The Three Great Troubles
God, this was a filthy city.
The night hummed with life in a manner she reckoned she would miss if she ever decided to relocate. While she prided herself in being a day person, it was the night that irrevocably drew her home. The lights. The sounds. The people. The full of the experience. Of course, Lockley's job allotted little room for preference. If she was assigned to a night case, she would be there. And that was the way it was. The way it always had been. The way she had been taught to follow the rules.
She preferred working at daybreak. It left open so many interesting opportunities for when the night fell. That wasn't to say she ever accepted the dark's offer. No; rather, it remained eternally to the side. Her own personalized serpent in a tainted garden, offering her the fruit of her bearings that would provide ample occasion to leave.
Ever since Angel had waltzed into her life, her hours had held nothing but work. If not for cleaning up his messes then definitely for helping him clean up messes that she took pleasure in attributing to his kind.
And even though she had always stood at the ready with an accusation curled on her tongue, the veracity behind his turn was one of the most unsettling truths she had ever endured. She reckoned she still hadn't coped adequately; Angel's absence left a disquieting unbalance in her life. She had no one to turn to when she sported a really hot lead; despite her words, she didn't trust those who worked for him nearly as much as she trusted the man himself. Even with the appearance of another vampire to temporarily fill his shoes, even with the anthologies and text the faithful staff had at their disposal, she knew none of them like she knew Angel.
But Angel was gone. Angel was out there right now, ripping the throat out of another unsuspecting victim whose face would be forgotten within a week.
The thought made her sick.
Enough had passed that Lockley felt comfortable in asserting her position as an authority in vampirism. She had completed all the research that could possibly wield a hand in the opposition they were facing. It was a grizzly task, but she had pulled through admirably. The negatives that were reported back to the station of each victim post mortem were different enough not to warrant a connection—currently—but similarly connected in a way that clearly told her that Angel, Darla, and Drusilla were behind them.
She even felt she could even pinpoint who had killed whom, a talent she neither liked nor wanted. And yet, it was all for the job. In the heartland of the job. It was all in the execution and presentation. Darla was customarily behind the quick ones. Those reported back to have lasted no longer than seven minutes. These were typically clean: a bite to the throat, a snap of the neck, no artistry. Simple pleasure in what she indulged. There was likewise no consistency in pattern from where she selected her kills. They were sporadic at best. Several reports had even reached their attention from suburbs that were a good distance from the city itself. If anything, the vampire enjoyed employing curiosity.
Drusilla was a different story. While she took no time to thoroughly think through those who accumulated on her list each night, there was a certain certified sloppiness in each life she took. As though the death itself was by accident; killed before she was ready to bid them farewell. Lockley suspected that the vampire had long since adapted the impatience Spike displayed so frequently. Her selections were typically vagrants—those to coddle and coo and make time with before she tired of her game and moved on to the next conquest. She had a hunting ground and had yet to extend its boundaries. While this seemingly handed the LAPD the advantage, Kate knew well that Drusilla would only allow herself to be captured if she could turn it into a game. Or, rather, if she knew Angelus would not object.
And Angel. Angel.
Angelus.
Angelus was teasing them. Calling out to them. Tempting fate wherever he went. His kills were dynamic and overstated. It was as though some horror novel she had long ago committed to memory had suddenly leapt off the pages. He loved the drama of it all. A simple murder was made into a media circus with a few strings, and suddenly Joe Nobody had more publicity than he ever enjoyed in life. It was his calling card. He wanted her to know exactly where he was at all times. He wanted Buffy to know where he was. He wanted them to come after him.
Buffy had refused his offer. While Lockley understood that anyone that had suffered through what she had suffered through deserved their measure of peace—and notably more, all things considered—that didn't excuse the understanding that innocents were losing their lives.
It bothered the Slayer—that much was evident. Asking her to assist tonight was too much, but similarly not enough. This was what she was made for. Everything Lockley had ever read noted as much. And while what had happened was beyond tragic, that did not excuse those who would not return home tonight.
Personally, she blamed Spike. The overprotective lover. How fucking classic.
Kate shook her head. Considering the steps they could have taken to prevent such atrocity was futile now. On some primal level, she knew it was unfair to expect anything of a recently released torture victim—especially one that had suffered as much as Buffy had suffered. No matter if said torture victim was stronger than any one person she had ever met.
It was the plight of innocents that drove Lockley's conviction. People walking the streets that knew nothing of the subhuman existence that thrived in the city. Logically, she knew it was impossible to always be there to save everyone. She couldn't demand as much from herself any more than she could ask her colleagues to give her what she needed. One must have aspirations, and in the year and a half that she had known him, Lockley had made Angel and all his endeavors her business.
If only she had killed him when she had the chance...
This was different. She knew it was. Her previous prejudice was unjustified, even if she would never admit it. What he was now counteracted every truth she had experienced firsthand. Angel, despite the great sin of immortality, had been a reliable associate and—if she wanted to be entirely honest—a good friend as well. Perhaps it was that knowledge that had blinded her. She didn't know anymore. It was so difficult to judge.
They had split the designated hunting grounds in accordance with personal association. Wesley and Gunn were patrolling the areas that claimed most of Drusilla's haunts. Neither one of them were eager to add their previous friend and employer to their list of conquests, despite inevitably. The former Watcher was as educated as any in Drusilla's killing patterns, thus the selection was appropriate. At first, the men had seemed slightly apprehensive of Spike's reaction in the likelihood of his former's death, but he vocally didn't give a damn. Not when she had hurt Buffy. Not when she had helped hurt Buffy.
It was amazing. Lockley had never seen anything like it; she never would have expected such blind devotion from a vampire. Even in the short time she had witnessed between them, his love, concern, and wealth of gratitude had failed to vacate his eyes. If there was another woman in the room—let alone the world—he did not know it.
Amazing. And Spike's only motivation for leaving her was the promise of repaying Angelus the full of what he stole. What he ripped away from her. Thus he was here. Hunting somewhere. Following his scent with the hopes of being led to his grandsire. Lockley wondered briefly if Lindsey was with him, or if the lawyer had wandered in another direction. For his sake, she hoped not. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the man could take care of himself, but Angelus was not to be underestimated. She knew that from reading alone and had a feeling that there was much Spike had not shared. Much Cordelia and—most intimately—Buffy knew better than they wanted to remember, much less confess.
That left Zack Wright searching alone for Darla, which was more than fine by him. While nothing was methodically explained, there was palpably an unresolved vendetta between the demon hunter and his malevolent target that cancelled any reservations he might have in facing such a powerful foe by himself. And though he never said anything, Lockley had sensed Spike's anxiety in allowing his friend to track her by himself. The man had notably trailed plenty of vamps and other various nasties prior to their acquaintance, thus it wasn't as though he couldn't take care of himself.
And here they were. Three teams of self-proclaimed experts searching the slums of Los Angeles with the aspiration of stopping the deadliest trio to strike the undead world in documented history.
It was more than intimidating. But Lockley would not be swayed.
She had endured this long enough.
When committing herself to the job, Kate found it utterly imperative to disassociate herself on a personal level from her surroundings. She would utilize whatever came under her care if it could be wielded to her advantage. Her travels tonight had led her to a wide alley where the stench of death and blood thickened the air like molasses. It wasn't entirely different from her previous exploits; the setup, however, had too much of Angelus's personality for her liking.
Lockley knew her limitations. She was not a woman to see something because she wanted to rather than familiarizing herself with its tangibility. She wanted to see Angelus dust. She wanted this to come to an end more than anything. Such to the point that she wasn't sure if her eyes were loyalists or conjuring truths out of something that wasn't really there.
The past year—and especially—the last few weeks had reengaged her acquaintance with the depth of Angelus's meticulousness and—more precisely—the intimacy of his victims. The centuries had seen so many. A chambermaid doing her best to protect her child. A lowly British deserter trying to find refuge from the invading French army. Some text documented that he had met and dined with Napoleon Bonaparte, feeding him several strategies that would have ultimately led the army to victory had his advice been heeded. The demon had feasted on more of history's dead than she cared to consider. All of mankind was classified as beneath him, thus he took no shame when he killed. A babe, a kindly old man, a widowed mother struggling to keep food on the table during times of need. It simply didn't matter to him.
Blood was, after all, blood.
Therefore, Lockley knew better than to blink when she found herself gazing at the countenance of a girl—a child—looking back at her in motionless horror. The gash at her throat bore relatively fresh marks, the skin beneath her fingernails ample enough evidence of her will to fight for herself; undoubtedly the casual negligence of being raised under the roof of Los Angeles's smog-filled sky. Her face was young but dirty. Her eyes dead, but wizened with knowledge that should not have known her. She was one of the city's many casualties. Another homeless body that no one would claim, much less miss.
Even still, despite her bout with professionalism, Lockley felt her eyes well with tears. She hated revealing herself so, but when responsibility fell harshly on her shoulders, she had nowhere else to turn. A girl was dead and no one would care. No one. If anything else, she deserved someone to cry for her. Tonight, as she had most feared, it would be Lockley. To cry for her. To mourn the passing of someone she didn't know. To reap her killer his justice.
Not two feet from the girl lay another. A boy. And another. Two, then, three, and four and five.
He was here. And he was trying to get someone's attention.
No. That wasn't right. He was trying to get Buffy's attention. And he didn't care how long it took him.
Kate raised her head, expression stony. Her tears were gone in the namesake of something more important. More familiar. She never cried, even when it was expected of her, and she would not give him the satisfaction of prolonging her grief now. "I know you're here," she announced. Breaking protocol, of course, but there was no sense in attempting to remain stealthy. Angelus was well aware of her presence; she knew it. "And I'm the only one coming."
The silence that fell dead after her invitation had the power to grasp the most of either of his reactions. Full out quietude or an answer that would certainly leave her more than dead. Lockley stilled to near flawlessness, gun coiled in grasp so tightly it might as well lease claim as an additional appendage. She used its authority with much more frequency than her hands, it seemed. It was the only part of her anyone deemed reasonable to adhere.
There was nothing. Nothing.
Such could mean a number of things, and she wouldn't allow herself to feel any relief until she had an idea pertaining to his location. Even if it did not present her with the advantage. Kate hated being surprised; she just needed a place to shoot.
After all, happiness was a warm gun.
Lockley's eyes narrowed through the smog-laced darkness. While her perception was unquestionable, there were truths to abide the laws of vampirism that far outshone her limitations. And yet, nothing. A calm, controlled breath rolled through her lips, and she indulged a few more quiet steps forward.
Tonight was the last. She felt it. No more children would find their blood on her hands. Not again. Not from this vampire. One of them was going to die before the evening was over.
And damned if she didn't do her best to make sure it wasn't her.
Lockley expelled another breath, walking forward with cautious ease.
"Angel," she said again slowly. "It's over. All of it. Your girls are being hunted, and I have it on good authority that Wolfram and Hart has disclosed their position to remove your association from their list of...special projects." That much was a lie; she was going on blind faith that Lindsey's former colleague—Lilah Morgan—would have it in her to see that their failed experiment be accurately disposed of. "If Darla and Drusilla are not stopped tonight by your ex-best friends, then surely—"
An eerie pierce through the deafening silence that surrounded her. The lazy drawl of his voice was enough to freeze her blood in her veins. "I tell you, Katie," he said from nowhere. Nowhere and everywhere. Lockley whirled, eyes imploring desperately. There was nothing. Nothing. "For someone who talks as much as you do, you really have nothing to say."
The blonde gnawed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "I see. You don't care. Well, can't say that surprises. But—"
"But nothing. You're out here chasing me with your little gun. I had really, really hoped you knew better than that." Something crashed behind her and the voice changed directions. And still nothing. The thundering of her heart was becoming louder with every second, but she would not admit herself to fear. Fear was for the weak, and she was never weak. "It's kinda cute, when you think about it," Angelus continued from his post of Nowhere. "Hero's Incorporated has divvied into teams. I suppose Spike's hunting down Drusilla...or no. No. Take that back, Katie, I've changed my mind. You see, Spike could never bring himself to stick it to a girl he once fucked. You should appreciate that. Guess that means the boy's coming after me, too. Well, whaddya say? The more the fucking merrier, right?" He paused again thoughtfully, moving again too quickly and silently for her senses to keep up. "How many are out tonight, hmmm? Let's see. They got you—the wannabe Slayer. Spike, the fucker of Slayers. Wesley, who doesn't know how to keep a Slayer. Gunn, who wouldn't know a Slayer from his dead sister. And the demon hunter. The male Slayer." Another pause and he seemed closer. Lockley jumped and turned but there was nothing to answer her—nothing but the mocking ring of his endless chuckles. "But where, sweetheart, do you think the real Slayer is? Hmmm? Really, after all we shared; I thought she'd be keen on giving me messages herself instead of sending lackeys. Is that what you are, Katie? A lackey? I gotta tell you, you're not a very good one. I mean—come on—a gun? Scary business there. A gun." Closer still. God, she could almost feel his breath on her throat. "Whaddya gonna do, Officer? Arrest me? I'm sure that'll fly downtown. The boys'll take one look at you and the scrapings of your former career and kick you out before letting you clean out your desk. You've been waiting to pin something on me for over a year, and you haven't been very quiet about it. This to me rings as a little...oh say..."
Something suddenly leapt from the darkness, grasping her wrist and twisting her arm until she was chest-to-chest with an anchor of steel, losing herself in endless, soulless eyes that knew no mercy. Her gun fell haphazardly to the ground and he kicked it away before the thought could even encourage her to retrieve it. His smile was thin and nasty. And she knew without having to know anything at all that she had lost.
She had lost.
She had lost without even putting up a fight. Without seeing. Without thinking. Without being able to save the girl he would murder next.
Because it was her.
"Desperate," he breathed into her ear.
And again to the victor goes the spoils. Twice she had felt Angel's fangs pierce her throat. Twice she had mentally slapped herself for lack of foresight. Twice she had wanted to scream and writhe and put up something of a struggle. To go down as she was meant to go down. To not be another face that he added to his list of kills.
The first time had been to save her.
This time was to watch her die.
There would be no leeway for clemency. None.
Without ever having started, Lockley fell to the pavement, and it was over.
The scent of blood coated the air so thick that Spike thought even he might choke from the weight of it. He had not thought himself too far behind the officer, but her scent had a means of scattering to its content when he allowed his guard to drop. It was more than evident that she had spent a great deal of time out here. Wandering these alleyways and garbage heaps in search of her personal sanctuary. She wanted Angel dead as much as he did—and despite the growing threat of Darla and Drusilla—he reckoned it was his blood she craved above all others.
No small wonder why. From what he gathered, Angel had made her trust him before revealing what he was. That was liable to do it in any circumstance.
Truthfully, the platinum vampire had not intended to follow Lockley this far. As per their agreement, he would ascertain the condition of a segment of Angelus's hunting grounds. He had—well, sort of. He had walked through, noted instantly that his grandsire was nowhere within proximity, and left immediately thereafter to seek out the irate blonde that he had grown to loath beyond compare since coming into her acquaintance. If Angelus realized that Buffy was not a part of their outing, he would likely focus on the next best thing.
Namely a lovely blonde with strength, determination, and an attitude.
Lockley was walking around with a proverbial 'Come Bite Me' stamp on her forehead.
Evidently, Lindsey McDonald agreed, for he picked up his scent within seconds of finding the man himself. He had also wandered from his designated patrolling area, and while they eyed each other wearily; they made no move to challenge the other's status or burden of concern. It was more than evident without that much.
"Is he near?" the lawyer asked.
Spike inhaled deeply and nodded. "Oh yeah," he said. "Very close. So's the bird."
"There's blood."
"Quite a bit. 'S not all the same though, mate."
"Meaning...?"
"Meanin' Peaches seems to have spurned himself a collection." There was no doubt of that; the vampire was picking up too many varieties in blood to all be accredited to the same person. He wasn't sure he could identify Kate's scent on such a brief acquaintance, and for her sake, he hoped not. But there was so much. Blood spilt to lure them here. Angelus had known they were coming.
"Angel's developed a serial killer syndrome?" Lindsey arched a skeptical brow. "Collecting trophies, alluring his victims to his lair? That doesn't sound like him."
Precisely what he had been thinking, but he didn't reveal as much through more than simple words.
"I don' think so, either." Spike paused thoughtfully. "'S not like him. Peaches doesn' change habit. His style might alter a li'l over the passin' decades, but 'e's in essence the same ponce he was the day after he was sired. No...'f he's keepin' his goodies after he drains 'em...'s to make sure that someone like—oh say—us, knows where to come lookin'."
More precisely, Buffy.
Angel was trying to entice Buffy out of her asylum.
The thought made him raw with hatred.
"You think she's out here?" McDonald asked softly.
Spike's head reeled up. "Buffy?"
"No. Detective Lockley." The lawyer rolled his eyes, though the shade behind him was dancing with almost mischievous respect, if such a thing could exist. "Firstly, I think by now you and Buffy are likely tied enough to know when the other sneezes, let alone goes on missions like this. Secondly—"
"Vamps don' sneeze."
Lindsey frowned. "Really?"
There was a moment of contemplation. "Don' reckon so." He allowed an obligatory pause before waving him onward. "Secondly...?"
"Oh. Right. Secondly, do you ever stop thinking about her?"
Spike shook his head longingly. "Can't afford to, mate. Not now."
A long beat passed between them—the air hanging in anticipation of the inevitable break. They were walking leisurely, if not cautiously. Every step drew them closer to an area of reason neither particularly wished to explore. The peroxide vampire was on the hunt for his grandsire, no doubt, but if he could avoid further casualties, all the better.
Not that he gave two licks about Kate Lockley, but he knew Buffy did.
Buffy did.
"Without pissing you off," Lindsey said a minute later, "can I tell you how impressed I am?"
The Cockney arched a brow in his direction but said nothing.
"I know that you and yours aren't thrilled with the prospect of having been captured on tape when you weren't at your best. And yes, while I did make a good study of what the cameras caught, I didn't mean it out of perversion or anything that could be remotely construed as threatening." McDonald heaved a sigh, the look in his eyes betraying a desire to finish his thought while conflicting with the almost instant regret that he had brought the topic up in the first place. "When Buffy was first brought to Wolfram and Hart, I was unsure of my place. I knew I didn't like what we had done. There toward the end, I didn't like much of anything."
"'Cept Darla," Spike obligingly observed.
"Yes. Except Darla." Lindsey's gaze darkened. "Not anymore."
The vampire entertained a wry grin, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting up without thought. "Bird found your off button, eh?"
"Something like that." The lawyer shook his head wearily. "I don't know what it was. I was enamored with her in the beginning. I can't see why now. She's a monster."
"Bloody right."
An uncomfortable silence settled for an indeterminable amount of time. The span between a few seconds and forever was on the indefinite redefinition list—every now and then, it changed meaning altogether. "Anyway," Lindsey continued. "What I was getting at...the way you were with her when she was their prisoner. That impressed me. You have more stamina than I would've thought, just reading your history."
There was a cold pause. "'F you're referrin' to what I think—"
"No. No! God, no. I...that was different." McDonald's hands came up in semblance of peace. "I'm not some creepy old man that sits and gets off by watching you get your girlfriend—"
"Finish that sentence, an' I'll shove your still-beatin' heart down your throat."
"You're not the easiest man to pay compliment to, you know that?"
"Yeh, well, you bloody suck at givin' 'em."
There was no contesting that. In his line of business, Lindsey was as accustomed to delivering heartfelt sentiment as he was receiving it. Pitiable excuse, of course, but some things were more valuable than others.
"I'm just saying," he continued a minute later, "that I think you did good. As good as could be expected. And I'm...I'm sorry for not helping before I did."
Spike glanced up, malice abandoning his eyes. The men shared a long look of reason before acquiescing their similar positions with a nod. There was nothing else to put on the table. But oddly, that was enough.
And that was it for several seconds. Several long, tension filled seconds. Until the peroxide vampire caught a whiff of what he had been waiting for and shot an arm up to keep the lawyer from indulging one more step. He paused for what seemed like an eternity to analyze the difference in scents—then his eyes widened with the worst form of understanding.
"'S Kate."
They found her on her back, eyes closed and a hand draped over her stomach. The twin puncture marks in her throat left little to the imagination. With near reverence, Spike and Lindsey knelt beside her, studying her with veneration that commanded them, despite their better senses. The peroxide vampire would have liked to made claim in regretting every ill word that had happened between them, but he could not. But it wasn't right: looking at her like that. Despite her human frailty, she was a tower of strength where it mattered the most.
The look flooding McDonald's eyes read more of the same. "How long has she been here?" he asked, almost hoarse.
Spike shook his head. "A few minutes. The place reeks of Peaches. 'E's still here somewhere." He tossed a glance over his shoulder, biting back a grimace. "An' 'e has quite a build-up of take-out."
Lindsey followed his gaze briefly, turning his attention back to Lockley in seconds. With instinctual need, his hand found her throat, absently searching for where her pulse should be. He felt his fingers dampen in the steady flow of blood from her moistened flesh, but distinctly under the punctuated rhythm of her death, a very faint detection of a pulse thrummed through her body.
Spike must have realized at virtually the same time, for their eyes met with anticipation.
"She's not dead."
"Not yet, anyway," the vampire agreed. "You better toddle off to a hospital or what all. Get her a blood transfusion. Peaches took enough to kill her; we jus' got here in time."
"Two for two, eh?"
Spike gave him a look.
"Right. Bad time for jokes."
"Bad joke altogether, mate."
"That too." Lindsey delicately lifted Kate into his arms, fishing out his cell to secure an ambulance in their perimeter as soon as possible. "I'm gonna have to get to a crowded area," he said once finished, tossing the vampire the phone. "You all right by yourself?"
"Gettin' to a crowded area doesn' matter one bloody bit to Angel."
"I know." He was already walking away. "But it matters to me."
Spike watched him disappear into the shadows and reemerge in a mainstream of traffic and noise. He suspected he should be annoyed at the thoughtless abandonment—that was the vampire thing to do. Grumble his dissatisfaction at displays of humanitarianism and do his best to bollix up the various good deeds he fell witness to. And yet, he couldn't bear the thought. One step after another. Buffy had brought him this far; everything else was of his own doing.
He wanted to believe that it was a side effect of working with Angel Investigations more intimately than he had intended upon arrival. But the truth was, given the degrees of separation between what he had once been and what he had become, he found himself favoring what he used to hate. And while that spurned more than its fair share of conflicting emotions concerning his questionable status in life, he feared he wouldn't change anything.
To go back to what he had once been meant to forfeit everything being the other had given him. Acceptance. Love. Respect. Friendship.
Buffy. His kinship with Zack Wright and Cordelia. His adoration, however secreted, for Rosalie. Everything.
God, he was such a wanker.
For now, though, his attentions could not afford to be divided. Angelus was still out here. His intrusive presence pressed upon every raw nerve it could hope to touch. So much had passed that Spike reckoned attributing his manifest hatred toward his grandsire to anything had long tempered his senses. Now there was nothing. Abhorrence so raw that it surpassed anything and everything he had once thought possible.
Every time he allowed his thoughts to travel along the wayside of his blood ties, he saw Buffy's pain-filled eyes. He felt the abrasions that laced her skin. He heard her desperation in her plea not to be left alone. He tasted her blood in his mouth and felt her tears against his cheek. He smelled the fragrant of wilted vanilla in her dirtied hair. And there was nothing surmountable to that. No plateau to reach.
And Angelus was the reason.
Spike puffed furiously at his cigarette before stamping it out. He turned in the direction that reeked of the concentrated essence attributed to his grandsire and sneered, "There's no use tryin' to sneak up on me, Peaches. Unless you're not man enough to come out 'ere an' get what you've got comin' to you."
As he suspected, that was all it took. They had always been above the dealings of cat-and-mouse. Such was the way with family.
"If what's coming to me arrives in the package of a small, blonde, and slightly dead Slayer, well then, sign me up."
There he was. Basking in shadows. Enjoying his stereotype. Light from a nearby streetlamp reflected luminously off his countenance. His eyes were dancing with dangerous humor, but the smile that so itched his lips was refused admittance. Beneath the calm façade, Spike read fury that could only match his own. The full contempt of Angelus; everything that marked the full of his patience. What either vampire had been waiting to do for over a century.
The Cockney smiled ironically. "Well, we thought we'd try to make it a fair fight, mate. You know as well as any that she'd kick your sorry ass back to bloody Timbuktu 'f she took you on herself."
"I gotta say, I do like your definition of 'fair fight.'" The other cocked his head pensively. "After all, the last time you bested me was...oh right...never."
Spike shrugged, thoroughly unworried. "I was jus' goin' easy on you."
"I'm sure."
"Let's jus' say, 'm not the one that's bloody left two of your intendeds somethin' a li'l less than dead." His brows perked showily. "Not that 'm complainin'. 'F you're slippin' up, mate, all the better for me. I jus' won' get to enjoy killin' you as long as I had anticipated."
The elder vampire's eyes sparkled. "Hmmm. Yes. That was rather sloppy of me, wasn't it?" His smile became nasty with easy seconds. "You'd think maybe I had something planned."
"You'd also think you were bluffin'."
He offered a lazy shrug. "Perhaps. Though really, I gotta say, for a childe of ours, Buffy isn't living up to par, is she? I really thought she'd've staked you good and dead for turning her into what you turned her into. Talk about disappointing." He stepped forward perilously. "Whaddya think? Think I softened her up well enough for you?"
That was it. The proverbial breaking point. Spike's eyes flared and his body had lunged forward before his brain could stamp the impulse with a warranty of approval. In a tumble, he sent them both to the ground. His eyes were clouded with rage, his fists and fangs helpless servants to quench an undying thirst that knew no control. It lasted only seconds, but it felt like forever. Hands grasping and clawing at whatever flesh he could find. His bumpies had surfaced and he was snarling beyond the realm of his self-made perseverance. There was nothing if he couldn't end it now. Nothing.
The peroxide Cockney didn't realize his attack had ceased fully until he felt his back slam against a brick siding. Then Angelus was advancing, all amusement drawn from his expression. Unlike his grandchilde, the elder vampire had refrained from emerging into full demonhood. His human features remained perfectly in tact—a tactic he had employed more since his return as an active killer for the full of effect. He wanted to make it known to everyone that as far as he was considered, demon and man were one of a kind. It was lame poetic notion, but the thought was not wasted on Spike. Instead, he felt another incursion of vehemence and made to lash out again, but found himself pinned to the wall before any such move could be executed.
"See, that's where you were always lacking," Angelus berated softly, shaking his head. "Never thinking before acting. I swear, there are times I doubt my paternity. There's no way you could have ever survived as one of mine."
"Yeh, well..." Spike roared and shoved him away, whirling into the open as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "You never made a good Yoda."
Angelus chuckled humorlessly, moving to circle him. "So, what is it you're looking to do? Hmmm? Honestly, boy, if you're looking for a fight, I can't say you've come to the wrong place. I seem to recall you once complaining about choosing brawls you knew you could win. Well, good for you. Practicing what you preach. Gotta admire spunk. Very romantic, and all the nauseating sentiment that comes with it." His head slanted a fraction, eyes twinkling. "But here's the thing, Spikey... Buffy can't stand being coddled. And she doesn't particularly like submissive partners. From the way you were bellowing when you thought she was dead...really, it was moving. Darla and I had a good laugh at that. Can't say Dru was too happy, but really, when is she ever?"
The younger vampire was staunch and glaring. There was nothing to say.
"You think Buffy'll be as responsive to you as she was for me?" The darker one continued. "I gotta tell yeah, I can't imagine touching her dead. She was interesting enough when she was warm and had something of value to lose. Seems you can't help but take my hand-me-downs. I used up all her goodies. Her virginity, her innocence, and her life. And what do you get? The sniveling runt that's left over. Used, abused, and desperate. Just the way you like 'em. But, as memory serves, you also have a problem with sharing." He leered forward nastily. "Just keep that in mind when you touch her, okay? She screamed for me."
There was no such thing as fury. No such thing as hatred. No such thing as any pure emotion anyone had ever claimed right to experience. In a blink, Spike rewrote them all. Never before had he felt something replace him whole and leave nothing but a shell of action in his boots. He had moved passed casual acceptance and was now bent on unadulterated retribution. As though the spirit of the devil could arise fully within one individual. It wasn't vampire or man that attacked then; it was a force that had never before shown face on earth. He felt nothing but the rage encouraging him forward. Felt not the skin beneath his fingernails, the flesh at his fangs, the force of the body that so presumptuously blocked his from ridding the world once and for all of such a creature. He didn't even feel the force of the foundation behind him or the influence of the hand at his throat. He was still struggling. Still snarling and clawing. Removed from himself to a degree of bordering the line of self-recognition to a point of threatening his own existence.
Clarity then. Something pointy was pressing into his chest. In a sweeping wave, reality settled around him.
"...face it, boy," Angelus was saying. The scent of the elder's blood flavored the air. That was enough, Spike reckoned. If he was going to die, he damn well would die at the pinnacle of battle. "You never were or ever could be half the vampire I am."
Something warm touched the pit of cold that had swarmed his insides and his skin rippled with recognition. Her scent hit him a second too late, and before he knew what was happening, the intrusive presence against him was forced away. He caught a glimpse of shimmering blonde hair and the most beautiful pair of determined green eyes he had ever had the privilege to see.
"He's a thousand times the man you are," Buffy was saying indignantly, swinging a roundhouse kick to her favor. Spike watched, dumbfound, as Angelus was sent clear to the opposite end of the alley, collapsing without clemency.
He watched her with admiration and love that knew no other force.
Then the world came sweeping back. And he remembered his status, and her promise.
"What the soddin' hell are you doin'?"
Buffy tossed him a wry glance. "Saving your ass, do you mind?"
There was something so wholly familiar about that statement. It warmed his insides until he reminded himself that he was angry with her and her presumptions. "I don' bloody believe this..."
A frown graced her beautiful face and she shrugged. "Well, yeah, the pun was lame, but I'm recently undead girl. Cut me some slack."
He stared at her for a long, dumbfound moment. "What the hell are you doin' here?"
"I thought we just covered that." She turned her attention around, back to Angelus. "If you'll excuse me."
Oh no. She wasn't about to get away that easily.
And hell if he let Angelus near her again.
"Well, well," the elder demon drawled. "Look what we have here. I knew Spikey couldn't keep you cooped up for long. I mean, come on, Buff. After everything we've shared? It was only a matter of time before you came running home to Daddy."
That was all it took. For the first time since her convergence, the platinum vampire witnessed the Slayer's full grasp of her demonhood as the game face that condemned all of their kind to the wrong end of a stake burst through with unmistakable clarity. Then she was off, running at her killer in artistic detail of every bit of the rage he had felt only minutes before. He watched Angelus's arms clasp around her and felt his own fury spark to life again.
When he approached, however, the sight he bore witness to was too gratifying to interrupt, even for the namesake of his own ire. Buffy had straddled the elder vampire at the waist and was delivering a series of sobbing punches to his face. Battering him nearly unrecognizable as her own walls crumbled and she delivered back every hurt, every pain, every tear in ways that would never repay the debt caused against him. It was satisfaction beyond satisfaction. It was what she was owed. What Angelus deserved.
But there was something else. Something waiting under the pain.
If she continued like this, she would end up destroying herself along with him. Spike didn't know how he knew it, but he did. He did. It was scrupulously obvious with every barren smack that filled the never-silent Los Angeles night. Thus, he did what he had to. He mounted her from behind, encasing her small, lithe form in his embrace as he dragged her back to herself. The sobs wracking her body had the power to kill him. Completely, wholly, without judgment. He battled her for dominance and knew she was not herself when she granted it, twisting in his arms to bury her face in his shoulder. He held her to him as she released what she had to, as she sobbed her bearings and gave him the weight of her burden.
And yet, while he consoled her, Spike kept his gaze steadfast on Angelus, watching in contempt as he weakly stumbled to his feet. A basking glow of defeated humiliation. There were bruises, cuts, and blood. Never had he seen his grandsire wear a look of that regard, and he couldn't help but savor what fate had dealt him.
But he couldn't finish him off now. Not now. Buffy was his priority, and she was hurting. He wouldn't leave her for anything.
"Leave," he said lowly. "Scamper off before I set her loose on you again, an' we both finish you off."
The words made his stomach clench. He hated the thought of letting Angelus walk. But it was temporary. Only temporary. A leading clause to follow to the point where he would ultimately know dust.
Facing him now was foolish. Too soon.
After satisfied that they were alone, Spike turned his attention fully to Buffy, lifting her face to his. She had melted back into her human features—the existence she knew but could not return to, and the sight of her breakdown pulled him rightly apart.
And yet, despite everything, he couldn't allow himself to forget that he was angry with her.
"You promised me," he whispered.
Buffy gazed at him with tear-filled eyes, large and puzzled. "What?"
"You promised me you wouldn't come after 'im." He hated it that his emotion reached his voice with such simplicity, but in these matters, he couldn't help himself. She was stronger now than she had ever been before, and he had never been more afraid for her. "I could've...God, I could've lost you."
Little by little, her gaze was clearing. Signs of her return to herself. He felt his courage growing along with it. "Spike—"
"Why?"
"Why...?"
"Why would you..." He broke off. "I could've—"
"Cordy..." She was panting harshly against him, clutching at his shoulders as though seeking her own stability. "Cordy had a vision. She saw you. She saw you and I had to come."
He stared at her. "Cordelia...had a vision."
"She does that, apparently."
"I bloody well know she does that." That was it. Something primitive snapped. Whatever hold she claimed released him with more of the same, and he allowed his worry and grief to intermingle with the more fallible anger. Anger was good. He knew anger. He had lived with anger for a good, long time. He knew how to deal with it. "But you promised me you wouldn't do this. You bloody well promised me! You coulda been killed!"
Buffy's eyes widened, the look of indignation wide enough to replace any hint of grief that had been so palpable a minute before. "Oh, and what," she retorted. "You couldn't? Because when I came up here, it kinda looked like you were about to bite the dust."
He snickered dismissively, turning away from her. "I can handle myself."
"You don't—"
In a second, he had whirled back to her, eyes blazing. "You have any sodding idea what I went through?" he barked. "Every day, worryin' that I wasn' goin' fast enough. That you wouldn't be there when I came for you. That I'd be too fucking late an' you...that I'd lose you without...without gettin' to even tell..." He trailed off helplessly, the anger in his face losing to the more strenuous heartache. Everything experienced over a full of so many weeks. "You can't bloody well feed me empty promises, pet. I can't stand it."
"Don't."
The word came out with such brunt force that it shook him to a second awakening. "What?"
"Don't even, you fucking presumptuous bastard."
"I—"
"Or actually, do it. Come on. I wanna hear it. I want to hear you say that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing, promises be damned!" She took a step forward boldly, eyes flaring. "I want you to tell me you wouldn't have bolted out of the lobby with Hell at your heels. Come on, Spike. Tell me. Tell me you wouldn't have come for me. Go on. Tell me I was wrong in worrying about you. I want to fucking hear it!"
He stared at her for a long, incredulous minute, unknowing what to say.
Finally, he resorted with a weak, "That's different."
"Oh really? How?"
"'Cause I'd cross Hell for you an' back. I've already made it with the bloody Rubicon. Wha's a li'l Hell in the face of that?"
"And you think I wouldn't?"
"No."
Her eyes widened. "What? Why not? What makes you so fucking above it all?"
Horrified, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What? I love you, that's what."
As if it held grounds above what they were arguing over. Their argument that was anything but an argument. Voices raised out of fear and understanding. All cards on the table. No going back from here.
Buffy could have tripped over herself, but she didn't. Instead, she nodded her assent. "Oh yeah?" she retorted. "Well, get a load of this. I love you, too."
There it was; the one thing that could render him speechless. Spike stared at her with wondrous awe, unknowing whether or not it was appropriate enough to plead her words were the truth. She looked truthful. She looked wonderful. Full, frustrated eyes that were still wracking the realities of her existence. His Buffy. The epitome of strength.
She loved him.
"So there," she was saying hotly. "You see, we're even. We're—"
But she didn't finish. Couldn't.
Spike had her pressed against the nearest wall in seconds, mouth ravaging at hers. Where the tears had come from, he knew not. Only that they had worked themselves into a frenzy of sobs and kisses. He tasted her fully, openly, giving no want for restraint. His hands explored her body with liberation that knew no master. And then she was battling him. Warring with his tongue for dominance that neither truly wanted nor claimed. He felt her hands pulling at his shoulders, combing through his hair, searing his skin with the touch of her own. The taste of her had him drunk, but he had not indulged nearly enough.
He pulled away; panting, resting his forehead against hers, anger having vanished. "I can't," he whimpered.
Buffy's eyes widened in protest. "Can't?"
"Tell you. Tell you that I wouldn't have come." He leaned forward to taste her lips, nibbling lightly and coaxing a moan into his mouth. "I'll always—"
"I know."
She attacked his mouth again, pulling him as tightly into her as possible. Her hands explored the coarse stability of him, legs entwining around his waist, allowing him to press her as far into the wall as any mortal limitations would allow. She would have thought it raining for the moisture on her face. Tears produced out of revelation; not fear, not anxiety, but the sheer bliss of being. His lips finally abandoned hers, taking chart down her neck, nibbling wantonly at her tender skin, his own hands rubbing encouraging circles into her thighs.
"Oh God," she heard herself whimper.
A calming chuckle sounded at her throat. "You have no bloody idea."
Buffy offered him a tender smile, even if he wasn't looking, and thrust herself against the hardness that sought her center. A resounding growl answered her call, and then they were rubbing together. Denim against denim. She wondered if her jeans were soaked thorough and reckoned it better to relieve his tension before he ruined his own trousers. And yet, the molding of their bodies together, clothes be damned, was too delicious to interrupt.
His hands were becoming much more bold. One hand found her breast and was exciting a nipple through layers of separation. The other had her grasped from behind, arching her into his movements so she could feel the fullness of him, unashamed. His mouth was working up her throat again, seizing her lips without mercy.
That was it. No more Miss Nice Slayer. Buffy slid her own attentions to his fly. Zip-ups today. How many variations in trousers did he enjoy? She brushed the thought aside for its futility and yanked the zipper down, taking his erection into her hold and pumping him once, twice, and—
He took her wrist in his own hand, coaxing her attentions away. He spoke only one word, but it was the only word he needed to say.
"No."
Buffy gasped her protest, astonishment and the smacking bite of rejection filling her eyes. It only lasted a second; she caught his gaze, caught the unguarded craving there. The desire that he had attempted to keep from her with little success now shone for all its agonizing veracity. If ever there were any doubt on how much he wanted her, she would look no further than the brightness of his regard.
But Spike had caught her digression, and remorse inevitably followed.
"Look at me," he demanded, jolting her chin upward. She hadn't even realized that she had averted her eyes until she felt herself pierced with an ocean of compassionate blue. "You have no idea how much I want you. How long I've wanted you. Since the firs' time I saw you, I think. Too bloody stupid to admit it at the time, but it was there. An' the craving's only gotten worse over the years. I want you so much I can't fuckin' see straight. 'S a bloody miracle I haven't gone cross-eyed."
The Slayer worried a lip, sensing a 'but.' So, she provided it for him. "But...?"
"But nothin'." He offered a lopsided grin. "I jus' love you too much to take you in some alley. Like this. 'S not right. Not right for you. I might not be above it, Buffy, but you are. You deserve so much more than what I—"
The notion that he had stopped to even care touched her heart. Where cold had once resided, warmth flooded, kicking the cold out for good. With a tender smile, she cupped his cheek and guided his mouth to hers. This kiss was leisured intimacy. Tasting nibbles that promised a world for tomorrow.
"You're above it, Spike."
He returned her smile poignantly. "'m glad you think so."
"I know so." With a sigh she leaned forward, disengaging her legs from abound his waist and watching with flustered embarrassment as he tucked himself back into his jeans.
There was nothing for a long, disquieting moment.
Buffy hazarded a glance back to him. "So...you wanna go back to the hotel?"
"God, I thought you'd never ask."
It was a miracle they made it back as quickly as they did. Night or day, Los Angeles was a city that did not allot for easy travel. And given newfound liberation, Spike found it very difficult to school his hands to obedience. As though he feared she would melt away and everything would be a dream. That her pledge of love be found nothing more than a wistful aspiration of wanting.
However, despite his more primal desires, he did not pet her. Did not corner her. When he touched her, it was to stroke her cheek in subtle hint of his affection. To kiss her temple or take her hand into his own. He refused to barrage her with the fullness of his desire. Her vow of love was more than he ever thought he would receive, but he knew—he knew—that the words could not begin to express the depth of his own regard. He feared frightening her with the wealth of every inexpressible feeling that coursed through his system, and that he would not allow.
When they were before the Hyperion, it was her hand that sought his. Her smile that drove them onward.
She gave him so much.
Neither could have anticipated what awaited them at the door.
In truth, it had bordered simplicity on how quickly memories of the past were dismissed. Even the more recent past, the same lurking behind every doorway that they had not yet explored. And yet, despite reason or readiness, there she was. A figure looming from the ever-persistent shadow of home. Standing staunch in the center of the lobby with a notably perplexed and even untrusting Cordelia at her side. Golden hair and a face unforgettable, despite however cleanly they had discharged her memory. How cleanly they had discharged everyone's memory.
But it was there. All there. Her eyes lit up when she saw the Slayer in the doorway, and the smile that pressed against her features could not be denied in meaning.
Spike was ready when Buffy gripped his hand tighter. On some basic level, he had always known it was only a matter of time.
And yet. Now. Not now. Not when everything was on the way of getting so good.
Reality came back now.
"Buffy," Cordelia said uncertainly. "Hey. I didn't know what to do. She claims to be a friend of yours. Is—"
"It's fine," replied the Slayer. Then her eyes leveled with warmth and she allowed the breath she had been holding to pass. "Hello, Tara."
To be continued in Chapter Forty: Deliverance...