My endless thanks to Mari, Tami, Jenny, Megan, and Amy for all the help they gave me with this chapter. I would be lost without you.
The following includes more lines stolen blatantly from Becoming Part II. I can’t help myself. Thankfully, this chapter is where the fic will deviate radically from canon. I hope you guys are in for the long-haul, ‘cause baby, we’re just getting started.
Oh, and THANK YOU so much to whoever nominated Beloved in Blood at the Solemn Grace Awards! It won Best Romance. Look at my pretty!
Thank you!!!!!
She didn’t realize she was crying until she got a face-full of surprisingly cool spring air. There weren’t many strong gales of wind in Sunnydale, but they always seemed to accompany the various peaks and falls of her given mood, and her mood right now was all over the place.
She felt weak and beaten. She felt inches away from a complete collapse. She was angry and hurt. Her insides were numb; she could barely feel her legs. And were it not for the hand at the small of her back, providing subtle strength through even subtler caresses, she would have completely collapsed. It was the knowledge she wasn’t alone which kept her moving forward. She wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t ready to be alone.
“Are you all right?”
It was the sort of question one asked to be polite. The sort of question with no set answer. And even knowing this, Buffy couldn’t help a dry chuckle from tearing through her lips. There was no such thing as all right. Kendra was dead. Giles was missing. Willow was in the hospital. Her mother had kicked her out of the house. Now, armed only with a sword and a renegade vampire, she was about to face the man who’d once claimed her heart with the hopes of ending his existence once and for all.
Spike had come to town to kill her. And for some reason he was at her side. Her lips still hummed with the echoes of his kisses. Her skin buzzed when she remembered the way his eyes pierced hers. The words he’d whispered had her mind racing, attempting to reconcile the confusing storm of emotions she felt for him with the part of her holding onto the love she’d once shared with Angel.
Tossing in her growing feelings for Spike on the mountain she had to defeat tonight would get her nowhere. Instead, Buffy nodded tersely, a forced smile stretching her lips. “Why do you ask?”
“Buffy—” The tone in his voice told her plainly he wasn’t about to drop the subject.
“Look, can we not?”
“She was out of line, love. You know—”
A strangled giggle erupted through her throat. “Really? You think she was? ‘Cause kicking your world-saving daughter out of the house on the night of the apocalypse seemed to be the rational reaction from where I was standing.”
“It won’t take. She’ll—”
Buffy stopped shortly, jerking Spike to a halt beside her. “What?” she demanded, pivoting on her heel to face him, her eyes blazing. “She’ll what? Realize the error of her ways? Decide I’m not crazy when, hey, the world doesn’t end? I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for…for…”
I don’t have time for life.
She didn’t realize she’d looked away until Spike’s hand settled under her chin, his gentle touch coaxing her eyes upward. And when their gazes clashed an undeniable sense of peace flooded her veins. She didn’t know how or why, but he wasn’t going to abandon her. Not tonight. Not after tonight. If she needed a place to stay, he would find her one. If she needed a shoulder to cry on, he would lend his. If she needed someone to fight her battles for a change, he would happily shoulder the responsibility.
Buffy was too tired to toy around with why. She didn’t know why. But for some reason, Spike was everything to her right now. Her friend. Her ally. Her kissing-buddy. And he’d promised her he wouldn’t rear his vampiric head once the fight was over. Aside from the assistance rendered the past few days, there was no reason to trust him. He was, after all, a vampire, and vampires were notoriously back-stabbing assholes. But she trusted Spike. Right now, she couldn’t help but trust him.
Perhaps the difference resided in the way she trusted him. She didn’t trust him as a vampire. She did, however, trust him as a man.
“If I stop and think about everything that’s happened, I’m gonna lose it,” she whispered belatedly, realizing they’d done nothing but stare into each other’s eyes for long, heated seconds. “Please…”
The only way to survive in this job was to compartmentalize her life. She couldn’t be Buffy and the Slayer at the same time; not when the world was at stake. The Slayer had to march in without the heavy burden of Buffy’s problems weighing her down. If the Slayer allowed Buffy to distract her, everything would end. It was what had killed slayers in the past, and what would undoubtedly kill her in the future. She was perpetually caught between two lives. She had to be one or the other. She couldn’t be both.
Not right now.
And though nothing else passed between them, Spike seemed to understand. Light filled his ocean eyes, and before she could pull away, he’d let the sword in his hands clamor to the pavement, his head dipping and his lips brushing hers. It was a gentle touch which quickly spun out of control. His tongue persuaded her mouth to welcome him, stroking her with tenderness bespeaking everything which remained unsaid between them. He drowned her in the richness of his flavor. Wholly masculine. Wholly dangerous. Wholly hers.
He’d told her earlier that he belonged to her. And for the way he moaned into her mouth, the surprising softness of his hands as he cupped her cheeks to capture her in his kiss—as though anticipating a fight she hadn’t the strength to put up—she could believe him. She could believe for a minute he spoke the truth, and he truly was hers.
She didn’t know what to do with him, but he was hers. Her heart was too sore for love. Too gun-shy to attempt to place a label on her feelings. Knowing she was going to slay Angel tonight for the greater good still hurt more than she could verbalize. She didn’t want to think of tomorrow because she knew she had to get through the night first. But Spike was kissing her, loving her mouth with his, stroking her cheeks with calloused thumbs and whispering unintelligible words into her body. He was hers. The world allowed for no other knowledge.
Spike pulled away just a hair—just enough for his unneeded breaths to tease her lips with his taste as he drowned her in his eyes. Her heart thundered and her pulse raced, but she couldn’t look away if her life depended on it.
“This isn’t over, love,” he said softly, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Not between us.”
The part of her which doubted his words was effectively killed forever. There was no questioning the conviction in his eyes. He meant what he said. Every syllable. “I know,” she replied.
“You an’ I’ll sort this out.”
Buffy didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand. “Okay.”
Spike smiled and kissed her brow, then her lips again. “Okay,” he murmured, stepping back and collecting the abandoned sword. “Okay.”
It was amazing how much certainty a simple kiss could grant. And while she knew, truthfully, nothing between them could ever be defined as simple, the reassurance fueled her with just enough to keep moving forward.
The sun would rise and this would be over.
She wouldn’t worry about picking up the pieces until she could rest.
As it turned out, the sun started to rise well before they made it to the mansion. It was pure luck, she supposed, that they ran into Xander before taking refuge underground. He’d come to serve as the cavalry, and to deliver Willow’s bloodthirsty kick Angel’s ass message. In other words, he’d come with good intentions but very little usefulness. And he’d unwittingly given her the task of telling him as much.
The only thing she could trust Xander with was getting her Watcher to safety.
For his part, Spike said something snide and disappeared into the sewers. Buffy forced her grin aside. She was just happy to hear her friend was conscious.
Xander watched the vampire vanish, nose wrinkled in distaste. “You gonna be all right?” he asked, turning back to Buffy. “I can put my rock to good use, you know.”
Buffy glanced to the indicated stone in his hands with a grateful smile, shaking her head. “I have all the help I need.”
“Spike?”
She nodded. “And before you start—”
Xander’s hands came up, stone and all, and he shook his head. “No, no. I’m all with the understanding. Really. The enemy of my enemy…and all that.”
Buffy bit her tongue and decided it wasn’t worth wasting time to argue her point. Her friend was the perpetual tennis ball in the way he bounced from understanding to suspicious without a blink. But she was grateful for him, and more than relieved that she could entrust someone else to save Giles’s life while she and Spike focused on their respective exes. “We’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Just get Giles. Get Giles. Get out. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“You won’t. Stealth’s my middle name.”
She quirked her head. “I thought it was LaVelle.”
“And for that, you must die.” Xander smiled wearily and took her in his arms for a quick but much needed hug. “Watch yourself, Buff.”
“Always.”
She dropped into the sewers without another word and fell quickly into pace at Spike’s side. He knew the way down here, and she was at his mercy. Didn’t much matter, though; she needed him and he needed darkness. As it was, she much doubted Angelus and company would know to expect an underground attack. Or an attack at all. Her ex had gone to a lot of trouble to sever her resources. He and Dru probably shared the belief that Spike was dust. And the longer they believed it, the easier this would be for all of them.
The sooner it would be over.
“Hello, lover.”
The words made her skin crawl. He’d called her lover during each encounter. It was a nasty word, and it would never cross her lips again. But for what she needed, the words conveyed the appropriate message. Angelus glanced up and frowned, though the element of surprise was definitely not a luxury she could entertain for long. He was shocked to see her, which was obvious, but he’d been prepared. And right now she was little more than an unwanted distraction.
“I don’t have time for you,” he remarked, bored.
“You don’t have a lot of time left,” Buffy clarified, raising the sword Spike had handed her. She could still feel the warmth in the handle from where he’d held it so long. And for a fleeting second she allowed her mind to wander to wherever he was—to the place he’d situated himself for the surprise attack—and whisper an ethereal kiss across his lips.
“Coming on kind of strong, don’t you think?” Angelus retorted, his eyes sizing her up. “You’re playing some deep odds here. Do you really think you can take us all on?”
It was damned hard not to gloat, and in the end, she decided the effort was wasted. “No, I don’t.”
“’S what she’s got me for.”
Spike’s voice filled the main gallery timed with a nasty scream and an explosion of dust, and chaos inevitably erupted. Angelus barely had time to gape before he found himself uppercut by the blow of a crowbar. And for a few long seconds, reality suspended into a steady stream of slow-motion. Buffy saw Angelus’s eyes blaze and fangs descend—the fat load of good it did him. In a flash, Spike had clipped him again, and watched gleefully as the big lug crashed to the floor.
“Guess my invite got lost in the mail, ehh Peaches?” he drawled, arching the crowbar far above his head. “’S a mite rude to exclude me an’ the lady. Especially after all we’ve been through together.”
He glanced up and met her eyes, flashing a reassuring smile. And while her timing couldn’t be worse, Buffy was paralyzed with staunch appreciation. He was magnificent. He was absolutely magnificent. His torn black tee clung to his wiry form, accentuating his muscular build with subtlety lost on those who didn’t know what to look for. There was dirt on his cheek. His hands were red with his own blood. He’d nearly died tonight, and here he was. Beating her enemy to the ground.
For me.
It was fortunate he caught her staring; else she might have assumed form of a permanent statue and let the world end all for the want of appreciating the male body.
“Slayer!” he yelled, eyes widening with worry. “Behind you!”
Buffy whirled around just in time to catch a surprisingly forceful punch to the jaw at the courtesy of one of Angelus’s cronies. Across the room, Drusilla had similarly snapped out of her daze and was making up for lost time by screaming her lungs off. Her dark eyes were trained on Spike, who hadn’t broken form. He was beating the living hell out of Angelus, and enjoying every second.
Was Drusilla angry to see Spike alive? Buffy couldn’t help but wonder as she dove under the crony’s swinging arm, her sword effortlessly lopping the vamp’s head clean off his neck and rendering him a dust-cloud. Where there was one, though, there was inevitably another. Drusilla was advancing, her steps slow and methodical, her malicious gaze not once breaking. And as though knowing Buffy would do everything in her power to stop the insane vamp, the lackeys just kept coming.
“Spike!” she screamed in warning, but her companion didn’t hear her.
He was too busy beating the stuffing out of Angelus.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he panted, smashing the crowbar across the elder vampire’s head with a satisfying crack. It was amazing how much damage he could inflict in just a few brutal swings. By the time Drusilla was close enough to pounce, Angelus was nothing more than a bloodied mess on the floor.
“Spike!” Buffy cried, though her form never broke. Her heart plummeted—the malice on Drusilla’s face was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The woman’s eyes were thoroughly black, and in the endless sea of ebony lurked hatred which would make the devil tremble.
Spike had seen it earlier, of course. Right before his former beloved plunged a sword through his gut. How he could look at the woman he’d shared so much with and see nothing but the darkest storm of loathing without breaking was beyond her.
He’s so strong.
“Don’t stop!” Spike instructed her, gracefully deflecting every erratic blow Drusilla threw at him. He moved as though he’d already thumbed through the script; as though he knew her next attack before she did. As though reality had a five-second tape delay, giving him an immeasurable advantage.
And through it all, he never stopped worrying about her. “Buffy!” he screamed. “Duck!”
Buffy dropped to the ground and rolled, the sword in her hands lashing at the charging lackey on instinct. She was showered with dust, and they kept coming. It was all very far away—she felt her body reacting to every attack, every punch thrown, but her mind remained with Spike. Drusilla was shrieking things that would break a lesser man. For Spike’s part, he barely flinched.
On the ground, Angelus was beginning to stir.
“Spike—”
“Look at me again, Slayer, an’ I’ll rip your lungs out.” The words lacked conviction, and when their eyes clashed, she saw nothing but concern. “Finish off the giant sod. I’ll take care—”
“She’s ruined you!” Drusilla screeched, her blood-red nails scratching crimson-rivers into his cheek. “No crumpets. No tea. Nasty little Slayer wiggles inside your head. No more shadows. You’re—”
Spike rolled his eyes and clocked his ex in the chin. “Knock it off, Dru.”
How he could be so blasé when facing the woman who had run him through with a sword was thoroughly beyond her. There was nothing but cold indifference on Spike’s face. None of the hatred she’d seen earlier that night. The way he’d violently rebuked the idea he could ever again love the woman who had tried to end his life. And Buffy was so enchanted by the exchange, as well as her continued choreography to avoid the laughable attacks of Angelus’s minions, she didn’t realize Angelus himself had managed to climb to his feet until something akin to a sonic blast pierced the room in half.
Buffy glanced up a second too soon, just as Angelus jerked the sword free of the stone demon’s chest. The move was so sudden it made everything in the mansion screech to a standstill. Even Drusilla, whose screams were likely attracting the attention of every dog in the tri-state area, fell abruptly silent with an air of reverence.
“Oh,” the insane vampire breathed. “Here he comes.”
Oh no he doesn’t. Buffy scuffled to the statue, her hand clenching the handle of her sword. She’d fought too hard and lost too much to allow Angelus the last laugh. And while his cackling eyes told her he thought the battle already won, if she died tonight she knew damn well it would be in the fiery release of Hell on Earth. Angelus wouldn’t best her. Not tonight. Not now.
“You almost made it, Buff,” Angelus remarked, greedy eyes scaling the clean iron of the sword he’d extracted.
“It’s not over yet.”
“My boy Acathla here is about to wake up.” God, he spoke like a proud papa. “You’re going to Hell.”
Buffy didn’t flinch. “Save me a seat.”
The extensity of Giles’s training covered a wide range of weaponry. She’d fired crossbows, battled with staffs, and thanks to Xander, could work her way around a rocket-launcher without batting an eye. Now with her sweat-laced hand clutching the hilt of a sword, raising the steel in a lightening flash to parry the blow Angelus aimed at her head, navigating her way around a weapon she’d never manned was surprisingly simple. Time around her remained indefinitely suspended. The clouds in her mind parted and she thrived on one golden piece of understanding.
She had to kill Angelus. She had to, else the world would suffer.
“You think this matters?” Angelus rasped, lashing for her throat. “You really think this is anything but a stall? Silly, silly Buffy.”
Buffy shrugged and dropped to the ground again, thrusting the sword for his legs, the teeth of the blade scratching his calf. It wasn’t a crippling blow; it was hardly a blow at all. But she took her victories where she could and at the moment, she’d consider any blade-on-skin contact a small triumph.
“You play the hand you’re dealt,” she replied, shrugging as she rolled to her feet. “Good a motto as any.”
“You think Spike—”
The blades clashed and she found herself staring up into chocolate eyes which used to regard her with loving warmth. They held at a standstill for what felt like hours before Angelus balked, his arms maneuvering upward in an arcing swing and narrowly missing her on the downward plummet. She found herself pacing backward, her body seemingly determined to put as much space between her and Angelus as possible, even as her legs carried her forward to trade more blows with his sword.
“Gotta say, Buff,” Angelus snarled, attempting the above-arc swing again and sending her this time onto a small table, which rattled with her weight and sent small icons of Acathla-worship to the ground. “This is almost worth it. I love the way you move.”
Buffy’s stomach rolled in disgust, her sword lunging for his chest. How a bulking giant like her ex could move as fast as he did—and duck low enough to avoid contact—was beyond her, but the next thing she knew she was leaping again to avoid a blow at her legs. The floor beneath her seemed to quake when she landed, where she immediately dropped and rolled when Angelus’s sword came crashing toward her.
Only this time, she felt pain. Her arm was suddenly bare and wet. She was bleeding. It was a superficial wound, but the slice echoed through her body. Blood made everything real.
Too real.
“Gonna enjoy licking that up,” Angelus snarled nastily, tongue laving his lips.
“Sorry,” Buffy spat, forcing herself not to reach for the wound with her free hand. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’ve found I prefer Spike’s mouth.”
The black flash in Angelus’s eyes should have terrified her, but it didn’t. Not like the accompanying smile. She’d never seen a smile she could truly classify as malevolent. A smile which would literally make one’s bones rattle with fear. Perhaps it was a combination of his lips with the darkness in his eyes, she didn’t know. All she knew was she’d never seen anything like it before. “Spike’s mouth?” Angelus retorted, his tone betraying nothing of his outrage. “Sorry to break it to you, lover, but Spike wouldn’t know what to do with his mouth without an owner’s manual. You really think—”
“That you’re disgusting? Yep!” Buffy’s legs shot out, wiping his legs off the floor in a blink. Angelus didn’t even bother in trying to climb back to his feet; instead, he turned to face her on his knees, the sword in his hand slicing toward her in three rapid strokes, all of which met nothing but the steel of her own weapon. On the forth swing, Buffy managed to knock his sword into the table she’d leapt onto just a minute before, pinning his grip but leaving herself open for a fierce backhand with his free arm.
In the distance—thousands of miles away—she heard a feminine wail, fading as though the world around them was blinking out. Buffy’s head craned instinctively to Spike, catching his eyes as Drusilla fell from his arms in an unconscious heap. And then there were three. The cronies had either fled or dusted, Dru was on the ground, and Acathla was waking.
But she wasn’t alone.
However, for the rage that exploded across Spike’s face the second Angelus’s hand smacked her, she knew logic and reason had abandoned him. Spike was a creature of passion and impulse, much like she was, and she knew by his eyes that he wouldn’t stop before lunging—wouldn’t assess which angle would give him the greatest advantage.
Buffy sucked in a breath. Spike’s face shifted and a roar split the air, his body barreling into Angelus’s before she could scream in protest.
“Son of a bitch!” her companion snarled, jerking the sword out of Angelus’s surprised hands, the teeth of the blade slashing across the elder vampire’s gut once, then again when the other vampire attempted to rear around and regain control. By the time Angelus managed to wrangle the sword back into his possession, the bulk of the damage had been done. Blood splattered across the stone floor, gushing with an effect Buffy had only seen in horror movies. His already-pale skin whitened to frightening measures. And before she could stop herself, her mind flashed to the presentation of Spike crucified to his motel wall. There was no comparison, of course, but she saw it all over again anyway. No one’s skin, vampire or not, should ever be so white.
However, for his part, Angelus refused to reveal weakness or show pain. Instead, he lashed a bloody line across Spike’s gut, reopening the healing hole Drusilla had put there, and allowing him only a second to howl before propelling the younger vampire to the far side of the foyer with a malicious kick to his open wound.
“This White Knight shit, as funny as it is,” Angelus panted, his free hand feeling out the seriousness of his own gash, “is getting really old.”
Spike collided against the wall with a devastating crash, his chest heaving and his amber eyes burning with outrage the likes of which Buffy had never seen. And despite what she was seeing—the blood, the seriousness of the situation compiling around her, a small but very present and purely feminine thrill raced through her body—something she couldn’t explain. While she certainly had no delusions of being rescued, the possessive glimmer in her companion’s gaze couldn’t help but secure her in a way no words or actions could ever hope to achieve.
“Din’t your mum ever teach you it’s not nice to hit girls?” Spike retorted ironically, lifting himself to his feet, his left arm pressed to his bleeding gut. His legs shook but he didn’t fall. He was the picture of strength.
Angelus snorted. “Didn’t your mum ever teach you to die properly? For crying out loud, what does it take to—” His voice tore into a scream without warning, his gaze landing accusingly on the insane vampire who lay still on the other side of the room. “—rid of one’s enemies, Dru?”
“That’s precious,” Spike drawled.
“Honestly, she nailed you to a fucking wall. Doesn’t anyone stay dead anymore?”
Buffy snapped back to herself on a whim, her sword suddenly reminding her of its weight as she arched it high above her head. “You’re one to talk,” she spat, though speaking proved to be a bad idea as it only served to provide a verbal warning. Angelus whirled around and parried her attack with a hair of a second to spare, his body forced backward by the power of her blow.
“You and your game of—” She kicked him across the face and sent him back again. “—musical souls.”
“The game’s such—”
Her leg smashed his head once more, and the giant came tumbling down. On his knees in front of Acathla, his sword tumbling from his bloodied hands. And that was it. Her opening. Her chance. Buffy sucked in a deep breath and arched the blade back, her tired but determined arms more than ready for the finishing blow.
She was in mid-swing when it happened. Had it been a second too late, his blood would have sprayed the stone demon behind him, silencing Acathla’s wake just in time for Angelus to witness the collapse of his empire. But it wasn’t a second too late. It wasn’t. The vampire’s gasp and timely groans resounded through the empty corridors with the foreign hint of pain. His head jerked up, his eyes vacant and bright. It was just a flash but it was there—she saw it. And when it was over, he met her gaze for a blink before crashing entirely to the floor, almost instinctive sobs scratching his throat.
Buffy was frozen, her sword still poised and ready, her chest heaving as her mind raced. She knew, logically, what she was seeing. She knew it. Awareness stung every nerve in her body, awash with disbelief, her aching heart hammering so hard she was amazed it still worked.
No. No. Impossible.
Her brain refused to believe her eyes. To accept what she already knew. But it was there; it was right in front of her. And before she could catch up with herself, the vampire at her feet was climbing to a stand, his eyes thick with tears.
It sold her. Angelus never cried.
No, Angelus never cried. But Angel would.
And for that second, everything around her vanished. Acathla. Drusilla. Even Spike. Everything vanished, and it was just her and Angel. Angel, not Angelus, meeting her gaze, his own lost and confused. Angel clamoring for recognition. Angel…
“Buffy,” he breathed, the cadence of her name on his lips striking her like a forgotten dream. She hadn’t heard his voice in months, and without warning, every dam inside collapsed. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t move. Didn’t dare. The sword remained suspended above her head. Her logical head was screaming it could be a ploy. A last attempt by Angelus to spare his life. She needed to be ready. One wrong move and…
…only this wasn’t a ploy. Her heart knew what her mind refused to believe.
“Where are we?” he demanded, erratic eyes taking in their surroundings. “I-I don’t remember.”
The sword lowered much to the gratitude of her aching muscles. She barely acknowledged the weariness in her body. The whole of her had given way to shock. “Angel?”
He blinked, his eyes zeroing in on her wound. The superficial cut on her arm. The one he’d given her. “You’re hurt.”
Did he not feel the pain of the lashes to his stomach? He’d reached for her, noticed her, before turning his eyes to himself. Her heart melted and tears finally broke free.
Oh God.
And before she could stop him, before her confused thoughts could reconcile a feasible answer, she found herself in his arms. She didn’t know how she’d gotten there—if she’d stepped forward or if he’d grabbed her. All she knew was the warmth of familiarity.
“Oh, Buffy…God.”
Her eyes fell shut, a trembling sigh tearing through her. Oh God.
“Oh my God. I feel like I haven’t seen you in months. Everything's so muddled. I…” His lips dropped to her shoulder, his arms tightening around her. And for a minute, for a blessed minute, she could let herself forget. She could.
Only, no, she couldn’t. The haze vanished after what felt like years, and she remembered herself. She remembered where she was, and why she was here. She remembered what she was supposed to do. She remembered…
Spike.
Around Angel’s shoulder, she saw him. And the hurt in his eyes nearly broke her all over again. Emotions exploded and warred, and without warning, her heart lurched and her legs begged her to go to him. To reassure him—though of what she didn’t know. Past, present, and future were suddenly in the same room. Past was hugging her. Present was staring at her as though she’d just traded him for thirty pieces of silver. Future remained in the shadows, keeping its face shielded from wandering eyes.
Angel didn’t know Spike was there. Didn’t acknowledge Drusilla lying on the ground, or the gentle roar of Acathla stirring behind him.
Acathla.
Buffy forced her eyes to leave Spike’s, drawn irrevocably to the contorting face of a stone demon. The frightening gargoyle brows angled downward, the previous gray slab of his eyes burning red. The contours of his lips parted grotesquely, and within the depths of his mouth she saw Hell itself.
Angel must have sensed the sudden tension in her body. He pulled away, brow furrowing. “What’s happening?”
Everything.
It was what she had to do. What she’d come here to do. And the words which left her lips reflected her conviction. “Shhh,” she whispered, not allowing herself to listen to her own voice. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I love you.”
Her heart shattered and she heard Spike inhale sharply, though his eyes no longer reflected a shield of jealousy. There was something else there—awareness. He knew as well as she did what she had to do. And now he was waiting to see if she’d actually do it.
Buffy didn’t give Angel the words back, but she didn’t know for whose benefit. Perhaps it was cowardice. Perhaps it was necessity. Perhaps it was selfishness. She didn’t know. She didn’t let herself think about it. She couldn’t.
If she did, she’d never go through with what she needed to do.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered, her lips unable to keep from stealing a brief kiss from his.
A kiss of goodbye. Angel deserved as much.
It was the last thing he felt before the sword speared through his chest. Before his eyes thrust open in pain. Before she took a definitive step away from him, ignoring the arm that reached for her. Her eyes refused to meet his. Refused to meet Spike’s. Instead, she merely stared at the blade she’d shoved through her first love’s body. Light flashed and the air cracked. Her feet carried her back and her eyes didn’t waver. She sensed the vortex of Acathla’s mouth growing wider, but not wide enough to touch her. Not wide enough to touch Spike. There was only Angel. Reaching for her. Saying her name. Standing there without his memories, and knowing only that she was supposed to love him.
Then he was gone. Acathla’s mouth closed and the ethereal lights blinked away, and he was gone.
The air fell silent. Buffy fell to her knees and stared.
She had no grasp of how much time passed. How long she remained on the floor, her hands in her lap, her eyes focused forward. Her heart was beating somehow, and the blood from her wound had stopped flowing. She didn’t register movement until Spike’s gentle hand brushed her shoulder. Until the solitude of her surroundings burst with clarity.
“Buffy?”
The welcome tenor of his voice washed over her like a personal baptism. Buffy blinked and realized for the first time she’d been crying. Crying silent tears. When she looked up, she found herself awash in compassion unlike anything she’d ever known. And in that second, she yearned for his arms like she’d never yearned for anything.
“Buffy, love…” Spike knelt beside her, his hand stroking the length of her arm with a feather-light strokes. “Sweetheart…”
She didn’t look at him. She wanted to but every muscle in her body was locked.
“I’ll take you away, Buffy. Anywhere. Anywhere you want.” His lips brushed her brow. “You shouldn’t stay here. You—”
Suddenly she was given the power to nod, and she seized it fiercely. “Yes,” she whispered, barely hearing herself. “Yes.”
It was the last thing she heard before the tidal wave inside came crashing down, and she collapsed in tears.
TBC