Fallen
It was amazing. Though she had seen the sun rise many times before, it had never been like this. And Dawn doubted very much that she would ever tire of the sight. The first peeks of light over the still English horizon, pouring golden drops of lemonade across the plains that she had come to know as home over these last weeks. Funny how a new place could become home so quickly. Funny, but not wholly unexpected.
In truth, they hadn’t been in England all that long. It felt like it. The past few days had seen little alleviation in habit. Dawn was still on California time—she felt she had to be. That was where Buffy was.
Sleep was a near impossibility, despite Giles’s prompt. Rest came in short spurts, almost always forced if she did not exhaust herself. Most nights saw her collapse in the sitting room; curled on the couch or resting against the table. The Watcher always found her. Always coaxed her to her room before her mother saw her and thought to worry. Having Buffy to consider was bad enough, he said, and Joyce was in no state to add her to a list of growing concerns.
She did enjoy English mornings, though. Her falsified memories recalled well what life in Los Angeles had been like. The hurry. The noise. The busywork. While making the necessary transition from a large town to a smaller location, it had undoubtedly been for the best. Even the Hellmouth was an improvement over a refuge for teenage runaways and drug hangs.
For a long time, she had resented her sister in instigating such a drastic change. The proclaimed City of Angels was hardly an ideal town to know her adolescence; a move of such magnitude was more than burdensome.
The sky had won her over. Not clouded by the expected layer of smog. Just bright, fervent stars that glazed over a dark, never-ending blanket. An endless sugar jar that sparkled at her—demanding that she sample its sweetness.
The newness had worn off, of course, as most things did; her admiration for the stars notwithstanding. She was a teenager, after all, and maintaining any level of interest proved more than challenging. But it was always there. An afterthought. A dark beauty to keep her company while her sister patrolled.
England was different, and not only in the obvious ways. Dawn doubted she could ever stop staring at the clarity of the night sky. That she would ever tire of watching the sun pour its warmth over the open countryside. How Giles had found this place, she did not know. Perhaps it was a family estate. Perhaps it belonged to the Council. He had mentioned its tenure, she knew, but she hadn’t been listening at the time.
Her mother was sick. Her sister was gone.
And Spike was off to rescue her.
It wasn’t as though it was a surprise. Dawn had sensed the vampire’s feelings long before even he had. And in all honesty, he was so bad at hiding them. She remembered the night that he came home with her for the first time. The infamous conversation that she watched in secret rather than participated. They were going to take Angelus out. Together. United in what turned out to be the first of many alliances. And true, while his heart was pledged to Drusilla at the time, she saw how he looked at her sister. That sheath of hatred that only barely covered the mixed confusion and longing beneath. She had been too young to know what she was seeing, but the image never left her.
The past few months had been a severe eye opener. Dawn was fourteen now. She was still young, of course, but she was well into the stage where marketing what guys were feeling was all based on the eyes. She lacked her sister’s confidence in school, always felt more the punch line rather than the comedian. But she was good at reading people. Very good. And prior to this unfortunate mess, Spike’s behavior had been even stranger than usual. It hadn’t taken long to piece together. Starting from the initial night three years prior, she had been able—very quickly—to arrive at a conclusion that satisfied her. Spike loved her sister. Good for him. True, that pretty much screwed her chances of ever attracting his eye, but that had been a poor gamble to begin with. Even if she lived to be the oldest woman in history, she would always be regarded as the baby.
So was the woe of being the youngest child.
And she was the youngest. The youngest fourteen year-old in the world. She hadn’t even lived a full year. Not really. Memories were just, but they were nothing more than pictures. Images. Things some monks wanted her and her family to believe in order to keep a hellbitch from getting her hands drenched in Key-blood.
They were on immensely high alert. While reports on Glory since leaving California had been few and far between, Dawn figured that the Scoobies needed an excuse to not think of where their Slayer was. Thus the days had been filled with endless research. Willow and Tara spent hours perfecting their craft, enhancing the protective, however unseen barrier that kept them concealed from the outer world. It was not infallible, they explained, but were Glory to show up, they would be well aware and prepared before the insane-perm-gone-wrong-bitch could get her hands on them.
Buffy was not in their conversations. She did not make visits to the dinner table. She did not drift in and out of research sessions. She was, for all intents and purposes, shunned from the manor even if she had a permanent place in the luxury room. Dawn never doubted that she was in their thoughts. It was easy to see. The constant worry that befell Giles’s face was not for her or her mother; she would not fool herself. Xander’s eyes were always empty and sad, even when he was laughing at something Anya said or playing a board game with the rest of the gang. Even the former vengeance demon herself was surprisingly taciturn on the matter. There was an unspoken code. They couldn’t mention Buffy. Couldn’t. It was too easy to refer to her in the past tense, and that was something that no one was prepared for.
It had bothered Dawn at first. The thought that they were to pretend Buffy was all right—or worse—nonexistent. She wanted to talk about her sister. Wanted to discuss possible venues they could explore when waiting for Spike seemed to be an endless sentence. But that passed, as things often did, and she learned that silence was a virtue. As long as they did not mention her sister, she would always be alive.
God, how many days had gone by? How many more would she greet? Would she see an end to it? The English countryside was lovely, but she would gladly forfeit all chance of ever seeing it again just to know that Buffy was safe. That Spike had come through. That he had saved her as he promised he would, and all was well.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home so badly.
“Hey Dawnster,” came the soft inquiry from behind, followed by the belated warning creak in the floorboard. “You’re up early.”
She glanced over her shoulder, forcing a smile to her face. “Morning, Willow.”
“You all right?”
“Peachy keen. Peachy keen is me.”
The redhead smiled back and nodded. “Good, good. I’m gonna try my hand at some breakfast. Wanna help?”
“I think I’m gonna stick to cereal this morning, but—sure—I can help.”
There was a curious pause. “You sure you’re all right?” she asked a minute later. “You seem to be Deep Thought gal this morning.”
“I’m fine,” Dawn reassured her, turning her eyes back to the horizon. The sun was rising higher. She wondered if that meant it was nighttime in California. Despite her body’s resistance to the time change, she had been at a loss for time since her watch broke earlier last week.
A bitter chuckle erupted untimely from her lips. Broken watches. Her sister was being tortured or turned or worse and she was sitting across the globe in a perfect English cottage, watching the sunrise and worrying about broken watches.
That was all it took. In seconds, Willow had sealed the distance between them, coaxing the girl into her embrace. From where her will crumpled, she did not know. There were tears suddenly. She hadn’t cried over Buffy since they left California, but by god, she was crying now.
“Shhhh,” the Witch murmured, stroking her hair softly as she rocked them back and forth. “It’s okay, Dawnie. It’s okay.”
“No,” the girl protested, shaking her head. “It’s really, really not. I’m so worried, Will. I’m so…it’s not fair. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t—”
“No goodbyes, sweetheart,” the redhead reassured, even if her voice betrayed her. It was admirable but annoying all the same. If living in Sunnydale had taught her anything, it was that saying goodbye was the only certainty there was in life. But Buffy had always been invincible. She had always prevailed. Always survived. It never occurred to Dawn that neglecting to bid her farewell before an evening’s patrol would result in the largest burden her small, unlived shoulders had known. As sisters, they had always been on the outs. Always fought. Always bickered about this and that. She had always resented Buffy for her superiority, for being the one the others favored, for being the Slayer. But with that came boundless love and unfathomable respect. If she lost Buffy without letting her know that, she would never forgive herself.
“I miss her,” she sobbed into the Witch’s sweater.
“I know, honey. We all do. But hey—no worries! We’ll—”
“Don’t. Don’t do that.” Dawn pulled away hastily, jabbing at her tears, angry that she had revealed them to begin with. So many days gone without crying, it didn’t make sense why this would be the breaking point. Of course, if not yesterday, why not today? It was inevitable either way. “Don’t pretend around me, Will. Just be honest. I can’t stand this pretending. It’s…it’s not right. Buffy’s out there, and we’re…”
A trembling sigh escaped Willow’s lips. “I know,” she agreed. “But Spike’s with her. He wouldn’t let her down.”
“Xander doesn’t seem to think so.”
“What?” The Witch’s face fell into an unfriendly frown. “What has he said to you? God, that little worm. I could wring his neck! Or better yet, turn him into a newt. Stupid guy never learns when to not talk. I—”
“Don’t turn Xander into anything. He’s told me nothing. It’s just obvious.” When she didn’t readily agree, Dawn rolled her eyes. “Come on, I don’t have to have magical powers to know that. Just looking at him’s enough. He doesn’t trust Spike any more than he would trust Anya with a Playgirl centerfold.”
That remark earned a wry grin. “I think he does,” she said softly. “I mean, sure, Spike’s done the entire ‘I hate you because I’m evil’ thing, but really, if Xander was paying any attention the night that he came by—”
“You told me that he accused Spike right off.”
At that, Willow fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well…he did…but…” That wasn’t helping. With a dejected sigh, she shook her head and shifted to lean against the wall. “Look, for what it’s worth, I think if Spike’s gotten this far…or as far as he was, last we heard from him, we don’t have much to worry about. No news is good news, right?” No reply. Just endless staring at the sun-kissed plane. “If anything, Spike knows that he has to get her back. ‘Cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna get his ass kicked by the Scooby Gang.”
Dawn grinned weakly. “You better believe it.”
The Witch’s arm found its way around the girl’s shoulders again and contented itself to give her a good squeeze. “Come on, short stuff. Let’s get cookin’.”
“Short stuff? I’m taller than you.”
“I was referring to your aura, thank you very much.”
“I so do not have a short aura.”
Willow sighed dramatically. “Fine. Have it your way. Why don’t you go feed Miss Kitty Fantastico and I’ll start us up some pancakes. No more of this cereal nonsense. You’re too young to be eating healthy, and I know you can’t resist pancakes.”
The girl smiled. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”
“Got the wrench all ready.”
That was it, then. The morning would continue as normal. No more mention of her absentee sister or the vampire antihero that had insisted upon saving her. Talking about her would not bring her back. No more salt. No more wounds. Just this. This enduring of whatever there was to endure.
Despite its beauty, Dawn did not think she would miss England. Rather she found the environment somewhat disconcerting. In time, she feared her taste for it would spoil completely. The ground was tainted with the essence of Buffy, always reminding her that she would not be here were it not for things that were far out of control.
The tears that rallied for release were denied. No sense crying.
There were chores to do.
For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, Spike had absolutely no idea where to go. His options were vast in number but nothing could satisfy his whim of exploration, nor his impatience to hurry through the night. The Hyperion was dangerous, despite its convenience, and he didn’t feel right being around the others. His friends. There was Caritas, but he didn’t want to sing. He was too afraid of what the Host might see in his future, be it good or bad.
He couldn’t turn a corner, mutter a word, have a thought without referring to her. How much had changed without having changed at all. The feel of her against his skin haunted him. His lips ached with the taste of her kisses. The experience was unlike anything he had thought to feel before. The plethora of light.
Perhaps it was the exchange of blood. Of course, there hadn’t been an exchange —he had given her his blood to strengthen her; he had not taken any of hers for himself. It seemed to connect them, though, on a level he was unprepared for. And even before. Mostly before. Touching her. Reveling her taste in his mouth. Being handed freely all the things he previously thought himself denied.
It was too much; his thoughts were too compact, too confusing for his muddled translation. There was nothing new to process for what was essential. The Slayer was being held by Angelus, and he had to get her out. Simple as that.
And thanks to Lindsey McDonald, they had a somewhat decent plan.
Okay, a very decent plan. It was merely a matter of timing.
Spike snickered roughly to himself. Funny. Wolfram and Hart—more particularly—Lindsey had him exactly where he was most vulnerable. He would do anything to get Buffy out. Anything. No task was too small to merit attention, no challenge too great to intimidate him. And yet, the price demanded was so small. So insignificant. The blood of Angelus was already on his hands; it simply had yet to manifest. He would kill the bastard. And he would enjoy every minute of it.
In the end, the peroxide vampire opted for Wright’s discarded motel room. The hunter had claimed that the bill was paid throughout the rest of the month, and he doubted that such had changed, despite the granted accommodations at the Hyperion. It was the safest bet, after all. No one would think to look for him there. Angelus might follow, but he doubted it—and even so, Spike reckoned his scent was strewn across nearly half the town. Finding and maintaining a lead would be more than bothersome, even for his influential grandsire.
Lindsey could find him, and at the moment, that was all the vampire cared about. The mercenary vampires had tracked him there before, thus he didn’t believe that Wolfram and Hart suffered any hindrance of knowing where to look when there was something missing on the grocery list. He would go there tonight, and tomorrow while the big git slept, he would share the change of plans with the rest of the waiting team at Angel Investigations.
Of course, as always, there was the one crucial thing that Spike didn’t think to bank on: that the room was already in use.
Very much in use.
It was a comically delayed moment. He stood at the doorway, wide-eyed, watching Wright and Cordelia move together in the seemingly endless seconds before they realized that they had an audience. Then an influx of reaction; he overcame his shock and threw an arm across his face in horror.
“Oh bloody hell!” he growled. “My virgin eyes!”
All movement came to an abrupt standstill—the panting man on the bed looking over his shoulder frozen in horror. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Lookin’ for a place to stay,” came the dejected reply. “Well, bugger that idea. Glad to see you two made up.” That was it. He left without another word, slamming the door behind him.
A long, awkwardly still moment settled through the room. Wright slowly glanced down to Cordelia, who, although she was notably not embarrassed, looked a little more than peeved. “You were right,” she commented dryly. “This was a bad idea.”
At that, the trademark smirk that had been her undoing stretched across his face once more. “Do me a favor. Don’t call it bad until…” He surged powerfully, earning a low moan in turn as the mood took a surprising revival. “…after. My ego’s only so fragile.”
It didn’t last. With seconds, the door had opened again, and Spike strolled inward once more. The horror from his face had faded, and he regarded the spectacle on the bed as though they were children playing on the schoolyard. “I jus’ wanted to say, good on you, mates. I knew you two’d pull it off ‘f you were given a li’l nudge…” He trailed off in consideration. “Well, more than a nudge, ‘f you ended up—”
Cordelia slammed a hand down on the mattress—markedly out of aggravation rather than reaction. “Spike!”
Zack looked down at her in disgusted astonishment. “Don’t yell his name while we’re…” There was no good word to use in such a situation, thus he opted to gesture inarticulately.
Another awkward beat passed; Spike cleared his throat as though only then recalling what he walked in on. With an oddly chivalrous nod, he turned to leave once more. “Right. Jus’ leavin’. You two—erm—have fun.”
By now, the Seer was breathless and nodding emphatically, waving at him to hurry his leave. “Sure I’ll get right on that.”
Wright flashed her a wicked smirk. “Or under it.”
“Okay. Officially scarred for my unlife. ‘m gone before the damage is permanent.” And he did. Left so quickly, no one could mistake his exit the second time around.
“Now…” Zack said, panting a little. “Where were we?” He began moving with experimental thrusts that earned him a sharp gasp—Cordelia’s hands going to seize his biceps for leverage. “Ah…now I remember.”
It couldn’t last. Spike knew that the minute he left the motel, more disturbed than he wanted to admit. He wanted to give them their peace, but whatever newfound bliss they were experiencing had to be put on hold. The years had taught him many things, shown him more than he rightly reckoned he would have ever claimed an interest in, but watching two people have sex with actual feelings was something he wasn’t accustomed to. Angelus had always made a spectacle of himself: fucking Darla or Dru or some victim or all of the above where anyone could see. That had never bothered him. Not really. But knowing what Wright and Cordelia were doing delivered a want of something more. What they were doing was private because it was more than just the connection. Granted, that hadn’t stopped him from interrupting a second time, but it was personal all the same.
Spike waited, lounged comfortably against the exterior wall, smoking leisurely. He knew it was only a matter of time.
He was right. Within twenty minutes, the door to Wright’s motel room opened to reveal a disheveled Cordelia working on the buttons to her blouse. She expressed no surprise at seeing him waiting; rather arched her brows with an uncharacteristic flush and turn to gaze over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she called. “He’s still here.”
The peroxide vampire smirked at her. In seconds the hunter, whose disposition seemed to be a step on the jovial side—atypical, but amusing nevertheless, joined them with a lazy smile.
Spike cocked his head with an arched brow. “Top of the evenin’ to you,” he greeted.
“Oh, you can say that again.”
Cordelia whacked his arm. He merely shrugged, most notably unconcerned. That prompted an aggravated sigh and a customary roll of the eyes. “God,” she snickered under her breath. “I sure know how to pick ‘em.”
The platinum Cockney chuckled his amusement, indulging another puff on his cigarette. “So,” he began, “when’d this happen?”
“We were going for weapons,” she stated. “The stuff he didn’t bring with him when you two came here a few nights ago.”
There was a twinkle in his eye; Spike was grinning like an idiot. “An’ you what?” he asked the demon hunter. “Seduced her into your pit of filth an’—”
“Hey!”
“Call ‘em like I see ‘em, mate.”
“Yeah,” Cordelia agreed, nose wrinkling. “I forgot we were here. Sheesh, you make Doyle’s apartment look like a Marriott.”
Wright frowned. “Who’s Doyle?”
A poignant look overwhelmed her at that; telling but brief. “Old friend,” she said softly. “A good old friend. He’s the one that gave me the visions.”
“I’m not following…”
“He kissed me before he saved us…me and Angel. There was this glowy thing and it was gonna kill us and he…” It was odd to see her undertaken with an incursion of emotion, despite the consequence of her regard. “Anyway, point being, his place was a dump…but not as bad as this.”
“I can’t believe you’re thinking of the décor after—”
Spike held up a hand. “So, what? Give you two an enclosed area, an’ suddenly you’re shaggin’ like bunnies?”
There was an uncomfortable beat.
“It was because of the plan,” Cordelia said. “Well, sorta. We figured we were on the way there anyway…well, at least I did. I was sorta…the jumper. You know, just in case it all goes to hell and you guys end up with one dead Seer on your hands.”
Wright grunted discontentedly. “And she wonders why I want her to drop it altogether.”
“Hey,” she protested. “We don’t have anything better.”
“Actually, we do.” Spike smiled thinly when they glanced to him, eyes wide and filled with hopeful inquiry. If nothing else, Lindsey’s plan was the better for the regard of the blooming rose between these two lovebirds. “Thanks to a lawyer we all know an’ resent, I got me a helluva proposition.”
The relief rolling from Wright was blatant, and that alone made the announcement all the more worth it. “What? What’s—”
“Apparently, Lindsey has access to the bloke that made the bloody key in the first place. Says he’s agreed to come in an’ undo it.” Spike shrugged. “Given the lesser of two bad ideas, I’d say his wins the ‘let’s do it’ award, mainly ‘cause I think his stands a chance of bein’…oh, I dunno, effective.”
“His plan is to call a locksmith?” the demon hunter asked with a grin.
“My plan was effective!” Cordelia growled.
“Yeah,” Wright agreed, rolling his eyes. “A real effective way of getting you killed.”
“Watch it.”
“Now, now, children,” Spike intervened with a condescending smile. “Let’s not make a big thing outta it.”
There was a sigh of concession. “Fine,” the brunette offered. “Fine. So Lindsey’s idea is better. It would bet—he’s a lawyer.”
“Right,” Zack agreed, rolling his eyes. “That’s the only reason.”
She ignored him. “When’s this going down? We gotta get everyone—”
“No,” Spike said. “Too dangerous with the lot of us goin’ in. Zangy an’ I’ll handle this alone.”
“But—”
“I gotta agree,” Wright replied. “Sounds far less risky with just us.”
“You’re just looking for an excuse to lay waste to the place.”
The two men exchanged a mischievous glance. “Yeah,” they conceded in unison.
“Fine,” Cordelia grumbled. “Fine. When do you go in?”
“’F all goes accordin’ to Lindsey’s schedule,” the peroxide Cockney said slowly. “We’ll move in tomorrow while the wankers are sleepin’ the day away. In an’ out. No bloody hassle.”
“That’s it?” Wright demanded skeptically, arching a brow. “Sweep in, sweep out, presto Slayer? I don’t think so. Nothing is ever that easy, especially where these guys are concerned. Hell, Spike, if I know that, then—”
The observation earned a sharp glare that did little to mask the vampire’s palpable concerns, but having such blatantly exploited did little to alleviate his disposition. “Jus’ for bloody once,” he declared, “we can hope it otherwise. Either way, I’m gettin’ her outta there tomorrow, an’ God help the man who stands in my way.” A sigh rolled off his shoulders; he knew he was surprising them with the impact of his seriousness, though he couldn’t understand why. From the beginning, the entire crew had been keenly tuned into his regard as far as Buffy was concerned. Perhaps they sensed the change in him—amazing, though, for he could hardly sense it himself. He merely knew it was there.
“Gettin’ her out’s the priority,” he said, tone indicating there would be no dispute. “Let them kill me firs’. All right? Zangy, I know this is a bloody no-brainer, but ‘m countin’ on you to get her out ‘f I can’t. You understand?”
There was a splash of silence laced with uncomfortable shifting. Not such to betray the notion of camaraderie that had uncannily spread between the two since their haphazard meeting, but hardly enough to mask it. Amazing how a man so foregone in his cause could revert in mere days. It had nothing to do with character—Spike didn’t doubt that for a minute. Rather, their likeliness had bound them together. Unusual friends where no other alliances could be forged.
“I mean it,” he reiterated after receiving no reply.
“I know. Getting Buffy out’s the priority. I know.”
Another pause. Spike shrugged a minute later to show his indifference, guarding worry with something that no one thought to identify. “’S no big concern,” he said. “I plan to be there for the whole bloody ride. Jus’ need a li’l insurance policy’s all.”
“I get that. And how.”
Cordelia’s lips pursed, her demeanor reverting to form. She appeared no less satisfied with the prospect of Wright in danger than he had when the tables had been reversed, but unlike him, she knew when the barriers of little option blocked them from more agreeable pursuits of truth. Therefore she turned to Spike, eyes ablaze with understanding. “Right,” she said slowly. “What do you want us to do?”
Such blatant regard. Even now, he found this unlikely role in leadership somewhat discomfiting, however appreciated.
“Stay at the hotel,” he replied. “Lindsey’ll call ‘f there’s trouble.”
“You sure you won’t take Gunn or Wes with?”
“’m sure. Zangy an’ I are all the muscle we need. Relax, pet, ‘s a simple retrieval. Once the warlock bloke works his mojo, gettin’ her to safety’s only a matter of minutes. ‘Sides,” he added with a somewhat impish grin. “Someone’s gotta stay behind an’ protect the womenfolk.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Zack smirked but turned to Spike all the same. “You’re staying here tonight?”
“Yeh. Gotta maintain a low profile. ‘ll be by early in the mornin’.”
“How early’s early?”
The Cockney grimaced. “Too early for a vampire, let’s put it that way. You two better run on…get in a nice long shag before the sun comes up.”
“Hey!” Cordelia whacked him again, ignoring the mock-wounded look that slid over Wright’s face.
“‘Hey!’?” he repeated, only mildly serious. “Why ‘hey!’?”
“Din’t mean to get you all skittish,” Spike observed with a sneer. “Jus’ thought I’d offer some advice. Reckon the lot’ve us are gonna be tense an’ hankerin’ for relaxation tonight. Better take it where you can get it.”
At that, both parties glared at him. “Hey!”
He ignored them. “You two run off,” he said. “Do what you gotta.”
The pretense dropped immediately. Cordelia reached out with sympathy that surprised him still. “What are you gonna do?”
A sigh. Spike glanced up, forbidding the all-consuming worry that had dominated him since seeing her that afternoon from pouring through his eyes. Emotions were piling dangerously, and he knew that if he allowed himself to fall completely that he might rightly never prevail. “Try an’ get some sleep,” he answered. “Try an’ see past tomorrow.”
Something told him, as all things were, that the task would always be easier said than done. But he was a stubborn bloke. He always had to try.
The night was the last Buffy would see in captivity. He knew that without knowing anything else. The only questioned that plagued his conscience was the thought that it might be the last she saw at all. The last he witnessed. The last for Zack Wright, who did not deserve to be deprived of the bit of happiness he had only now found.
In that, he was doubly determined. Buffy would get out, and she would get out alive.
Even if he did not.
To be continued in Chapter Thirty-One: The Last Day…