Hello
Monday. 5:28 AM
There was a time that Lindsey McDonald could remember when he was the one laughing at Lilah Morgan for her rigid punctuality to match her ludicrously early mornings and equally amusing late departures. He knew it existed; happenings and events were burnt into every shadow of his recollection. There but in deep hiding.
Funny. With all the competing they had done, it took the account both wanted the most to get the childish bickering to finally know end. So much had occurred the past few days that he didn't remember the last time he saw her. The last time she visited his office for the mutual degrading exchange that left neither party at any sort of advantage. She stabbed him in the back and he did the same. A never ending cycle of imagined goodness.
And to think, there had been a day where he wanted all of this.
Lindsey suspected that if he cared, the absence of Lilah's frequent visits would have made him nervous. As it was, he had not given her more than a few seconds' thought since betraying the Order to Angel Investigations.
That was until he looked up and saw her standing in his office.
Then glanced down with much of the same and continued flipping through paperwork.
"So, that's it, then?" she demanded. "No 'good morning'? No 'nice to see you'? Really, after all we've been through together, that hurts."
"I thought it better not to lie."
"Then you're in the wrong business. Not only do we work for evil, we're lawyers."
"Is there something you want, Lilah?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"It's a statement with a question mark tagged on the end. Answer however you like."
A shadow of a smile crossed her face as she stepped forward appraisingly, narrowed eyes giving him a once over he didn't particularly like, but still refused to object. "They know," she informed him. "The Senior Partners. They know what you've been up to."
Lindsey finally glanced up. His eyes were an endless pit of apathy. "Aw, shucks. And after I went to so much trouble to conceal my efforts. Whups. Shame on me."
"You sound pompously secure for a man who has latently signed his own death warrant."
He offered an apathetic shrug. "Well, as you said, we're lawyers."
The woman's mouth formed a line of solemnity, her head cocking with apt consideration. "Was it worth it, Lindsey? Forfeiting everything for the sake of something you can't possibly prevent? I hope so. I'd hate to think you'd live to regret the minute you betrayed yourself, despite how fucking ironic it is."
"There are many things I regret." He dropped his pen haphazardly and leaned back, folding his arms across his belly. "This will never be one of them."
"You sure?"
"Positive." His eyes glimmered mischievously. "Oh, come now, Lilah. Don't tell me you're disappointed. You look like your dog died, and I know it's not for me. After all, weren't you the one that killed the mongrel in the first place?"
She shrugged. "The Senior Partners wanted it dead. It was pregnant."
"Yes, I remember. Odd how the Partners only favor demon spawn that will benefit them."
"It's not odd, dumbass. It's survival of the fittest."
"No one stopped to consider the dog's feelings." He didn't know where that had come from; he wasn't trying to be cute but he didn't believe it, either. And it sounded odd against the air. A statement void but filled with emotion. A contradiction in itself. "Besides, much as I recall, the critter would've been harmless."
Lilah smiled unpleasantly. "All the better to kill it now before it got used to disappointment." She crossed her arms and walked a pace across his office. "I don't think you've considered the consequences of your actions, Lindsey. I really don't. And really, don't feel obligated to try to correct anything, even though watching now would prove ultimately amusing. The Order, while not productive, would have been eliminated if the Partners thought it necessary. Your taking matters into your own hands is going to be considered hostile liability."
His eyes narrowed and his chair moved just a little, following her as she walked the length of what was offered. "Say that again," he suggested, "then ask me if I give a damn."
There was a snort of appreciation. "You doing this because of her?" she asked.
"Do you care?"
"Not particularly."
Lindsey glanced down. "I'm doing this because what's happening to her, what he's done to her, what we did to her is wrong," he said. "I would tell you to not pretend to worry, but I know that's not necessary. Once Spike and his demon hunter arrive, it'll be over. And you won't see me again."
Lilah's eyes sparkled. "Pity." She turned then and made for a haughty exit, walking with dignity and power as always. At the door, however, she paused once more, pivoting to gaze at him over her shoulder. "There is just one more thing."
"Oh?"
"Those tapes you were so interested in...well, I had to take a peek, myself."
Lindsey went very, very still. "And?"
"Something very interesting happened, oh, ten minutes ago. Seems Drusilla's let the cat out of the bag." A nasty smirk was situated proudly on her lips. "Angelus was...well, the term 'madder than hell' comes to mind. He's going to kill her. Well, not to be hasty, he's going to torture the shit out of her, then kill her. About time, too, if you ask me." She turned to leave again and paused once more. "Some of the guys from real-estate and I are going to make some popcorn and watch the show. If you hurry, you can join us."
The last seemed as though she was speaking in slow motion and he was too daft to follow. One minute sitting there, listening to her like a rational person—and then raw impulse overwhelmed him, and he had bounded for the door. Nothing beyond what she had said, simply the knowledge that Buffy was in trouble. That was all that drove him.
It didn't get him very far. The next thing he knew, Lindsey was on the floor with Lilah hovering over him, stun gun in her hand.
"I thought you might try something stupid."
But he wasn't awake to hear her.
Nor was he awake to watch her reach for her cell, punch in a few random digits, and wait.
"Lilah Morgan here. Lindsey McDonald is going to require some very minor medical attention as soon as possible. You will find him on the floor in his office. Be cautioned, his injuries might leave him temporarily delusional, so do not allow him to leave until he has clearance from myself or the Department Head." She nodded perceptibly, fighting the temptation to literally kick him when he was down. Despite their mutual hostility, there was a form of respect that could not go ignored. "One more thing, do not be alarmed if the vampire monitors detect something unusual. I had Spike's authorization stripped last night—we want to know the minute he enters the building." A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "No. I want him to reach her. Just make sure it's done before he does. We don't want him interrupting anything."
5:41 AM
The first beads of daybreak touched the city sometime between departure and arrival. Spike felt it as sure as anything. While avoiding direct contact with the morning sunlight was hardly a challenge, despite the current disparity of his thought process, it occurred to him in some dark region that he was very fortunate. Not many vampires could say they knew their way intimately around a town to a point of undeviating avoidance. Sparks of inherent trepidation snaked across his back, tickled into his senses, and whispered his legs to pump harder, even if he did not need the encouragement.
"You all right?" Wright asked, even if he knew it was unneeded.
Stupid, stupid question.
The peroxide vampire didn't answer. He hadn't said a word, much less composed a thought into logical context since leaving the Hyperion. Every time he tried to speak, the image of Rosie, white as a sheet, interrupted his hindsight. That awful moment when she stood perched over the railing. Distraught. Cold. And certain.
She had been so fucking certain.
The loom of Wolfram and Hart waited ahead. Just ahead. Nothing else.
The demon hunter again. Scraping at his side with eagerness that betrayed a want of feeling. Spike's appreciation for the man had never been greater, but he could not allow himself to stop and consider that now. "We have a plan?"
Inside now. The quiet lobby of a building that was never quiet. Stillness.
That was it. All the solid evidence he needed to confirm what Rosie had said was true, even if he had known it from the beginning. Wolfram and Hart was silent. And yet, he felt the announcement of his presence screaming unheard volumes through the ethereal ripples that connected every molecular fiber and held this house of sin sturdy and unwavering.
He turned to Wright and tossed him a Colt .45 that he had located in Wesley's desk before leaving. The weapon was so small, so alien. Both men were accustomed to rhetoric and ancient tools to do in demons.
This device was meant to spill human blood.
Human.
"Kill anythin' that moves," he said coldly. "That's the soddin' plan. Savvy?"
Zack stared at the gun as though it would bite him, color drained from his face. "I...you want me to shoot people?"
"Not people. These aren' people. They're butchers. Bloody butchers."
"That doesn't—"
"Well, Angel never had a problem with it before he went bad. An' trust me, 'f you find a magical loophole in that warped sense of logic, these blokes must be anythin' but human." Spike's eyes were afire, such that the promise of his own potency frightened even him. He was dangerous to anyone in this state. Driven with the primal need to get to her, no matter what it took. No matter what it cost others. He had never known such raw, unbridled need. And he had never thought said need to coincide with the darkest manifestation of pure outrage he had ever known. "They have Buffy. Don' stop shootin' until I have her out."
"It's too soon," Wright protested. His voice sounded ridiculously conspicuous, even if he was whispering. "We can't know that Lindsey'll be ready. That the Gregori guy you mentioned—"
"I get to Buffy. That's all that matters."
"But—"
"That's. All. That. Matters." The peroxide vampire threw a menacing glance over his shoulder. "Aim for the kneecaps 'f it makes you feel better. But 'f you decide to get stake happy jus' 'cause my conscience seems to be malfunctionin', I swear, Zangy, I will snap your neck in two seconds an' you can't do a damn thing to stop me."
A long pause settled between them—not particularly dangerous, and without having to be told, Wright knew that was revolutionary. Only weeks ago, had someone told him that a vampire would blatantly threaten him to his face and live, he would have scoffed and then gotten into an unseemly bar fight over the vouchers of his good name. But Spike was made of different stuff than the rest of that. He knew, watching him, that had time turned itself around and it was Amber's life on the line, no man could have prevented him from rescuing her. From taking her from that horrible fate.
He would have killed to get her back. He would have spilt human blood and not regretted it. How could he begrudge a creature that was not supposed to feel empathy but did anyway? How was he supposed to tell him that it was wrong to murder those who stood between him and his Slayer? His Buffy.
These lawyers were only human by creed. That was where the line ended.
"We'll get her out," the demon hunter agreed. "Without having to snap any necks...except those that don't belong to me, naturally."
At that, the vampire's eyes softened perceptibly. "I mean it, Zangy. I like you an' the last thing I wanna do is...but I will, 'f it comes down to it. 'F 's you standin' between me an' her."
"I'm not going to stand between you. Beside you, maybe, but not between." He offered a small smile. "That's what friends are for, right?"
Spike stilled a second longer before the roughness in his façade melted for the acceptance waned through contact. A heartfelt, however pained grin rose to his lips, and he tilted his head with gratitude. "You have the worst timin' ever," he decided. "Pickin' now for our sodding Full House moment?"
Wright shrugged. "Better late than never. Just wanted to let you know that I've got your back."
"Hopefully in a purely platonic way."
"Did you not see me with Cordy earlier?"
"I tried to block it out."
"Probably just threatened."
"Zangy, this is hardly the time."
"Right. In that we're agreed." The demon hunter offered a resolute nod. It was comforting to see sparks of similar determination flickering behind his eyes. If he was going in there with anyone, might as well be with someone who shared his plight. "Whaddya say we go get your Slayer so you can prove me wrong?"
Spike flashed a grateful grin. "With pleasure."
Their eyes met with latent understanding. And that was it.
The first steps into alien territory went surprisingly well. While the firm was—for all intents and purposes—seemingly shut down, there was similarly a lack of human interference. It wasn't difficult to decipher that there was something very wrong with this picture; it would be more than foolish to assume that a full track to the bowels of this hell would be without marks of trepidation. Seven levels down. Reaching her circle and fighting their way out again. No other viable option.
"It's so quiet," Wright muttered.
Their steps were not. Spike could not be deterred for any reason. With a crossbow astride his shoulder and a twin firearm curled in his fist, he only had one purpose. The darkness ahead failed to intimidate as did the knowledge of their precariousness. Whatever was planning to leap out of the shadows at him had to infinitely do better than that.
Then he paused, very deliberately. Just like that, the tenor had changed. The threat was withdrawn. And they were truly alone.
Something was different.
"This isn't right."
Zack appraised him with a look. "Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious."
The vampire shook his head. "This is..."
And then he felt it. Through every aching tendon in his body. For every inch of him that lived without life. It touched his unbeating heart with relentless presentation, offering a bended whim more than he could bear on first glance. Loss. Such horrible loss. The pain of muted agony and then nothing at all. The connection he had lived on for days was gone.
Spike's eyes went wide, and a single word whispered through his lips.
"No."
No. It wasn't possible. They weren't too late. They couldn't be too late.
The warmth was gone. That blessed glow of light on his broken entity. Somewhere harbored deep—somewhere that he hadn't known existed. The light euphoric plane that housed his bliss whenever they were together. Whenever he could caress her skin and convince himself of her tangibility. It was fading. It was leaving him.
Then it was gone altogether.
Wright grasped his shoulder worriedly. "Spike?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't. He was barely aware he was there at all.
Buffy.
"Oh God, no."
Though he had always thought the offices of Wolfram and Hart to be unnecessarily large, compiled righteously with the stereotypical endless hallways and spacious rooms that were more barren than filled, the observation had never been more rigid. He knew he was racing. He knew his legs were pumping as hard and fast as they could. And yet, with every step that carried him closer to the corridors that were now embedded in his conscious, his flesh molded to granite.
In those last few minutes—the same that stretched immeasurably to hours without influence—there were very few realities that harbored his understanding. He knew that Wright was behind him, running against the strain of time alike. Screaming at him, demanding needlessly what was wrong. Spike blocked him out. He couldn't think—couldn't feel but for her. The primal stirring that found connection with her was screaming its agony. He wouldn't listen; couldn't. It simply couldn't be so.
Not too late. He would not let them be too late.
Angelus's scent poisoned the air with repugnance so strong he felt he might choke. Despite their previous aversion, Spike had never found anything physically repulsive about him. Not really. Now the essence of his grandsire was enough to blind him. Coated. Everywhere. Tainting the purity that should have been her air. Her ambiance. The platinum vampire searched vainly, seeking, needing...
It was gone.
Gone, but...
And then he realized the fallacy in his own understanding. Angelus's scent was not alone. Its company took part in blood. Her blood.
Buffy's blood.
The scene was so still when he first looked and saw her. Lying on the floor, dead as night. Curled in a discarded pile next to the chains that had been her prison. There was nothing then but that realization. That founded knowledge.
A terrible sound filled the air and bounced off the sound of his weapons hitting the floor. A piercing, guttural wail that pained his ears, striking inerasable marks into his heart. He could not think. Could not breathe—a non-necessity that he fought for. Could not stop himself from racing to her. At her side, he nearly slipped and fell once more, bringing her body into his arms. And breaking.
Breaking.
The room might as well have been unoccupied. He gave no thought to anyone. Not to Wright, who was watching gravely from the doorway. Not to the cameras that had captured their numerous indiscretions. Their stolen moments in time. He held his Slayer to his chest, sobbing relentlessly into her hair, screaming madly at the world that had taken her from him, and cursing himself for being too late. Cursed himself for killing her.
He had killed her.
And so it was. Spike on the floor, Buffy lifeless in his arms, rocking back and forth as unintelligible sobs and broken promises sputtered unknowingly from his lips. She was warm. She was still warm. Still warm. They had only failed her by minutes. He peppered kisses along her faces and felt the taste of her dried tears as they clashed with those that made haven down his own. His hands skimmed her skin, clutching at her, begging her to return. To come back to him. To not be dead.
But it was too late. She was gone.
And he was shattered beyond reckoning.
From the doorway, Wright watched with solemnity that did not know a name. Watched a picture he knew more intimately than any man should. Watched as his grief became someone else's.
Experience mingled with despair. He had never known that the picture could be more heartbreaking than the feel. And in that moment, Spike's pain was his own.
It was frightening how quickly he came to resolution. How quickly morals he had grounded himself on for years were cast aside. But deeper within himself, there was no other viability. Once he had stood aside and watched someone too pure for the planes of earth as she was ripped away from tangibility. Not again. Not twice.
Never again.
Slowly, carefully, he approached. The man on the floor was still rocking her gently, murmuring prayers into her hair. Pleas. Whispers. Promises. He could not see for the river flowing from his eyes, but sight was not necessary.
Not when everything else had been ripped from him.
"'m sorry. Oh god oh god oh god I'm so sorry." Spike was sobbing, lips skimming over flesh that was freshly damp with his tears. "'m so sorry, baby. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn'..." His voice broke again, trembling as he clutched her closer, another hoarse, voluminous cry clawing at his throat. The sound of pain incarnate—never had anything been birthed so raw. "God, don't leave me. You can't leave me. I never got to tell you. I can't...not without. My fault. 'S all my fault. Buffy, baby, please. Please don' leave me. My fault."
Wright pursed his lips, struggling to keep reign over his own emotions. The sight was so poignant, so beautiful, that he felt himself on the verge of tears. "Spike—"
The vampire shook his head, unwilling to allow alien interruption to break into his sorrow. Grief had indefinitely deafened him to the outside world. His body was trembling, his head submerged in golden locks of bloodied hair. His hands finally settled the exploration of her body, curled around her shoulders, caressing emptily for everything she could not feel. "Forgive me," he pleaded hoarsely. "God, Buffy, forgive me."
There it was. A decision. A dangerous decision.
If Wright had ever doubted the validity of Spike's feelings, it was all washed aside. And he could not allow this. He couldn't allow someone who was not a demon to suffer as he had. Not if there was a choice. Not if there was a way to make things right.
But he had to be certain.
"Would you have loved her forever?"
That broke through the haze surrounding them for no particularity. Spike's reddened face glanced upward, shades of grievous offense flashing through his eyes. "How can you...she's everythin' to me. Everythin'...oh god." His head dipped once more, entangling in her essence. Whatever was left of her to be claimed. Whatever he could grasp. "My love. I never got...she never knew. God...she was alone. I let her die alone." His body wracked with another incursion of sobs. "I never got to tell her."
The demon hunter stepped forward cautiously. "I just need to be sure. I'm not going to do this if you're just going to abandon her. If it's not...understand that if you do, there will be no mercy. If I condemn her to...and...I'll make sure you pay for it. Through my children, if I must. With her it's forever. You understand?"
The vampire was looking at him through dazed eyes, only partially hearing him. Nothing that crossed his mouth made sense. He was holding his dead love; there could be no rationality beyond that. Nevertheless, he could not forfeit his honor, and some vaguely coherent part of his psyche must have recognized the threat presented. "Forever," he whispered gutturally. "There is no forever without her."
Wright nodded. "I thought so." The gun dropped from his hand, clammy with his nervous sweat. In its place was one of the many knife blades he refused to travel without—the same he had used time and time again to bring justice to demons that deserved no other fate. "Now then...hold still."
Spike glanced upward, but by then, it was too late. His friend had moved forward with rapidity he could not have anticipated, he could not have evaded, given his current grave lethargy. By the time he realized that the blade was intended for him, it was too late to move. A red swipe cut clear across his throat, and he released a gurgled cough of blood. There was an immediate flounce of enraged betrayal, a hand going instinctually to his throat only to be beaten away with resistance and realization.
The wound was deep, but it was not fatal. Nor was it intended to be.
"Wha..."
Wright was unmoved. His hand went to Buffy's head, encouraging her forward until her mouth touched the newly opened skin. "Very still."
Spike's eyes widened. "No. No! Zangy, no. You can't..." His protest died in his throat, blood loss getting to him even at its minimal level. With his body shut down, fighting the other man off would be ineffectual, if not impossible.
The demon hunter was too foregone in preparation to answer. His hand gently stroked the Slayer's throat until he was satisfied that she was swallowing. Through his years of practice, of hunting and research, he had absolutely no idea if this would work. If it was too late for her or not. But there were truths to be reckoned with; if there was a way to save her, this was it. And he would not rest until he knew that he had done everything he could to prevent this from being her fate.
All for a woman he did not know.
For long seconds, there was nothing save their quiet breaths to counter the sound of her drinking. The long lasting glass of a dead woman. He had to continue to aid her to make certain that the blood was getting into her system—Spike's hands going from opposition to holding her against him. But for everything, she remained lifeless. Gone.
Dead.
A trembling sigh passed through the vampire's lips. "Zangy...I—"
Then something happened. Something that neither man, despite age or experience, could have possibly expected.
The lifeless hands that rested wearily at her sides surged with an unforeseen incursion of supplemented strength. Spike was nearly forced back at the spontaneity of reflex, but his arms drew around her tighter. His eyes widened with alarm, shooting to her own even as her countenance remained unchanged.
She was still dead in every sense of the word.
But she was grasping him with an unwillingness to let go.
And then it touched him. Somewhere deep where the grief was at its turnpike, that outraged sorrow turned to the most mind-numbing pleasure his body had ever known. It was—in a word—staggering. Buffy's hands clamped his shoulders, mouth suddenly animated and caressing his throat in one of the oldest trades known to the natural order. She was drinking the essence of him, feeding on everything that poured from his bleeding flesh, taking him into her in a way he had never thought possible. Spike rumbled a contented sigh that seemed more out of reflex than feeling. His insides were still screaming at the injustice of it all. Of what had been robbed of him. Of what had been ripped from her. However, his fingers coiled around her bloodied flesh, bounding her to him. Despite the wrongness of completion, he could not allow her to stop drinking.
It was new. It was vital. And in those few agonized seconds, it was wonderful.
"Oh God..." he moaned.
Wright merely stood back and watched. Watched the work of his ultimate betrayal proceed without hindrance. Pools of unguided feeling mounted his insides, but he did not wish to consider his actions now. Not now. There would be time for regret when it was over. A man that had once lived to destroy vampires. A man who now made them of his own freewill.
It seemed hours passed before Buffy yanked herself away, falling back into his arms with the same unfettered lifelessness that she had possessed before. As though the exchange had been fragmented by imagination rather than actuality. Wright breathed slowly, steadily, watching her with dangerous conjecture in the mark of his weakened disgrace. Bloodstains marked her mouth. Fresh and alive. Her body burned with newfound warmth.
And slowly, slowly, Spike returned to himself. Gained control.
And stopped when he realized the full of what had just transpired.
"No." He stared at her, curled in his arms, eyes still blurred with tears. "God. God. No."
The demon hunter watched him precariously, his expression grave. "I'm sorry," he said. "I had to."
"What have you done?"
"What I had to."
"No, Zack." The raw, unbidden use of his given name lent them both pause. Spike glanced upward with severity. There wasn't an inch of him that failed to scream his distress. The calamitous fall of presumption. "What have you done?"
There was no answer to give. Nothing that could justify meaning. Not with the sun rising over Los Angeles or the world of darkness that lay at its wake.
No answer. Thus, they simply waited in silence as the city came to life around them. Overpowered. Overwhelmed. One standing, two on the floor. Answerless for all the harsh ugliness the world had to offer. Bearing hard the mark of sacrament. But nothing else.
Nothing else.
To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Four: The Tower of Learning...
A/N: (cont) For those of you who are familiar with some of my other fics, I'd like to clarify something. Yes, while I have again killed Buffy, I have absolutely no intention of turning her evil. Been there, done that…twice, as a matter of fact. As so the Sang series ended, so did my affinity for making her Porphyria, or a variation thereof. Not only would it be extremely redundant on my part, I just don’t want to do it again. As a result, in this universe, Slayers retain their souls. (It was mentioned earlier in passing). I took the easy way out as I am partial to Vamp!Buffy stories, but as for the evil thing…I’ve definitely had my share.