his tee shirt, pulling him down toward her. “Are ya gonna kiss me?”
She was up in his arms, his hands cupping her ass, her legs wrapped around his waist before she finished speaking, her ‘kiss me’ whispered directly into his mouth.
Nose to nose, Spike stared into her eyes and finding his answers in the deep emerald-gold depths, slowly captured her mouth with his.
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Her feet hurt and the beautiful curls were drooping, she was all sweaty and tired, but none of that mattered, because she was having the best night of her short life.
Casey was everything she’d thought he would be – funny, cute, considerate, cute, did I mention cute? Okay so he wasn’t Spike or Brad Pitt or Jude Law or Paul Walker or . . . Wesley, but he was her own age and like knew she was alive. Coz, while two of those guys knew that about her, one was her biological father and the other was just . . . way above her and also, way way too old.
Dawn stopped those thoughts. Wesley thoughts were not of the good, especially not while she was standing here supposedly listening to Casey. Go away Wesley thoughts. Focusing on what Casey was saying, Dawn never noticed the exits being blocked, nor the men poised at the windows, about to enter.
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Breaking away from Buffy, Spike gently dropped her onto the couch. “Time for me to go, princess. Gotta get Niblet and the Sprout.”
This time the pout wasn’t a tease. She didn’t want him to go, but he’d insisted on getting the two teens when the dance was over, and since it was now almost midnight, it was time.
Wasn’t hard to miss her disappointment. “Princess?” He was torn, she shouldn’t come with him, she wasn’t kidding earlier about the bleeding, and he wasn’t comfortable leaving her alone. “Wanna come with me?”
Shaking her head no, Buffy said “its okay. You won’t be gone long, I’ll be fine for a few.”
“Buffy? You sure?” He could feel the combination of emotions rolling off her.
“Seriously. Go.” Waving him away, Buffy said, “leave now, back quick.”
“All right love, back in fifteen.”
Stealing another quick kiss, Spike was gone in a flash.
Buffy threw a pillow across the room, hitting the television.
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Willow came to, slumped on the floor, surrounded by puddles of hardening wax and a sickening stench in the air.
Her muscles were strained, feeling like they’d been over-stretched and then folded up, not allowed to pull back to their natural state. There was a constant in-between-radio-station hum in her ears.
Pushing up off the floor, Willow realized her legs wouldn’t support her slight weight. Giving into the weakness, she crawled her way over to her bed, slumping against the side. She barely made it on top when she collapsed onto her pillow.
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There were people running away from the school when Spike pulled up in the DeSoto.
Not good was his first grim thought, followed quickly by where the hell is she? Leaving the keys in the ignition, Spike pushed his way into the fleeing teenagers, minor shocks from the chip going off when he bumped into people. Didn’t stop him, his only thought was to find Dawn and get her out of here.
Making his way toward the gym, Spike’s battle sense went into overdrive.
Something was very wrong.
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Darla was panting for breath, trying to escape the pain wracking through her body. Her belly was heaving and every muscle in her belly area was constricting. “Angel, our baby is gonna die right here in this ally. You died in an alley. . . do you remember?”
“I remember.” His face was grim, averted from Fred’s eyes and staring down at Darla.
“I wanna say I’m sorry. But I can’t.” Tears were sliding down her face, and he fought the urge to cry right along with her. “Aren’t you gonna tell me everything’s gonna be okay? That its okay?”
“No Darla, I can’t. No.” He shook his head, unwilling to look at her, unable to not look at her.
She sighed, facing some things about her long unlife that she’d never wanted to face, never had to; but the soul within her, burning her from within, was forcing her to take stock. “We did so many terrible things together. So much destruction, so much . . pain. We can’t make up for any of it. You know that, don’t you?”
He couldn’t answer her, couldn’t lie to make it better. “Yeah. I know that.”
Her hand caressed her belly. “This child, Angel, it’s the one good thing we ever did together.” His hand reached out to hold hers, lifting it to his lips and placed a tender kiss on it. “The only good thing we ever did.”
With her hand still in his, Angel’s unneeded breath broke on a sob.
“Make sure to tell him that.” Before he could react, Darla had grabbed a stray piece of wood from the destroyed door and buried it in her chest. Angel gasped, staring as she turned to dust before his eyes.
Her dust mixed with the rain, falling lightly back down to earth, covering the crying infant laying exposed on the cobbled street.
Ignoring everything and everyone around him, including the vampire hunter with the crossbow aimed at his back, Angel gathered up his crying son, getting slowly to his feet. Purposely turning his back further to Holtz, Angel took the jacket Fred was holding out to him and wrapped it loosely around the baby, then walked toward where Wesley and the others were waiting next to his car.
The baby in his arms whimpered a little, cold, wet, needing warmth and something to suckle. Angel could only provide him with shelter from the rain. He stopped for a moment, adjusting his jacket around the baby and then stopped all movement.
This wasn’t just any baby.
It’s a miracle.
His miracle.
His son.
Darla’s son.
A gift from the gods, the universe. He’d never done anything to truly deserve such a gift. Angel stared down at the innocent shining countenance of his barely-minutes old son and every emotion he’d ever felt roiled up within him. Bubbling, churning, conflicting and dizzying in their intensity.
He had a son.
So many emotions were swirling about, he’d never thought he could have children, never wanted them when he was human, not thought about the prospect in hundreds of years of existence. This was a part of him, part of Darla . . A magical, mystical part of them both.
Pride, fear, the weight of responsibility, disbelief, confusion, helplessness, but above all, through it all, with each conflicting and accompanying emotion there was overwhelming love. And the love over-rode and consumed every other emotion – subsuming them all within the unconditional, deep love. . . and a wellspring of such joy and happiness that . . . Angel faltered . . . felt something rip from his chest – and in a vain attempt to reel it back, he clutched the infant close – then stepped forward to Wesley.
Thrusting the infant at him, Angel stumbled, caught himself, stumbled again – looking at Wesley with agonized eyes, saying, “call him Connor” then gasping, sucking in unneeded air, growled out, “keep him safe.”
Uncertain what was happening, Wesley nearly dropped the baby . . . but when Angel’s words finally registered with him, Wesley’s eyes widened in horror.
Backing away from the prone and writhing vampire, Wesley calmly, cooly caught everyone’s attention. “Run. Hide. Split up . . . now.”
No one understood until the vampire laughed.
“I’ll find you.”
Cordelia’s voice was as calm as Wesley’s had been, as she cocked the crossbow at the vampire. “Not if one of us gets to you first Angelus.”
Gunn slammed his boot down on Angelus’ ankle, breaking at least one bone.
The AI team, using the advantage Gunn had given them, scattered.
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