When the haze that followed his – well, less than climactic -- climax had passed over, Spike slowly opened his eyes, lifting his body up off of the Slayer’s still, lifeless form. Buffy’s body was not moving, not breathing, not betraying any sign of life whatsoever.
Empty.
A sudden sensation of panic gripped him at the terribly disturbing sight. Suddenly, he realized that her pants were still open, her body exposed to the night – and even though he was the only one there to see her, and the body in question was that of his mate – somehow, the thought sickened him, and he felt the sudden need to protect her dignity. With shaking hands he scrambled to refasten her jeans, fighting off the rising fear within him.
*Buffy – Buffy, love – please tell me you’re…*
*I’m right here…don’t worry, Sweetheart, I’m right here,* his mate assured him gently, and there was a clear note of gratitude joining the soft tremor in her quiet voice. He could well imagine that seeing her own body, through his eyes, lying there so still and lifeless – utterly helpless and exposed -- would have to be terribly unsettling.
*She’s gone,* Buffy finally said, an almost awed tone to her voice. *You did it, Spike – she’s gone…*
*Gone,* he echoed, just trying to make it become real in his mind. He stared down at the beautiful, yet ravaged body of his mate – but then had to avert his eyes. Her utter stillness, combined with the bloody wounds that he had inflicted on her, was just too near to seeing her *really* dead – and at his own hand, no less.
*Funny,* he thought, half trying to just change the subject from the thoughts that were filling both of their minds, in his head. *Would have thought it’d have been – more dramatic, somehow. Bloody light show, blinding force of power – that sort of thing. You know?*
*Yeah,* Buffy agreed quietly. *You just – did what the ritual said to do, and – she left.*
*Where do you suppose she went?* he wondered, his voice low and controlled as he climbed slowly to his feet. *Hell?*
*Only if that’s where the Council’s been keeping her all this time up until now,* Buffy replied grimly. *I would assume that, if we reversed Willow’s spell, like we were trying to do – it should have just sent her back to wherever she was to begin with. Which should hopefully take the Slayer line back to where it was before I managed to screw it all up -- and hopefully make the Council stop trying to kill me – for the moment.*
She paused, and he could almost feel her mental frown. *Until the next time I do something to break their stupid rules...*
*Buffy!* Spike remembered suddenly, his eyes raised to look at the car, though he could not actually see the cell phone. *The Council…do you think…?*
*Let’s find out,* she cut him off tersely, fear in her voice, as she remembered the very likely threat to her family, and Spike rushed them back to the car to find out who had called her phone.
*It’s Mom’s cell,* she announced unnecessarily. After all, it was Spike’s hand that was holding the phone, his eyes that were reading the numbers. *Spike, what if they’re hurt?*
*Shall we call them back?*
*Check the message first,* she suggested, a frantic note edging into her voice. *If the Council has her phone…they’ll wanna talk to me…they won’t trust you, Spike, and all they’ll hear is your voice…*
*They *shouldn’t* bloody trust me!* Spike retorted, a dangerous anger rising in his voice. *Considering I’d like to tear the lot of them bloody limb from limb!*
The message that Travers had left for Buffy only served to increase their anger and fear.
*Wanna call back?* Spike asked, his fingers ready to dial the number.
*No – no need to let them know when we’re gonna be there. Maybe we can catch them off guard…we know they’re at the motel…let’s just go there.* Buffy was silent for a moment, before her tearful, suddenly smaller voice spoke again in his head, *Oh, Spike – they’ve got my family…*
*My family, too, pet,* he reminded her gently, as he got back out of the car and went around to the back, lifting her limp body and placing it gently in the backseat of the car. *Don’t worry – we’ll get ‘em out of there…the two of us can take ‘em…*
*I have no doubt of that,* Buffy assured him, her voice flat, but trembling slightly with fear and uncertainty. *It’s the fact that at the moment ‘the two of us’ is actually more like the *one* of us that has me a little concerned…*
*Bloody hell.*
*What?* Buffy asked, anxious. She could tell by the sound of his mental voice that something bad had just occurred to him. *What is it?*
*So – Red’s spell was what unleashed the Slayer demon – and what turned off my chip – right?* Spike questioned slowly, a note of resignation already creeping into his voice.
*Oh, no!* Buffy realized what he was suggesting with a sense of alarm.
They had successfully reversed the spell and sent the Slayer back to her prison – but had they in the process also reversed Spike’s chipless state? Buffy was surprised herself at how much the idea of his being helpless again bothered her. A few days earlier, she would have been relieved that the chip was working again – but not now.
A chipped, helpless vampire would not be of much benefit against Travers’ men.
*We don’t know that yet,* she reminded him, with a desperate hope in her voice. *I mean – you haven’t tried to hurt anyone human -- *completely* human – since we finished the ritual…*
*No, we don’t know yet,* Spike conceded hesitantly. *But it only stands to reason, pet…*
*I know,* Buffy cut him off softly, resignation in her quiet words.
With a sinking heart, Buffy began to allow herself to consider the possibility that she would be going into whatever the Council’s treacherous leader had planned for her, mostly on her own. She had been taking comfort in the knowledge that she would *not* be alone – that her mate would be by her side, fighting with her, the whole way.
But perhaps – it was not to be.
Spike’s battle was completed, and had been won.
Now – it was Buffy’s turn.
“What could possibly be taking her so long?” Travers demanded suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room, broken only by the quiet sound of voices on the television, and the soft of sounds of Joyce’s movements on the bed beside Giles, as she gently tended to the wounds that his henchmen had inflicted on him. “One would almost think she didn’t care what became of her own family…”
The cruel smile that came over his face as he gave Joyce a speculative look was infuriating to her.
“If you can think that for one single moment,” she replied calmly, meeting his eyes without a trace of the upset she was feeling, “then you really don’t know anything about my daughter.”
“I know all that matters,” Travers countered. “She is the only currently active Slayer, and she has allowed her unwise relationships with those around her and dependence on amateur children who know nothing of her calling, to cause the essence of her power to be released – unleashed upon the world, to do irreparable damage. And *someone*, Mrs. Summers – must be responsible for cleaning up your daughter’s mess.”
Joyce’s eyes flashed fire as she slowly stood up from the bed, holding the man’s gaze defiantly. “It seems to me it’s more *your* mess than anyone else’s, Mr. Travers,” she informed him coldly. “Judging by what I've been told of the Slayer's history -- how she even came into being in the first place. Besides -- you're so eager to clean it up -- makes it seem like you think it's your fault...”
The smug amusement in the man’s eyes faded into anger as he glared at her. “It would be wiser, Mrs. Summers, if you would speak more carefully to me…considering the fact that your life, and the lives of all you hold dear are currently in my hands. I can end each and every last one of them with a single spoken command – so it might behoove you to show a little more respect.”
There was a moment’s silence, as Joyce took in those troubling words, knowing that she should just keep her mouth shut. But she simply couldn’t resist one last dig.
“There it is,” she said, a light of cool recognition in her blue eyes, a slightly sad smile on her lips as she returned to the bed and the gentle ministrations she was giving to the wounded Watcher.
“There what is?” Travers frowned, confused, and annoyed by her apparent lack of concern about his threats.
“The ugly, dirty killer that’s been hiding behind that cultured, self-important mask,” she replied without hesitation, looking up to meet the man’s eyes boldly, completely unafraid.
In an instant, Travers rose from the chair, fury in his eyes as he stalked across the room to where Joyce knelt on the bed. The woman tensed in anticipation of attack, but did not have time to pull away, as he grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head, spinning her around to face him and drawing back his hand as if to slap her.
She braced herself for the blow, closing her eyes, willing herself not to respond as Dawn screamed out her name in terror. One of Travers’ men grabbed the girl and held her back from going to her mother’s defense – though all but Dawn herself knew it would have been a futile attempt, anyway.
But Travers did not slap her – just stood there for a moment, frozen in place with the rest of the room, allowing the weight of the unspoken threat to sink in, before he released her suddenly, stepping back a bit.
“You almost caused me to lose my temper, Mrs. Summers,” he warned her coldly. “In the future you might wish to choose your words more wisely – else I might have to seek other means of keeping you under control.”
His pointed glance in Dawn’s direction had a greater effect on the woman than anything he had said or done so far, as her eyes widened in fear, and barely repressed anger. She wanted to demand that he not even think of touching her daughter, lest he deal with her wrath – but Joyce Summers was no fool.
She had no handy battle axe at hand this time around, and she knew that the three men holding them prisoner in this room could kill both her and Dawn before she could manage to do any real damage to even one of them.
“Okay,” she conceded softly. “Okay – just – don’t hurt her – don’t hurt my little girl…”
Travers smiled at the earnest, pleading note to her calm, quiet voice. “I’ve no intention of it, dear lady,” he assured her, turning and striding calmly back towards his chair. “So long as you are able to maintain a modicum of respect.”
Joyce nodded slowly, leaning back against the headboard for a moment to regain her composure after the scare he had just given her. Her eyes went immediately to Dawn, who had already been released by the man who had been holding her. As soon as her eyes met her mother’s, Dawn rushed across the room to her mother’s side, throwing her arms around her and nestling close to her.
“Mom,” she whimpered softly against her mother’s chest. “Oh, Mommy…”
“Shhh, it’s okay, Sweetie,” Joyce assured her, trying to absorb most of the impact of her daughter’s thoughtless jump onto the bed beside her – but she was unable to keep some of the force from registering with the injured older man lying on the bed beside them.
Giles let out a low groan of pain, shifting slightly and slowly opening his eyes with a little grimace of pain at the bright lights – or maybe it was more due to the painful cut above his eye. He looked up at Joyce and Dawn, and then around the room at their unwelcome guests.
He lowered his head again with a softly muttered, “Bloody hell.”
Joyce turned her head to look at him with concern, lowering a hand without thought to brush across his brow. He opened his eyes, meeting hers in surprise at the unexpected tenderness.
When Joyce noticed his reaction, her face flushed with embarrassment, and she quickly moved her hand, and averted her gaze. “How – how are you feeling?” she asked quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Like I’ve been severely beaten and manhandled into unconsciousness by two pompous, self-important gits who are under the mistaken impression that their greater physical strength is an adequate compensation for their other areas that are lacking,” Giles replied without hesitation.
Joyce could not suppress a smile, even as she glanced over at the men in question to be sure they had not heard his quiet words. The last thing the Watcher needed at the moment was more abuse, as he would surely receive if they had heard his resentful words. To her relief, neither one seemed to have heard a thing, their attention focused on the television set across from them.
She looked back at Giles, her smile fading into a puzzled expression at the strangely soft expression in his eyes, still focused on her face, even when she had looked away.
“And like I’ve awakened from that unconsciousness to find that the loveliest angel of mercy has been tending to my injuries while I slept…” he went on softly. "All in all -- quite better. Thank you for your kindness..."
Joyce’s eyes widened slightly, surprised at the note of tenderness to his voice.
In the next instant, the Watcher seemed to realize that he might have said too much – given away too much of the feelings that he still felt – had felt for this woman ever since that fateful night when an old friend and enemy had given him a rare gift, of a night of youth, without the cares that had come with his age.
*Ethan, you foolish git – had no idea what you did that night,* he thought wryly, quickly averting his eyes from Joyce’s perceptive gaze, hopefully before she saw too much for him to manage to cover up.
“…despite the fact that I was the daft berk who got us all into this mess in the first place,” he finished his statement in a tone of self-derision and disgust – effectively killing the mood that had been developing between them.
As if just then reminded of the part Giles had played in all of this, Joyce shifted unconsciously away from him a bit, looking away as well. “Yes, well,” she replied casually, “I still plan on having a word with you when this is all over – but for now – let’s just think about a way *out* of this…okay?” Her voice was barely over a whisper; she was sure that Travers and his men could not hear what she was saying.
But they *could* hear that she was saying *something*.
“Well, Rupert – it appears you’re awake…I do hope you’re feeling a bit better,” Travers commented with a cold, insincere smile. “You were a bit out of sorts when last we spoke.”
Gritting his teeth against the pain, the Watcher pulled himself up to a sitting position on the bed and faced his former employer.
“Yes, well – aside from the present company I’m forced to endure – I’m feeling quite a bit more comfortable than I was in the trunk of your bloody car on the drive up here!” he shot back bitterly, glaring at the tweed-clad, smaller man sitting in the chair a few yards from him.
“Well, I assure you, Rupert – I’m no more pleased with the – social arrangement than you are. I'm just ready to get this ugly business taken care of so that we can part company again,” Travers said with a dismissive air.
“Right,” Giles sneered with clear contempt in his voice for the other man’s attempt at deception. “You’re just going to let us all go, once we’ve witnessed the *solution* you’ve come up with for this little problem, is that what you expect me to believe?”
Joyce looked at him in alarm, and he met her gaze for a moment intently.
He wanted her to know just exactly what danger she and her family were in – just exactly how deadly Travers could be.
“Giles,” Travers began with warning in his voice, not missing the look that had passed between them.
Giles ignored him completely. “You think the answer to the current threat is to kill the innocent young girl that the entity is housed in – and then, to ensure that no one questions your actions…”
“Giles!” Travers snapped, standing up, alarm in his eyes as he took in the rising shock in Joyce’s eyes. “Silence!”
Joyce had known on some level that these men intended to harm her daughter – but to hear it stated so bluntly made it all too real for her liking. The solution Quentin Travers had found for the problem was to *kill* the current Slayer – and start all over again.
Giles, for his part, refused to be silenced before he was good and ready, his voice rising with the heat and anger of his defensive desire to protect those he cared about. He went on as if Travers had not spoken at all.
“…and then, you’d be willing to *dispose* of all those who were forced to watch you do it, as well. If that’s what you mean by our ‘parting company’, Quentin – when you throw our lifeless bodies into a ditch somewhere along the highway…”
“I warn you, Giles…”
The dangerous note in the man’s voice went unheeded by the furious Watcher – even as one of his henchmen rose from the bed across the room and headed slowly toward him.
“…then bloody well say what you mean, you soddin’ berk! Stop trying to make it sound so righteous and noble, when you know very well it’s not anything of the sort! You take kidnapping and murder and terrorization of innocent women and children and turn it around to say that you’re somehow saving the world…when all you’re doing is turning into something it needs saving *from*!”
Travers took a step back, a cold smile on his face – and Joyce noticed it, though Giles didn’t.
He was still on a roll.
“You’ve become the monster, Quentin. And I’m bloody well glad that you no longer see fit to keep company with me. Because you make me well and truly sick…you and your hypocritical, self-righteous evil lies…”
His words were cut off in a moment as the man who had been approaching him reached across where Joyce sat and silenced his words with a vicious blow to the temple with the butt of his gun.
Joyce let out a startled little cry of fear and outrage, as Giles slumped down with a groan of pain, struggling not to lose consciousness. Joyce took a moment to be sure that he was going to be okay, before focusing her attention back on the emotionless eyes of the man who had ordered the blow.
"He's right, you know," she informed him in a soft, certain voice, eyes blazing into his with quiet rage.
Travers gave her a questioning look, unsure of what exactly she meant.
"You *are* the monster," she stated firmly, righteous judgment in her voice, her expression.
More than Travers could take.
He rose from his seat, stalking across the room again to Joyce -- and this time, delivered the sharp blow across her face that he had threatened the first time.
"You try my patience, woman," he snarled. "I need no more of your comments -- your useless opinions!"
Joyce's head snapped to the side with the blow, and she held it there, her jaw working with repressed anger and hatred against the man -- aware that to show those emotions would likely only make things worse. If it had only been herself that she had to worry about, she would have fought back – resisted in some way.
But if she did not appease this man now – he would likely look to Dawn, as a means of gaining Joyce’s cooperation…and Joyce would suffer any pain or humiliation necessary in order to spare her children from the same.
Travers backed down a step or two, recovering his composure, satisfied with her apparent submission. His voice trembled slightly as he barely managed to rein in the cruel rage that had overcome him for a moment, smoothing his suit down as he returned to his seat.
"Now as I said before -- let's just sit here quietly and wait for Ms. Summers to..."
His words were cut off in the next moment -- by a sharp, hurried knock at the door. Startled glances were exchanged, as each person in the room gauged the weight of the sound, and what it meant. No peep hole in the door made it impossible for them to know for certain who was at the door – but there was only one logical conclusion they could come to – and it was a conclusion that lent a much stronger air of tension and expectancy to the entire situation.
The Slayer and the vampire had returned.
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