“What is it, Spike?” Dawn asked softly after a few minutes of just standing there, holding her friend close to her. “What’s wrong?”
She thought that it probably sounded like a very foolish question, all things considered – but she wanted to know what had had such a profound effect on her friend as to make him break down like this, in a way he never had before, not in front of her, anyway. She knew that the past few days had been very hard on the vampire, but she really had no concept of just how traumatic it had been – just what torment and degradation he had been through at the hands – if not the will – of her sister.
And if Spike had his way – she never *would* know.
He pulled gently back from her, sniffing back tears and forcing a shaky smile to his lips. “No cause for worry, pet. I’ll be all right. Just a bit shaken up, is all. Been quite a night of it.”
“Right,” Dawn replied slowly, pulling back to meet his eyes with a dubious look. “Nothing to worry about – you’re just falling apart before my eyes. The ‘Big Bad’ breaking down in tears and shaking like a leaf. Nope. Nothing to worry about *there*.”
Spike looked away from the perception in her piercing blue eyes, and the knowing irony in her words, gently taking her arms and pushing her back as he tried to change the subject in a soft, shaking voice, just barely coming back under his control.
“Look, Bit, they’re coming,” he said when he saw the Slayer and her mother returning, and his heart was filled with a strange mixture of relief, that he had been rescued from the conversation he did not want to have; and dread, that he would have to face Buffy again, far before he was ready. “We’d best get in the car and get ready to go…”
Dawn looked across the sand and saw with some disappointment that her family was indeed headed their way. Apparently, Giles was staying behind for some reason. She sighed wearily in acceptance, knowing that if Spike was not inclined to tell her anything *now*, she certainly would not make any progress in finding out what was going on, once they were surrounded by the others as well.
She frowned as the vampire chose a door to the car and opened it.
“You don’t actually think you’re gonna *drive* in this condition, do you?” she asked flatly. “I mean – you’d do better drunk.” She paused, before adding with a little shrug, “You probably have.”
“Well *you’re* bloody well not driving,” he retorted with a mild scoff of derision. “The Watcher’s most likely gonna come back in Travers’ car…he’s got some business to take care of, I’d wager. And your big sis is never driving my car again, if I have anything to say about it…”
“Mom could drive,” Dawn offered with a little shrug.
“No,” Joyce broke in quietly, just as she and Buffy reached them. “Buffy did just fine on the way over here – how about letting her drive us back?”
Spike looked up at the pointed tone in Joyce’s voice, aware that the woman had a specific reason for her suggestion. He considered for a moment – and decided that whatever her reasoning was, it was probably for the best.
In most cases, Joyce was a very wise woman.
“Right, then,” he agreed wearily. “That’s fine – if you’re okay with that, Slayer.”
Buffy flinched at the use of her title, but nodded without looking at him. “That’s fine.”
She was considerably more subdued now than she had been before. She was not trying to speak to him, trying to push him to talk to her, like she had been doing before, and the gentle mental probing he had felt before, as she had tried to get at what he was thinking, feeling, through the link that connected them, had ceased for the moment.
He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, that she longed to try again to work out this situation that he was not sure they ever *could* work out – but she had been convinced, somehow, to let it go for the moment – much to his relief. He simply needed time to think it all through, to come to terms with all that had happened over the past few days, before he even attempted to come to any conclusions as to where to go from here.
And for whatever reason, though she had not been a few minutes earlier, Buffy now seemed willing to give him that time.
Just another thing he had to be grateful to Joyce for, he was sure.
“You wanna take shotgun, Dawnie?” Joyce suggested with a smile, though her tone was leading, and her eyes were serous.
Dawn pouted for a moment; she had wanted to be the one to be by Spike’s side, to offer him support during the awkward ride home – but even she could see the relief in the blonde vampire’s blue eyes at the suggestion. Suddenly, she remembered several times during her own childhood when all it had taken was her mother’s nearness and comforting reassurance to make her feel better – and she knew that her mother was right.
What Spike needed right now was something that she did not have to offer.
“Okay,” she agreed easily. “Works for me.”
“So – back to the hotel?” Buffy asked, sounding listless and unusually subdued, as they piled into the car. “To get our stuff? And then – home?”
“Sounds good,” Joyce sighed wearily, getting into the backseat beside Spike and giving him a gentle, encouraging smile. “I don’t know about you guys but I am more than ready to be home.”
No one else spoke; their recent memories of home were really not very pleasant ones.
As Buffy pulled the car back onto the highway, Dawn reached over and fiddled with the radio, turning it up to fill the weighted silence that had fallen over the car.
“You know your taste in music sucks, right?” she informed her friend teasingly, hoping to lighten the mood that filled the vehicle, maybe even draw him into an argument that might bring out a bit of the Spike she knew so well.
“Turn it off, then,” he said quietly, his eyes focused out the window across the desert, his voice listless and calm.
Dawn frowned, disappointed by his lack of an appropriate response to her jibe. “No,” she said slowly. “I think I’ll tolerate it.” As she turned back around, she muttered under her breath, too low for anyone but Spike to hear over the blasting music, “I’ll take skanky punk music over awkward depressive silence anytime, thank you.”
There was no true irritation in her voice; she was simply observing a fact. She had not even intended for anyone to hear her words – and Spike had to admit, she was right. The silence would have been unbearable.
Even Joyce did not comment on the music that at any other time she would have found obnoxious.
She studied the expressionless face of the blonde vampire, visible only in profile as he stared out the window, concern in her soft blue eyes. After a moment, she raised a gentle arm to wrap around his tense shoulders, tugging him slightly toward her.
Spike jumped at the unexpected touch, turning startled, fearful blue eyes on her – but he did not make a sound – and he did not pull away.
“Come here, Sweetie,” Joyce urged him gently in a whisper, squeezing his shoulders gently and pulling him nearer to her, into her embrace. “Come on.”
Spike held her gaze for a moment longer, obviously undecided. He was torn between doing his best to hold it together, trying to handle this on his own – and giving in to the deep need he felt for human contact – comfort and affection found in the touch of someone that he knew loved him without condition.
Joyce studied his expression for a moment longer, her eyes softening with tender sympathy for the undeniable pain in his expressive, open eyes, before she leaned in close to him, bending down to whisper so that no one but him could hear her words – though no one could have anyway, above the loud music.
“Spike – it’s okay to fall apart with me. I’ll help hold you together, Honey. I’m a Mom – it’s what I’m here for."
His eyes welled with fresh tears at the tender compassion in her voice, the sensation of warmth and safety and relief that surrounded him with her words. Almost all of his reluctance melted away as he shifted closer to her, without even realizing he was doing it.
She raised her head to meet his eyes again, with a deep, penetrating look that would not allow him to look away – and she could see that he was on the verge of giving in completely, accepting the unconditional love and comfort that she was offering him. His pride, however, did not want to allow him to break down in front of the person that a part of him still perceived to be his enemy – his very own mate.
Joyce knew that Buffy was *not* his enemy – but it would be expecting far too much from Spike at the moment to expect him to be willing to show such vulnerability in front of Buffy, if he could help it.
There was understanding in her eyes, as she leaned in again to whisper, raising her other arm to draw him into a protective embrace, “She won’t be able to see you, if she looks in the mirror. The music’s too loud for her to hear you – it’s okay, Spike. It’s okay. You can let it go. Okay?”
Her words were exactly the reassurance that he needed to hear, as he finally lowered his head onto her shoulder with a silent gasp of mingled anguish and relief. Joyce raised a hand to the back of his head, holding him close to her, running her fingers soothingly through his hair, as she whispered gentle sounds of comfort in his ear.
She was not really sure what exact emotions were being expressed with his reaction, as she could not hear the slightest sound from the vampire, but his body shook against her, as he leaned into her embrace, allowing her to hold him – and after a few moments, the cool moisture she felt seeping into the shoulder of her blouse told her that he was crying.
Dawn glanced back over her shoulder to see how her friend was doing, and her eyes widened in surprise at the poignant scene that met them – the master vampire, held in his broken state, by the strong yet gentle, amazing woman that was Joyce Summers – her mother.
She glanced anxiously at her sister, wondering if she was at all aware of it. Buffy wanted so badly to fix things, to make them right again – but it seemed pretty obvious to Dawn that at the moment, she just needed to back off, and give Spike some space. She hoped that Buffy had not noticed Spike’s emotional breakdown in the backseat; she herself would not have noticed it, had she not happened to look behind her.
Still, Buffy seemed to somehow sense that *something* was happening; she kept glancing anxiously in the rearview mirror, as if, if she looked long and hard enough, she might begin to see the nonexistent reflection of her mate there. Dawn glanced back again, trying to picture what the scene would look like if she could not see Spike. She figured that it would still be fairly obvious to her sister what was going on – and she knew that Spike did not particularly want Buffy to see his vulnerability at the moment.
The fact that Buffy seemed to be trying so hard to see it, in spite of that fact, roused Dawn’s anger.
“Buffy,” she snapped, her voice low enough that it did not draw the attention of Spike or her mother. She had every intention of telling her sister just what she thought of her, and what she had done to her friend.
But the look in the Slayer’s wide, tearful eyes when they turned to meet hers froze the harsh words on Dawn’s lips.
Buffy looked so heart-broken, so devastated and sick with guilt, that Dawn felt her anger melting away in concern for her sister. Buffy was the one who was always together, always strong and confident; now, it was obvious in her face how very sorry she was for what had happened – how desperately she longed to be able to repair the damage she had done.
And just beyond those emotions, Dawn could finally see the intense pain and confusion that Buffy felt, over her own trauma in this situation. For the first time, it occurred to Dawn – Buffy had had her body hijacked by a cruel entity that had used it to torture and abuse her mate, to try to kill her family – while she could do nothing but sit helplessly by and watch it happen.
Suddenly, Dawn felt a wave of remorse for her lack of sensitivity to her sister’s pain.
Buffy had made a terrible, foolish mistake, in carrying out the ritual her Watcher had suggested, without researching it further, without really knowing what she was doing – and it had resulted in Spike’s being viciously tortured and terrorized – damaged beyond measure, if not beyond repair.
But Buffy was not the one who had damaged him.
The fear, the despair, the utterly lost look in her sister’s eyes called out to her – and Dawn could not respond to it with the cold, angry words she had intended to say.
Slowly she reached out a hand to clasp Buffy’s shaking, damp hand in hers – and the older sister looked back at her for a moment, startled, before turning her eyes back to the road.
Dawn gave her a soft, sad smile, as she squeezed her hand gently, and finished her sentence much differently than she had intended to. “It’s going to be all right,” she reassured her, though she had no way of knowing if her words were true. She hesitated a moment before adding tentatively, “I – I love you, Buffy.”
Much to her surprise and dismay, Buffy’s face suddenly crumpled as she visibly dissolved into tears, her shoulders shaking with the sobs that she had been struggling to hold back, for fear of appearing utterly selfish and insensitive. How could she give way to her own hurt and pain, when her mate’s suffering was clearly so much greater?
And besides – she was driving.
Glancing around the car at the emotional deluge that surrounded her, clasping her sister’s hand firmly in her own to offer her silent support, Dawn released a weary sigh and focused her eyes on the windshield in front of her.
After all – *someone* had to.
*Maybe I *should* have driven,* she thought dryly. *At least that way we’d know we’d all make it home *alive*!*
Across the desert, at a gradually increasing distance from the black DeSoto headed back to town, the bound, injured Watcher began to wake up. As he stirred to consciousness with a low moan of pain, he found suddenly that he could not move – and his eyes shot open in alarm, as he hurriedly looked around at his surroundings.
“Good evening, Mr. – Rodney Thoreau,” a vaguely familiar voice spoke from behind him, and as the unconventional, disgraced Watcher stepped into his line of vision, he saw that he had been reading his name off of his ID – apparently taken from his pocket while he slept.
Ice blue eyes glinted wickedly in the moonlight, over a deceptively pleasant smile, as Rupert Giles asked in a polite, cultured voice, “I trust you slept well?”
“Untie me at once!” Thoreau demanded, struggling to sit up in the sand, but finding it difficult with his hands bound under him as they were. “See here, Mr. Giles – the Council will not put up with this! If you refuse to listen to reason, the moment they hear of this they’ll be sending others to deal with you and your rogue Slayer!”
“Here,” Giles said softly, reaching over to grab a handful of the man’s hair, yanking him up sharply into the sitting position he sought, leaning him against the front of Travers car, behind him, smiling as the Watcher let out a yelp of pain at the action. “Better?”
Thoreau just glared at him resentfully. “I swear to you, Mr. Giles,” he insisted. “If you don’t end this charade at once, you and all those dear to you *will* regret it. The Council takes care of their own…”
“Do they now?” the ex-Watcher smirked, an ironic note to his voice. “Really, I hadn’t noticed that, myself.” His smile faded as he stalked slowly closer to the man, crouching down in front of him to meet his eyes coldly. “Actually – that *was* a bit of a concern of mine…rather why you’re here, actually…”
He stood again and paced a few steps away from the man before turning to face him again. “I do find myself in a bit of a predicament, you see – because you are right about one thing – the Council will not let this rest. The moment they hear of this – they’ll send another delegation – likely better armed and skilled than this one – to ‘deal’ with us, as you’ve said…”
He moved in closer again as he added in a low, deadly voice, “And I’ve absolutely no intention of allowing that to happen.”
Thoreau’s eyes widened as Giles took out one of the several discarded guns that had lain in the sand following the standoff between Travers and the Slayer, regarding it thoughtfully for a few moments before aiming it casually at the man in front of him.
“Have you a family, Mr. Thoreau?” he asked softly, his eyes narrowing speculatively on the man’s face. His voice was chillingly casual and polite; the two of them might as easily have been discussing the weather, or a simple business matter.
The hesitation in his voice was all the indication the older man needed that he was lying, when Thoreau replied hurriedly, “Yes! I’ve several small children at home in England, Mr. Giles…think carefully about what you’re about to…”
The sharp, unexpected blow across the face with the butt end of the pistol silenced his desperate attempt to reason with the man, before Giles went on, as if nothing had happened.
“Yes or no will suffice, Sir,” he said in a mild voice that did not match his actions, his pleasant smile back in place. “I will say that I’m glad you are a family man as well, Mr. Thoreau,” he went on, unable to keep the smirk from his face – because they both knew that Thoreau had no children.
“I have a family as well.”
Giles’ voice hardened on those words, his expression becoming serious. “I will admit, I’m a bit new to the business of family – I’ve spent a good deal of my life as a bachelor – still am…but I have learned this in the short time since I’ve – adopted this new family of mine…”
He crouched down close to the man again, pressing the gun to his temple without hesitation, eliciting a gasp of fear as Thoreau flinched away from him.
“I would do *anything* to protect them…I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about -- don't you, Mr. Thoreau?"
The Watcher swallowed hard, visibly trembling at the clear threat the older man was presenting. The mild-mannered older gentleman who had put up so little resistance earlier in the evening, who had seemed so easy to control and push around, had vanished -- leaving in his place this obviously dangerous, lethal person, of whom he had heard tales, but never had the misfortune to actually meet before.
In his younger days, before accepting his calling as a Watcher, Rupert Giles had been known by a different name.
*Ripper*.
There was no doubt in Thoreau's mind which person he was facing now.
He nodded his understanding of what Giles was saying, wanting at this point only to appease him.
"So -- unfortunately you will not have the opportunity to return to your *family* in England," Giles went on with a smirk at the misnomer. "I'd advise you to steer clear of the Council in general -- there are countless new identities you could devise, here in the United States...Mr. Travers has disappeared; he will not be heard from again. And it would truly be in your best interest to do the same."
"The Council will come looking for him..." Thoreau began in a shaky voice.
"No," Giles countered. "They won't. They will find on his desk at Council Headquarters, a signed document, sealed in an envelope with the orders to open it in the event that something should happen to him -- and that document will detail what should be done in the event that he does not return to England."
He considered for a moment, before smiling and adding, "It could be difficult for you to keep up the ruse, knowing what you do - which is why I advise you to cut your ties with the Council. At any rate -- should they ever figure it out, and come after my little *family* again," he assured him, a cold, sure menace in his voice,
"I *will* find those responsible -- and they will be the next to disappear. Do I make myself quite clear, Mr. Thoreau?"
As he spoke, he shifted the gun, pressing it against the man's throat, pressing his head back slightly.
With an audible gulp, Thoreau nodded hurriedly. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I understand..."
"Good," Giles nodded, satisfied. "There's a good lad." He stood up, moving the gun and replacing it in his pocket, before moving around to the driver's side door of the car and getting in.
"Hey! Wait! What are you doing?" Thoreau demanded, suddenly sounding panicked. "You can't just leave me here like this!"
Giles stopped, shaking his head and laughing softly as he turned back. "Silly me," he remarked quietly. "I nearly forgot." He leaned down and untied the man's ankles, pulling him to his feet.
Then, much to his surprise, he went back and got into the car, starting the engine and backing up away from the flabbergasted Watcher, his wrists still tied behind his back, his mouth open in shock.
"You'd best get started," Giles advised him out the open window of the car, as he pulled up beside him. "It's a long walk back to town."
And with those words, the ex-Watcher sped off across the desert, into the night.
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