Beyond The Sleeping Refuge
"Ummm," Cordelia said softly, her voice somehow breaking over the elevated strands of heated debate. It was a rather odd sensation, as she was typically one to be heard for her volume and not hushed composure. Still, it had the desired effect. The entire lobby fell to the same silence and looked at her expectantly. "I have a really bad idea." A beat when that merited no reaction other than deepened stares. "But I think it might work."
That was all the incentive that Spike required. He promptly broke from conspiring with Wright—slightly offed by the nearly innate need he had felt to relate all that had happened with his unlikely colleague. As if such solidified his transition from more than associations. As if it made them actual friends.
Not that such was not determined as long in the making, but the notion bothered him still.
"Well then," he answered eagerly. "Let's hear it."
Cordelia nodded and cleared her throat, tossing a cautious glance to the demon hunter. "Some of you aren't going to like it," she warned. Then her prospect expanded to the rest of the group who—by suggestion alone—were all regarding her with the same trepidation. Even the enthusiasm from the vampire's eyes had dwindled. "Okay, all of you aren't going to like it."
"Then don't tell us," Zack reasoned with a shrug that wasn't nearly as dismissive as he would have liked. As if it were that simple. It was difficult not to notice the sudden tension wringing his lithe figure to definitive stillness. With power as seemingly minimal as words, his entire being was suddenly wound tighter than a guitar string. "We'll think of something else."
"There isn't time to think of something else," she argued rationally. "Even if it is a bad idea. It just might be the only idea we come up with."
Gunn arched a brow. "Ummm...just for the record...how bad are we talking?"
"It involves me being used as leverage."
That was it. End of discussion. From three different corners voiced the same opposition. "No."
Cordelia rolled her eyes and jumped to her feet. There had been little variation in the weight of argument since the impromptu group of hunters arrived back at the hotel more than an hour before. It was dangerous, she knew, keeping Spike so long from his blood ties, but another opportunity to discuss the limited range of options might not present itself. The look on his face, despite reassurance, had not alleviated much from the broadened spectrum on where things stood with the Slayer. It was more than obvious that he wished himself back in her presence, regardless of what it meant risking.
Which was why she was all the more determined to have an idea plotted by the time he took his leave. He would go to Buffy almost directly, but they had to have something planned by then. Waiting any longer could see her future's end.
"Puhlease," she said, rolling her eyes. "As all of you know, there's nothing Angelus likes more than live bait."
"Which is exactly why you're not going to be implicated," Wright all but growled.
"I must agree, Cordelia," Wesley said. "I don't like the idea of—"
"You haven't even heard my idea."
"Yes, well, by suggestion alone, I am prone not to like it."
"Gotta say, Cordy," Gunn agreed, shaking his head. "I'm agreein' with Whitey and English, here. We're already short one Slayer that I've never met but have, somehow, developed a life-and-death-interest in." He tossed a brief glance to Spike, who smirked at him, even if it was a shadow of his usual showiness.
Zack frowned. "Whitey?"
"Spur of the moment."
"Kind of applies to everyone of the 'not you' society."
"I qualify for both," the vampire volunteered with a shrug. "An' you can always call him Zangy, Charlie. Seems to irritate jus' enough."
Gunn scowled. "Stop calling me that."
"Guys. Digression. Remember?" Cordelia waved. "Listen, I know everyone here's not exactly onboard the Bad Plan Train, but really—and to both reiterate and state the more than obvious—we're running out of time."
"I don' wanna get you hurt, pet," Spike said softly. "Don' get me wrong, I'll do anythin' to get her out, but—"
She shook her head. "You guys seriously don't think that I've lived every day since working for Angel and not thought about what I might eventually have to do? Granted, I really hadn't given much thought to Evil Incorporated plus two major undead hussies involved—and Buffy, never woulda saw that coming—but I can do this."
"No," Wright said shortly. The tenor of his voice suggested anything but reason. As though his word verified the end of all discussion and a motion to move to the next suggestion.
Cordelia's gaze narrowed as she considered him. "Listen," she said shortly. "I don't know if you heard me, but there's not exactly a long list of options. And I can so take care of myself. I've been doing it for a long time, Zack." She held her hand up to the predictable foray of continued objection from her other colleagues. "And you two oughta know me well enough by know to guess that whatever you say's not going to work. And I'm not worried. My plan involves Spike—which you'd know if you'd let me tell you—and I know he'd never let me get hurt."
The peroxide vampire shuffled uncomfortably, either by the implication of his now accepted goodness or the weight that was suddenly planted on his shoulders, no one could tell. Thus, he opted for a noncommittal, "Thanks," before looking away in his disquiet.
"Not that I wanna say you can't trust him," Gunn offered speculatively, holding his hand up to merit his standing. "But you're putting a lot on faith, here. Spike's only one vamp, and Angel's a bad mother with, as you said, Hell Incorporated supporting him. If, say, he gets in kill-mode and has Darla and Dru help him out..."
"I can handle Dru," the peroxide vampire said softly, though it was obvious that he would like to do anything but. "'F it comes down to it."
"And it probably will," Wesley stated.
"I'll handle it." Spike sighed and shook his head. "'S not like I'd wanna hurt her or anythin'. Despite everythin' that's happened, Dru's...well, she'll always be a part of me. But that doesn' mean I won' stake her 'f she stands between me an' Buffy."
"She's a monster," Wright said softly, as though any other fate outside death was unsupportable.
"She's also my..." The peroxide vampire exhaled dramatically. "Let's jus' say, it'd be no easier for any of you to kill the firs' chit you loved, would it? Doesn' matter how bloody monstrous she is, or even that I don' love her anymore. I jus' don' wanna kill her. But I will 'f that's what it comes down to."
"I don't think we could ask any more," Cordelia said before anyone else could get a word in. Then she turned her attention to the others. "And I'm doing this whether you want me to or not. Spike can help me if it comes down to it. So deal. Okay?"
Wright made a noise of disgust and turned away.
"Might help if you'd clarify what this is," Wesley suggested.
"Well, Spike's going to take me to Wolfram and Hart," she said. "Not now, but soon. And when I say soon, I mean tomorrow at the latest. I'd still like for him to talk to Lindsey and figure out if we have any alternatives." Her eyes narrowed at the platinum vampire. "Which I expect you to do directly when you get back, okay?"
Despite the severity of the circumstances, he found it within himself to answer with a cheeky, "Yes, Mum."
Gunn perked a brow. "I'm not liking this, already."
"Neither am I," Wright said, back turned to them. His entire body was wrought with strain. As though he needed to prevent himself from lashing out in a manner that was most unbecoming.
"Well..." Cordelia frowned. "Tough. Anyway, in my plan, Spike would give me to Angelus—"
"I see your 'not liking' and raise you a 'hating'," Zack told Gunn, turning at that, eyes blazing. "Are you out of your mind? He'd rip you apart in seconds. Or worse—"
"Or worse, he'd do to me what he's done to Buffy," she volunteered softly. "I know."
"You're crazy," he decided.
"No," Wesley intervened, gaze not swaying from the brunette. There was a glow of reverent awe pouring from his form. "She's...Cordelia, when on earth did you become so noble?"
She smirked, though it was in good jest. "Gee, thanks."
"I mean no offense, but—"
"Yeah, yeah. Two years ago, I was ready to kill Buffy to be Homecoming Queen. My, how not being in high school or having any friends changes people." A determined sigh sounded through her lips. "But I don't think it's going to come to that. Slayer or not, she didn't know what she was up against when what happened to her happened. I do. I know exactly what I'm doing and what the odds are. And, if this goes accordingly—"
Spike's eyes widened. "Hold it right there," he said forcefully. "Bloody hell, I thought you Sunnyhell alums knew not to jinx yourselves like that."
Cordelia covered her mouth in astonishment. "Oh God. Sorry."
"Tha's it, pet. Deal's off."
"What? No! I didn't even finish my sentence."
"You jinxed yourself," Gunn added hopefully, though his words were obviously aimed more toward the sentiment of talking her out of whatever it was she had fully planned. "Can't risk it now."
"You guys suck. I'm doing it." Her eyes leveled with Spike's. "And you're gonna help me, or else I'll be doing it alone."
The vampire wove a tapestry of obscenities under his nonexistent breath with a dejected sigh. Wright still refused to look at her.
"I'm going to be struggling too much for Angelus to have much to do with me," Cordelia continued, gaze focused on the platinum Cockney. "And you're gonna help me. Of course, you'll have to do the thing where you're trying not to be obvious in the fact that you're helping me. In fact, you'll actually have to pretend like you're helping Angelus. Then you can pull your pit-pocketing stunt and get me outta there."
The entire lobby fell deathly silent for long seconds.
"That," Gunn said, disbelievingly, "is your plan?"
"Yes."
"Cordy...that's awful."
"But worth it." She glanced to Wright briefly. His expression was stony at best, thoroughly unreadable by any conventional means. "Spike told me he's good at petty theft—"
"Yeh," the vampire agreed hotly. His features betrayed a disposition not too far removed from the demon hunter's. He obviously was not as impressed as she was hoping. "I also told you that robbin' Peaches 's akin to bloody suicide. I'm not about to put you in that kinda danger 'f that's all you got up your sleeve."
"If he's preoccupied with me, and in the middle of a struggle, he won't notice."
"Bollocks."
"Spike, do we really have any other options right now?"
At that, Wright moved to comment. The room fell silent once again under the impressionable weight of his manifest opinion. "Other than stupid schemes that will not only result in a dead Buffy, but a dead Cordy as well? I can't believe you'd actually consider doing this."
"Believe it," she snapped.
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"I so am not."
Zack stormed forward heatedly. "You're not invincible, Cordelia! You go in there and try to pull this bullshit; he's going to fucking tear you limb from limb and fuck what's left over."
Gunn winced. "Let's not get crude or anything."
"Maybe crudeness is the only way to get through to her that she's being a fucking idiot."
Cordelia was nearly quivering with fury. It touched every nerve there was to touch and influenced her all the more in her conviction. "Maybe being a fucking idiot is better than being proactive instead of reactive. This is the best that we can do, and for your information, nobody asked your permission. There's this little thing called learning from your mistakes. Since you obviously haven't taken that step yet, I'm going to have to take it for you. Learn from your mistake and not stand by twiddling my thumbs while a girl gets fucking raped and tortured and God knows what else every single day."
A cold, callous breeze filtered through the air. He matched her gaze with such intensity that she didn't know if he wanted to hit her, scream at her, kiss her, or rip her head off. In the end, he opted for none of these, and instead turned to bask in taciturn dilemma on his own terms.
Wright had only been gone seconds when Gunn decided to lighten the air. "And again," he said uneasily, "I'm out of the loop."
Wesley frowned. "I believe I am, too."
Spike said nothing at first. He watched his friend disappear to the upper levels of the Hyperion, indulged another unneeded breath, and turned Cordelia with more of the same. "Pet—"
She turned to him sharply, foreseeing his objection. "Don't. Just go. Go to Lindsey, figure out if there's something else you can do. If not, just come back and get me."
"I don' like this."
"Well, I don't, either, but I'm not going to stand back and do nothing." She glanced wordlessly to the staircase that had carried the hunter away from deliberation. "Not now that I've seen what they're capable of."
Spike followed her gaze. "Zangy—"
"He'll have to deal, okay? I'm not doing this to spite him. He's just not used to a woman in charge."
"Nikki," Gunn pointed out.
The vampire snickered softly. "Wrong kind of 'in charge', mate."
"Whatever Zack's problems are, they're his, not ours," Cordelia stated with more conviction than she felt.
"Right," Spike agreed solemnly, and nothing more would be said in the matter.
The note that settled over the Hyperion as he took his leave was somber at best. Regardless of disposition, there would be no peace between any of them while things remained as they were. They were beginning to war with themselves, which was never good.
Buffy could not be saved while her rescuers had nothing better to do than argue.
And for the moment, that was what kept him going. Flashing back to her face. The way her skin felt under his touch. The way she whimpered into his mouth. The way she begged him not to leave her.
It was time then.
Time.
Spike wanted to be certain that when she next made that request of him, he could appease her. Now through eternity. Cordelia's offer notwithstanding, it kept him motivated. Kept him moving forward.
Kept him resolved on the understanding that he would get her out. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost.
Even if it was everything. She was worth it.
It was a miracle that he could navigate himself anywhere; much less to his chamber, he was so angry. The years had taught him many things—namely to entrust his senses. Even when Amber was murdered, he did not recall being blinded with fury as much as fueled with it. Seeing her hanging as he had spurned the wakening that had led him to be what he was.
Now was an entirely different matter. The raw bluntness of his outrage had nothing compared to the intensity of it. The past two days had been hell enough on his conscience to add warring with a woman he admittedly knew very little about doing something that scared him more than he would ever openly confess. It was the closest he had come to completion since the revolutionary moment that saw the end of everything he had ever been.
His feelings for Cordelia were admittedly jumbled, this latest confrontation notwithstanding. He barely knew her, and yet she possessed the ability to strip him down to the single fibers of his neglected self. The primary reaction, of course, was to ignore her completely. Life had been hard enough without the influence of another woman. While he never resented Amber for putting him in this position and would trade what they had shared for nothing, it—in essence—had robbed him of every hope of normality he had been close to seizing.
What he had known with his wife was the closest thing to fairytale perfection he figured anyone had ever come. That wasn't to say they went their daily lives without the expected squabbles and fights over this and that. But it was homey. Happy. Somewhere between the boundary of reason and sensibility, he had found what it was that many people spent the entirety of their lives searching for. Bliss to end all other. Pure, unguarded bliss.
Which was why, in essence, losing it came at such an abominable shock. Not for the brute of consequence—that lay far beyond on an entirely separate level—but for the formality of predetermined disposition. They had never had any enemies; the thought that she could be taken from him in such a manner was beyond approach, thus even when Darla entered the picture, he was far too set in his ways to be influenced under any separate persuasion.
Seven long years had passed since he lost her. Since he felt anything but cold. But the drive to go on. There was love, of course. Love for Rosie and Nikki. Love kept more for duty and paternal obligation. He loved his daughter with everything he was, even when he thought himself void of anything but calloused resentment and fury. And even while such notion had seemed ridiculous and beyond impossible, there was the unacknowledged whim that he would never allow himself to become romantically attached to anyone. It felt wrong. As though he was betraying her. Betraying a woman seven years dead by allowing himself to become more human than he had been in the same span.
He didn't know Cordelia—not really. And yet she was a danger to him in the satisfaction of such regard. She had tapped into whatever humanity he had left. Whatever disposition was inclined to fall under the wordless authority of the opposite sex. He didn't know what to do with himself. If there was anything to do. It was wrong but it wasn't. Such could never be fully wrong.
And now she was going to do something entirely stupid.
She was going to let herself die.
Fucking women.
Not only that, she had the audacity to throw his own reservation back at him. The mere hint of suggestion was enough to make him want to wring her neck, even if it would do no good. Very little could be said or done for headstrong women. It was unfounded. He had never met anyone like her. She was sure to be the death of him in some fashion or another.
Nikki had never greeted him with such blatant opposition. They had their fights, of course, but she was always under the understanding that he inherently knew best, and to dispute him would not only be futile, but beyond foolish. After all, his judgment had prevailed them this far.
Cordelia blatantly refused to see that.
And it was going to get her killed. He couldn't lose her now. Not to the same creatures he had lost Amber to. Not with his feelings developing. Not with the collapsing of his heart on the line. Not with everything.
If he lost her, even with his feelings as they were, he feared he would never recover.
A gentle knock on the already-open door perturbed the solitude of his musings. He knew it was her without needing to turn, and he stiffened in effect even if he never refused his consent. It was of little use either way. Cordelia was her own woman and likely wouldn't care a damn about his feelings on even the smallest of matters.
That's not fair, his mind warned, but he was too forgone to care.
"Well fine," she said when he offered no greeting. "I'm coming in whether you want me to or not."
Wright's eyes narrowed. "You're good at doing things I'd rather you not," he observed.
There was a pained sigh. "Look—"
He held up a hand, still refusing to turn and face her. "I don't wanna hear it."
"I'm sorry, okay? But it has to be done."
The hunter's head fell and he exhaled deeply. "Why bother talking at all? Why bother anything?"
"If it makes you feel any better, I don't like this."
"Well, it doesn't!" At that, he pivoted sharply on the mattress, eyes shining with hurt that he hadn't wanted her to see. With more emotion than he felt he had the right to portray on such an abbreviated acquaintance. "This is insane, Cordy."
"Yeah. Getting that."
"And you don't care. You really don't care."
"Care? Care that I might get killed to the ninth degree or worse? Of course I care." She approached hesitantly, not covering too many steps in fear of rejection, but also refusing to turn and back away from him now. "But I'm not going to let Angelus win because I'm afraid."
"This isn't the only option."
"I know it's not. Or maybe it is. Maybe we waited too long and all the other options are gone. Point being, it's the only one we've got right now. We don't have time to sit around and wait for something else to spring to mind." That was it; she covered the steps between them with resolve that marked her for every strand of dignity she could uphold. A soft beat, and she sat next to him, taking her hand in his as her thumb ran comfortable circles over skin roughened with neglected time. "I've been too selfish all my life to let that stop me now."
Wright feared losing his tenacity with her so near. With the comforting touch she offered being etched aimlessly into his flesh. "It's dumb," he whispered. "It's too dumb."
"It'll be all right. Spike'll be there."
An inarticulate snort. "Don't get me wrong, but that doesn't exactly offer the grace of comfort. Spike's not the best example for...anything."
"He wouldn't let me get hurt."
"He's—"
"For the love of God, don't tell me what he is. I know what he is. Hell, one of what he is—up until recently—signed my paycheck. It doesn't matter." Her grip on him tightened. "And you know it. Spike doesn't like to admit that he's got a conscience, but he does. He's...for whatever reason; he's become a friend. To all of us. Even you."
Wright looked up sharply at that, objection written plainly in his eyes, but there was nothing to say that would offer reasonable disagreement. He was tired of arguing a fruitless battle. Tired of pretending his prejudice was the only thing keeping him from the full welcome back to humanity. Too long spent in the cold winter of his own discontent. Thawing back to life was a tiresome, nearly painful process. "I know," he conceded softly. And the weight of the world fell down upon him. A collapse—a confession. Everything he had wanted to keep concealed so long. The complete transformation of character. From one extreme to the next. He hadn't asked for this—hadn't wanted to trust Spike. Hadn't wanted to lose himself all over again. Hadn't asked his unlikely friend and the woman currently cradling his arm to tap back into his compassion. He hadn't wanted it, goddammit. And yet here he was.
"I don't want you to get hurt," he whispered softly.
Cordelia smiled and pat his hand with empty reassurance. "I won't."
"You can't know that."
"Well, I'm pretty stubborn, you see. When I put my mind to something, I don't rest until I see it through."
"This has to be the dumbest plan ever."
She quirked a brow. "Oh, I don't know. I never got through telling you all my adventures a la Sunnydale."
Wright nodded and closed his hand around hers, braving her eyes at last. "Tell me when it's over," he said.
A smile at that and a nod for agreement. "Sounds like a plan."
Yeah. A plan. Seemed to be a lot of those going around.
He would allow it, of course. He had to. He had no place intervening, and no authority over her will to make it otherwise. She was determined. That much was indisputable.
He just hoped she knew what she was doing.
Spike knew it was stupid so soon, but the minute he set foot inside Wolfram and Hart, there was no other truth. He had to see her again.
At times like these, the peroxide vampire wondered if he did himself more harm than good simply by being in existence. His judgment was not exactly reputable, and he had a tendency for getting himself in trouble simply by opening his mouth. And yet, despite his awareness of such things, he could not help himself. It was beyond reproach. Like the bloody clichéd moth to the flame, he was drawn to her. He needed to see her, to be near her. To have that reassurance of her tangibility.
Such was his determination that he didn't think to check on the others' whereabouts. In these fast coming days, his patience had all but plummeted. And while logic attempted to throw itself at any open window, he simply wouldn't hear the half of it.
He had to bloody see her.
There was some merit in reasonability. As his burdened steps drew him nearer, his senses went on high alert. Angelus's scent wafted in the dreary downstairs, but there was no evidence of his current proximity. The quarters were empty—he had thought to check that much—and while two factors did not measure soundness of being; it was all he needed to push him onward. To convince him to plunder his more tangible cares aside and confirm that she was all right.
If only for a second. After all, his previous rendezvous had gone unmentioned. And the peroxide vampire was always one to try his luck.
Strange. He would have thought the shock of seeing her in such a state would have waned and settled. After all, every time his eyes flashed closed, his mind drew him back to a sad focal point of reckoning. She haunted every corner of his psyche, visited and caressed every part of him that had not previously been explored. And yet again, seeing her sliced through every nerve that had once felt life. As though he was bleeding eternally for every one of the lives he had ever destroyed, and could never find solace in death.
Yet her eyes lit up when she saw him. And for that, he would touch the sun.
"Spike."
Funny how a voice so raw with screams and even further disuse could strike up a wind that not even the grandest symphony dared compete.
He couldn't stop himself if he tried. In seconds, he had paraded to her and commanded her sweet mouth into a needing, however gentle kiss, his hands going to her face. Sore eyes did not wish to inspect her for new scars, though he knew it was inevitable. His call for blood in turn of what she had suffered—he needed to know how much. "Told you," he murmured against her skin. "Told you I'd be back."
"Real."
Spike smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, luv. I'm real."
Buffy pulled back at that, tears flooding her eyes that he could not bear. God, how was it that he always ended up the source of such pain when all he wanted to do was wish it away? But there was no hurt behind her gaze. Rather, she was looking at him with reverential awe. As though he burned effulgent with divinity. "I thought I had dreamed you," she whispered. "I thought..."
"I know, baby."
"But you're here." Her eyes focused on his determinately. "Not a dream."
"Not a dream."
"Real." The word escaped her a tortured gasp, her eyes falling shut as his lips explored her throat. "You're really real."
Despite the weight of circumstance, he smiled against her skin. "That's right."
"Here for me."
"Only for you." He pulled back, eyes shining. "An' the cavalry's on it's way, Buffy. Soon. All right?"
She nodded, though it was clear she didn't understand. "You're very strange," she informed him, nearly pristinely.
A strangled chuckle fought through his throat. "You don' know the half of it."
"Here for me." The Slayer's head quirked. "Spike, why? Please tell me."
And there it was. The open window. She had given it to him before, but he had not leapt through. Something about the timing. Something about everything there was to have reservations about. But she had not flinched away from him then, and she was not now. She had returned his ardent fervor best she could. The tears she sported now, while shards against his nonbeating heart, were not the product of pain.
She could never feel the way he did—he stood by that assessment.
But she deserved to know. She deserved to know something.
Even if the timing could never be appropriate. If not now, then not when she was recuperating. If not then, then not on the drive home. If not home, then never. He would take his love to the end of the world before he scared her off with it, even if she always knew his driving cause.
It had to be said. At least once, if never again.
"Buffy," he began huskily, nearing once more of unknown volition. "I—"
An intrusive scent hit the air with such bluntness that he could not have foreseen its coming until the second before it wrestled him to the ground. Something strong, more than potent. Something that stirred his monster to life with more vitality than he had known in his long years. Such that he feared it would burst free of him and cast his skin aside. The emergence from one to the other. Demon versus man.
Right now, the demon prevailed.
"Well, well," Angelus said from his place at the doorway, arms crossed and a quirked brow. His voice was sharp and metallic, ringing with game and disdain. "Isn't this interesting?"
To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Seven: World On Fire...