“Joyce! Let me in!” Spike’s slightly muffled voice called insistently through the motel room door. “Hurry up, pet, it’s urgent!”
Everyone in the room froze at the sound of his voice, all eyes focused on the door. Joyce’s heart was pounding and her mind was racing as she tried to think about her options – and realized with a sinking feeling that she really *had* none.
His use of the word “me” made it sound as if he was alone – which was a thought that she hardly wanted to begin to consider. Either Buffy was not with him at all, or she was too weak to be of any assistance in a fight at this moment. Perhaps she was waiting in the car – or perhaps he was carrying her in his arms…
Had they even heard the message Travers had left? Did Spike or Buffy have any idea what was waiting for them inside this room?
Giles was in no physical condition to be of any help against Travers and his men, and Spike’s ill-timed words left no doubt in the minds of Travers and his men as to who was on the other side of the door. Already the two dark-suited men had risen from where they sat on the bed, and were edging toward the door, their weapons drawn and readied.
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing and her jaw setting in determination. She knew what Travers wanted her to do – but the thought of just opening the door – with that single, simple action, drawing Spike into a trap that he might have no idea existed.
No. She would *not* do that.
But then – she knew in the next moment that she would have no choice but to do just that – as one of Travers’ men slowly, pointedly, adjusted the aim of his weapon, turning it away from the door – and aiming it directly at Dawn.
Immediately, Joyce went to the door.
“Just a second, Spike, hold on,” she said, her voice terse and trembling as she fumbled with the deadbolt and the lock, silently praying that Spike had at least heard the voicemail, at least knew what he was about to walk into.
She opened the door, holding her breath in anticipation of whatever might happen, to see the blonde vampire standing alone in the doorway, looking at her with an expression of urgency and concern.
Surprise – real or feigned, she could not be sure – registered in his sapphire eyes as he took in the scene before him, one brow rising regally in speculation at the two burly men glaring at him, and the two guns in their hands aimed at his body.
“Didn’t realize you had company, pet…” he said slowly, not moving to enter the room, but not moving away from the door, either.
“William the Bloody,” Travers announced with a polite smile that was still somehow cruel and menacing, as he stood smoothly and turned to face the vampire. “I’ve heard so very much about you -- but never thought to have had the opportunity to meet you.” He paused for a moment, nodding toward the interior of the room as he went on in a voice of cool steel, “Do come in.”
His tone left no doubt as to whether the words were a request or a command.
Spike did not take too well to being commanded – but he had gotten very good at playing whatever part was required of him in any given situation, over the past century and a half – not to mention the past few difficult days.
After what the Slayer had put him through – the Council wankers were sure to be a bloody walk in the park.
Slow, cautiously, he stepped into the room, eyeing the weapons warily. Assuming that they were ordinary guns, they could not kill him – but that did not mean that they could not do a lot of damage, incapacitating him enough that he would be useless to protect his little family – and that would never do.
“Sorry that I can’t say the same for you, mate,” he said in a low, even tone that did not betray a hint of fear, his piercing gaze finding that of the older man, and calmly staring him down. “And who might you be?”
“Quentin Travers, head of the Watcher’s Council – chief executive of the organization responsible for the utter destruction of your kind,” the man smiled that same cold, unsettling smile – apparently as unafraid of Spike as Spike was of him.
“I can’t rightly see as how you can take credit for that just yet,” Spike noted with a little smirk. “Don’t count your chickens, and all that…” As he spoke, he slowly moved to stand with his back to the closed door, so that he could safely face every person in the room. He glanced idly from one to the next, including Joyce and Dawn in his calm, thoughtful gaze, as he took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and casually lit up.
“So,” he asked quietly. “what’s the big meeting about?”
“I trust you and the Slayer received my message?” Travers said, his eyebrows raised in a question, his brow knit in the beginnings of a frown at the vampire’s casual, unconcerned demeanor. “And yet – she did not see fit to join us?” His disapproval of Buffy’s absence was clear in his tone.
The soft, dark laugh that left the vampire’s throat sent a chill down Joyce’s spine, and forced her to remind herself mentally that this was *Spike* -- and despite the fact that he was a soulless vampire who had killed hundreds, he would *never* hurt her little girl…
*He wouldn’t – would he?* she wondered, almost cringing at her own doubt.
“She doesn’t see much at the moment,” Spike informed the Council head, meeting his gaze appraisingly, without any emotion besides the clear amusement in his cold, ice blue eyes. “She’s dead.”
The little cry of shock and dismay that left Joyce’s lips was completely real – and Spike had to control himself, to keep himself from reacting to the raw pain in the sound, and rushing to reassure her.
He had to be convincing if this was going to work.
“Dead,” Travers repeated skeptically, clearly not sure whether or not to believe him. “I suppose I shouldn’t wonder – you *have* killed two Slayers before…”
“Yeah,” Spike nodded with a grim smile, shrugging easily. “It was her or me, really – she was trying to kill me…took me out to the desert with that in mind…let her think she had the upper hand the whole way…then turned the tables on her – and made her my third.”
He hoped desperately that Joyce was picking up on the inconsistencies in his story – the small, insignificant details that were false, that would mean nothing either way to the Council – but could reveal the truth to the Slayer’s mum, if she would hear it.
Joyce had not heard anything past his announcement that her daughter was dead.
“No!”
Dawn’s high, young voice cried out in a voice that was somehow trembling and strong at the same time – and intense enough to draw the attention of the assembled adults, even in the midst of the tense standoff that was developing.
Spike forced himself to giver her an impassive look, cold, dead eyes focused on hers with bemusement and mild curiosity bordering on boredom.
“No,” she repeated, slowly moving toward the master vampire – and no one made any move to stop her. “No – you didn’t. You *couldn’t*…could you?”
The innocent trust, bruised and uncertain, in her wide, sparkling blue eyes was almost Spike’s undoing. He longed to tell her the truth, to admit that it was a lie and end the heartache of grief that Buffy’s loved ones were enduring in this moment.
But he couldn’t – not yet.
“Oh, trust me, Bite-size,” he laughed mirthlessly, trusting that the Council men would hear the nickname with a more sinister twist than Joyce and Dawn would ordinarily have heard it. “I could…and I did.”
Dawn closed the distance between them, standing very near to him and looking up to meet his piercing gaze – wondering at whether or not he was telling the truth – and yet, unafraid of any harm coming to herself, either way. Some part of her, deep down, knew that Spike would never hurt her.
“Oh come now, Dawnie,” he sneered, a cruel note coming into his voice as he smiled coldly down at her. “You shouldn’t be surprised. You’re the one that told me to do whatever I had to do…”
Dawn’s eyes widened slightly further in painful shock at the reminder of her warning to him, before he and her sister and left, driving off across the desert to finish the ritual. She had reminded him that it was not really her sister in her sister’s body, and he could not hold back.
But she had *never* meant…
The cruel, pitiless tone of his voice, apparently intended to hurt, sparked an anger and pain in Dawn that would not be denied. Automatically, instinctively, she raised her hand to strike out at the larger, stronger creature in front of her that could destroy her, if he felt like it, with very little effort at all.
“How *could* you…” she began, in a voice that trembled with rage and betrayal, as her small hand swung toward Spike’s face.
With lightning speed, he caught her wrist in a vice-like grip – though not tight enough to actually hurt her – and held it there, his eyes boring into hers intently. Her eyes widened with shock at the sudden connection she felt, the intense wave of sensation that she fought quickly to not allow to show in her face.
“I do what I have to, pet – to survive,” Spike reminded her, his voice much harder than the expression in his eyes, willing her to see, to feel, the truth of what was happening in this moment.
Dawn could feel the slight pushing, the very near presence of her sister – and suddenly instinctively knew that Spike had not, could not ever, hurt her. Buffy was very much alive and well.
And Dawn knew what she had to do.
With a force that made the gesture appear defiant, she jerked her hand back, lowering it slightly to grip his arm and pull it downward, leaning in closer to him aggressively, as if to challenge his cold words, his restraining grip.
And in that moment – she focused with everything she had, on her sister – on the connection, the oneness, that they had discovered between them earlier. She *was* Buffy – and Buffy was her. They were one and the same. She closed her eyes for a moment as she felt it happen – and then opened them, jerking away again.
This time – Spike let her go.
“Enough of these games,” Travers snapped, stepping forward as if to break up the confrontation – though his lateness in doing so made it very clear that Dawn’s safety was not the issue for him. He really could care less whether or not the vampire hurt the girl that he planned on killing before all was said and done, anyway.
At the moment, she was simply wasting his time.
“A claim has taken place between you and the Slayer. These things are not generally taken lightly by your kind – and the claim, as I understand it, gives the Slayer a certain measure of control over you,” Travers went on, his voice calm and suspicious as he studied the expression of the vampire before him. “How am I to believe that you managed to subdue her, given the fact that you were under her power?”
“I wasn’t,” Spike informed him. “Stupid bint allowed me to return the claim – and then – then, all bets were off.”
The wicked glint in his eyes as he spoke those words, looking down as if in memory of that final, glorious fight with the third Slayer he had defeated, sent an unwilling shiver down the Watcher’s spine. Still, it was clear in Travers’ expression that he was not sure yet whether or not to believe Spike’s story.
“You returned her claim?” he echoed uncertainly. “Equalizing the claimant’s rights between you,” he mused, thoughtful. “And then – you’re telling me that you defeated her – killed her in battle…”
“That’s what I’m telling you, mate,” Spike nodded with exaggerated patience. “Only to walk into *this* bloody mess,” he added with a resentful muttering voice.
“Don’t see why you’re so worried about it,” Dawn muttered angrily – but Spike could see the sparkle in her eyes, though her act was very well done. “If you killed her – and she’s the best Slayer that’s ever lived – then it’s not like these guys pose much of a challenge!” she snorted in derision, rolling her eyes at the large men and their paltry weapons.
Unfortunately, her words called Travers’ attention to something that might have been better left unnoticed, at the moment. The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly in realization, as he spoke slowly.
“Yes – good point, child – I find myself wondering, vampire…why you’ve not set about tearing everyone in this room apart…” There was a smug sarcasm in the Watcher’s voice, as he took a slow step closer to the vampire, as if to demonstrate the fact that he was not afraid of him. “…or at least…attempting to do so. You wouldn’t get far if you tried; my men’s guns are loaded with wood-tipped bullets, designed for stopping anything, human *or* vampire, that is necessary – and they’re very good marksmen…”
Spike shrugged, nodding in acquiescence to his point. “Perhaps I’m just not bloody stupid – did that thought cross your mind?” he asked with a defiant, mocking smirk.
“Not really, no,” Travers said bluntly, that cold, predatory smile back in place as he moved closer to the vampire. “No – I rather think that a vampire of your reputation, in a situation like this – would already be fighting his way out of said situation…” He was silent for a moment, allowing his point to sink in, before completing his thought with pointed emphasis.
“…assuming he *could* fight his way out of it, of course…”
Spike did not allow his expression to reveal anything, as he met the man’s gaze unflinchingly – but made no move to attack. “And why would I not be able to do that, mate?” he asked, a cold, deadly quality to his voice.
“The same reason you would not have been able to before the Slayer’s little witch friend cast her spell – now that the spell has been neutralized – and the Slayer’s essence returned to the place from whence it came – it only stands to reason that your freedom from the chip that controls you, would also have come to an end…doesn’t it?” Travers’ soft, subtly threatening voice was almost hypnotic, in the stillness, as every person in the room took in his words.
Dawn’s eyes widened, and she shook her head slightly, a silent apology on her lips as she realized what her mistake might have cost her friend.
Spike carefully avoided her gaze, not wanting to give anything away, looking down for a moment before returning Travers’ gaze again with a wicked light in his eyes.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said softly. “But then again – maybe you’re not…care to test your…”
His words were cut off unexpectedly as the Watcher raised his hand and delivered a sharp, backhand blow across Spike’s face, stunning everyone who witnessed it with the surprising violence.
The blow did not even budge the blonde vampire, only turned his head slightly to the side – but he made no move to return it, or defend himself in any way – and the men with Travers gradually relaxed, as they realized that their boss was right.
This vampire posed no threat to them.
Travers smiled slowly. “You know,” he replied quietly. “I believe I *will* try my luck, vampire…” He glanced behind him at the two men now flanking him, moved in close to assist in his intimidation – which, on his own, was sorely lacking. “Now – I’m quite curious to know for certain whether or not you’re telling the truth about the fate of the Slayer – and as I can tell, there’s only one way to know for sure.”
He was quiet for a moment, before asking softly, “Where is her body?”
Spike shrugged, his smile faded with the revelation of his defenselessness – though he still refused to show any real fear. “Out in the desert where I killed her. Useless to me, now, isn’t she? You didn’t think I’d cart her bloody carcass back here, did you?”
Travers’ smile widened slightly, in an almost indulgent way, at the vampire’s defiant tone. “You will take us to her body,” he stated coldly.
Spike glared at him, his chin raised slightly in bold defiance. “Maybe I will…” he began.
One of Travers’ men moved in beside him, pressing the specially armed weapon he held into his ribcage warningly, and he suddenly stopped talking, hesitating a moment as he weighed his options – and they did not seem to be all that good.
“Maybe I will,” he repeated with a sigh of resignation, nodding slowly and looking down as if in defeat.
Travers nodded in satisfaction. “Jenkins,” he ordered without looking at the man he addressed. “You will stay here and guard our guests. We will go and verify the Slayer’s death. Wait for the call from me, to take any action. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Travers,” the man agreed obediently, moving to sit in the chair his boss had vacated, where he could keep an eye on their prisoners, as Travers, Spike, and the other dark-suited man headed toward the door.
No sooner had they closed the door behind them, than Dawn suddenly leaned forward, gagging slightly and coughing, before jumping up and rushing toward the bathroom. Jenkins frowned, looking after her, but made no move to stop her.
He supposed a sudden bout of nausea was a reasonable reaction to finding out that her sister had been killed.
“Mom!” Dawn called out in a hoarse, plaintive voice that anyone at all familiar with kids would have known was false.
Jenkins, fortunately, was *not* familiar with kids.
“Let me go to her,” Joyce asked him, imploring him with her eyes, red-rimmed and ravaged with shock and pain. The revelation of Buffy’s death had not been easy on her, either.
He hesitated a moment, before nodding his assent, though he kept his eyes focused on the bathroom door through which Joyce had disappeared.
No sooner had she knelt at her daughter’s side, where Dawn knelt on her knees in front of the toilet, then the teenager straightened up, gripping her mother’s arm and meeting her eyes with no trace of weakness or sickness.
“Mom,” she whispered intently. “Don’t worry – Buffy’s alive!”
Joyce’s eyes widened with hope as she searched her daughter’s gaze. “Honey – are you sure?” she asked. She wanted desperately to believe her – and it *did* seem that Dawn was somehow deeply involved in all of this, and would likely know if Buffy was okay or not.
“Yes…and she’s here…”
“*What*?” Joyce whispered, in shock. “Where?”
“In Spike’s car – outside…” Dawn replied. “Well – her body is, anyway…”
“Wait – Dawnie – how do you know this?” Joyce stopped her, shaking her head – mostly just trying to keep up.
“Because she told me,” she replied simply.
“She -- *told* you?” Joyce echoed, frowning in confusion and bewilderment. “But – how…?”
“When Spike touched me,” Dawn replied, earnestly holding her mother’s gaze. “I have to get to her – I have to get her back to her body so we can go help Spike!”
“How are you gonna do that, Honey?” Joyce asked, her voice trembling with fear and uncertainty. “If Buffy’s with Spike…”
“But she’s not with Spike, Mom,” Dawn interrupted, shaking her head, her eyes shining with triumph and excitement.
“She’s with *me*.”
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