FROM: theheadcheese@wolframhart.com
TO: ormochtheunsightly@lakeoffire.org
SENT: Friday, September 21, 3 A.F
SUBJECT: RE: Missing Inventory Item #9784
Dear Grand Inquisitor Ormoch,
Sorry it’s taken me a few days to get back to you. Needless to say, the ongoing merger has been causing a lot of headaches all around. In this time of transition, it’s almost a given that paperwork is going to get lost in the shuffle, things are going to get misfiled, etc.
My team finished their investigation into the item in question, but unfortunately nothing has turned up. If you ask me, the darn thing probably got thrown into the wrong crate in the Wintermill warehouse. You ever been out there? That place is a real mess. Frankly, I’m surprised they can find anything.
Anyway, I’m sure it will turn up eventually. If you need anything else from our end, please contact Gladys Lee in Operations.
Warm Regards,
A
FROM: theheadcheese@wolframhart.com
TO: ormochtheunsightly@lakeoffire.org
SENT: Friday, September 21, 3 A.F
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Missing Inventory Item #9784
Dear Grand Inquisitor Ormoch,
I understand your frustration, but I feel like we’re going around in circles here. How many ways can I say “I don’t know where your stupid Sun Suit is?”
Honestly, I’m just trying to run a business here. And even though my exact duties are a little fuzzy, I don’t think keeping track of the stuff in your wardrobe department should be one of them. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it downstairs.
Or if you prefer, you can come over and we can discuss it face-to-face. You’ll know which office is mine. It’s the one with the really, really big desk and the sign that says “ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.”
Warm Regards,
A
FROM: theheadcheese@wolframhart.com
TO: ormochtheunsightly@lakeoffire.org
SENT: Friday, September 21, 3 A.F
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Missing Inventory Item #9784
Dear Grand Inquisitor Ormoch,
Thanks for sending over your collection agent. Not much of a conversationalist, but it was the most productive meeting I’ve had in months. Too bad it had to end on such a sour note. (see attached JPEG.)
As soon as Maintenance is done scraping him off the walls, I’ll have my secretary Fed-Ex him back to you.
As for Mr. Spike’s whereabouts, let’s file that one under “Below Angel’s Pay Grade” too. If there was anything I cared less about than your boss’ fruity Halloween costume, that would be it.
Warm Regards,
A
FROM: theheadcheese@wolframhart.com
TO: ormochtheunsightly@lakeoffire.org
SENT: Friday, September 21, 3 A.F
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Missing Inventory Item #9784
Dear Grand Inquisitor Ormoch,
Okay this is just getting lame now. Do you even have a clue who you’re messing with?
Sending those dire wolves to chew on my security detail is one thing. But sending over a bunch of lawyers? To Wolfram, Hart & Angel?! Exactly how dumb are you???!!!
Anyway, that brief of theirs was real cute. I had my top guy go over it with them this morning. He said a bunch of fancy legal stuff, gave them the big corporate spiel and then made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Basically, they all work for us now. And we’re suing you for harassment. Oops!
Warm Regards,
A
FROM: theheadcheese@wolframhart.com
TO: ormochtheunsightly@lakeoffire.org
SENT: Friday, September 21, 3 A.F
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Missing Inventory Item #9784
Dear Grand Inquisitor Ormoch,
So, now we’re down to voodoo hexes. Very mature. Anyway, if you think that my people aren’t equipped to deal with some broken down old Houngan you dragged off a bar stool somewhere, maybe you should consider playing for the other team. I hear they have good dental.
Let me break it down for you, tough guy: You can’t intimidate me, and you sure as heck can’t beat me. I am Hell’s top attorney, and the ruler of the most evil city the world has seen since Sodom and Gomorrah. In terms of power, that’s like taking the world’s biggest, meanest, ugliest grizzly bear and strapping a rocket launcher to its face.
If I ever catch you out on the street, I will show you the meaning of pain. Then I will show you your own lungs. I’ll rip them out of your chest and eat them like pancakes covered in strawberry jam. The last thing you’ll ever see will be my smiling face, smeared in your rotten, steaming blood.
Warm Regards,
A
***
The War Room.
Okay, it wasn’t really as grandiose as it sounded. A few years back, Xander Two had apparently hollowed out the guts of the Harvard Debate Society’s headquarters, which Tara Two and her Willow proceeded to fill with candles and crystals and orbs and various witchy knickknacks of dubious usefulness. The result was a sort of cluttered, supernatural flea market feel, like a Franklin Institute for the Blessed Be set. Somewhere beneath their feet, a factory full of powerful Psions worked their mojo, shielding the campus from the eyes of mankind.
But the “War Room” was even more V.I.P, Willow realized; it was a mask behind a mask. Tara’s plan was on a need-to-know basis, and she kept this club as exclusive as possible. Only Willow and the four of them were allowed inside.
Them. She’d begun to think of them as The Twos. There was Oz Two and Harmony Two and Anya Two and Tara Two. The quasi-bigotry of this made her a little uncomfortable. Was that supposed to make Willow a “One” or something? Yeah, like she was so great and all. But, on the plus side, the distinction helped to keep her brain from melting out of her ears.
Anyway, they were all there: four majorly cheesed-off Twos and one slightly disoriented One. At the moment, they were huddled around a raised pool of mystical waters, waiting for it to…
Well, to do something 'mystical'.
“This is boring,” Harmony said. “Like, not even magic-boring. This is math-boring.”
“Kinda gotta agree there, Will,” said Anya. The old vengeance demon looked much better now. Her hair was still a brown mop, and a dark purple bruise flowered around one eye, but she seemed altogether Anya-esque again. Eyes pouting, arms folded all ‘tudy under a white robe, Willow mused that she could’ve almost been her Anya. “I mean," she continued, "I could do this stuff in my bathroom. And, naked.”
Tara glowered at them. She was still wearing the Leather Motorcycle-Ho’ From Hell outfit, complete with matching vibe. “Be silent! It’ll never work as long as you idiots keep breaking the circle.”
“Oh, come on!” Harmony whined. “It’s been hours.”
“It’s been twenty minutes!”
“Oh big diff, Esmeralda,” she pouted. “Look, this Willow you guys got is obviously broken. Can’t we get another one?”
The blonde witch made a sound like a lit fuse. Willow sensed a helpful-buddy opportunity, and decided to roll with it. “Hey,” she chirped, “why don’t we try something different.” She beamed at them hopefully. “Maybe, um, meditation! I mean, look at Oz.”
“Hmmm, wha?” The guitarist roused himself to life, stifling a yawn.
Tara threw her hands up in disgust. Willow watched helplessly as the woman stormed off into the shadows again. This “Two” left no room for illusions about what she was. She even moved differently, hips clicking like an old grandfather clock. The truth of her otherness burned like hellfire. There’d been so many nights Willow dreamed of their reunion, as she hopscotched through a hundred worlds empty of her grace. Now, this bullshit, broken shard of her was all she would ever get, all the Powers would ever allow.
Because they hate you, she thought.
And, for the first time in a long time, Willow let herself hate them back.
The Powers that Be. Their game was rigged, she realized at last. A carny scam. They dangled it all out there, made it seem so freakin’ possible...
And, so, you take the bait, she thought. You spend your life filling yourself up with so many lies that you can’t even tell the difference, can't see the card moving or the moustache twirling. You go for it, because it seems better than doing nothing.
You try and try, but the bottles never fall down and the clown’s head never pops. No teddy bear for you, kiddo. It always Almost and Never Quite. You fail.
But the bastards have your money. And you think ‘What the hay? Let’s give it one more try.’
And then you reach for your wallet.
Because you are. Exactly what he said you are.
Rank. Arrogant.
Amateur.
As Willow thought this, the waters began to trouble and glow. Golden tendrils churned upwards from the surface, weaving a column of spectral light. Soft shapes began to swim before their eyes, gradually hardening into black capillaries and constellations of light. A moment later, the floor plans of the Institute snapped vividly into place.
“Helloooo nurse,” Oz murmured.
“Oh,” said Anya. “This is a good thing, right?”
Tara returned, eyes glittering like stolen jewels. They sprinted over the architecture, quietly measuring and cutting, already searching for a chink in the Watcher’s armor. Normally, this would’ve been a job for Buffy. Or Xander, maybe. Tara Maclay was neither builder nor destroyer. She wasn’t a thief like Willow, either, or a know-it-all Giles or a beloved monster like Anya or Angel or Dawn or Spike. But this horror show of a world had forced her to be all of those things, burying her white gifts under its rubble.
All that remained was vengeance. Willow watched helplessly as her sweet, fallen angel spoke again, jaw hardening to steel around each word.
“Let’s go to work,” Tara said.
***
38 minutes later
---
“Well, this kinda blows,” said Oz.
Anya looked up at him, bleary-eyed. “Oh, what about here-” she started.
“No!” they all yelled.
But it was too late. No sooner had Anya pointed towards the rooftop terrace when the Yoruggnol came roaring back to life. They all ducked instinctively as the mini-monster flung little darts of electricity in every direction. Willow was a bit slower this time, and felt a bolt of heat slash across one eyebrow. “Ow,” she said.
“Sorry, sorry.”
It was the third time they’d set that one off, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Truth be told, they were running out of things to point at, and the map seemed to know it.
Willow glared at the stolen blueprints hovering above the water. Their first discovery about them was that they were alive. The second discovery was that they were really, really nasty. They rendered all the Watcher’s traps and tricks in alarmingly realistic detail, like a sort of Diabolical Pop-Up Book. Mention a seemingly unguarded air duct, and a nest of teensy cobras slithered out, fangs snapping hungrily. Propose opening a certain door and it morphed into a miniature black vortex, sucking in a poor, unsuspecting housefly who flew too close.
Minutes passed like years this way, the certainty of their deaths screaming back at them in cartoon-y, Technicolor waves. No point of ingress seemed to have escaped the Rupert Two's attention. There was no screen door, no spare key tucked under the welcome mat. The Institute was “locked up tighter than a mother superior’s butthole,” as Anya so elegantly put it.
Willow traced a lazy path up a sewer main with her pinky finger, waiting for the inevitable school of tiny 3D piranha to swim in for a bite. Something green and scaly leapt up instead, snapping its long jaws.
Oooh, killer, mutant crocodiles, she thought. Even better. Thanks, Giles.
As the Twos settled into another round of insult-flinging, Willow let her thoughts drift to the other "Rupert Giles", the original flavor one. That first email she sent him was a whopper, more draining then any spell she’d ever cast. She knew they weren’t exactly friends, anymore -- he’d been suspicious of her for a long time now, and she couldn’t say she blamed him. But she also knew their emotional distance would be an ally in this mission. The Watcher would be just as ruthless and cunning in their regular old dimension as he was in this one. Armed with the knowledge of the approaching Now, he’d pull out all the stops to save whatever was left of reality. It was his nature. He would do anything, sacrifice anything...
Anything?
Willow stared at the plans again. A key was turning over in her brain, starting to click.
No, she thought. Not anything.
Not if it was against The Rules. Giles always played by The Rules…
Giles ALWAYS plays by The Rules!
“Oh!” she gasped. “Oh Goddess. I think I got it.”
They all shot her a weary look. “What?“ Anya asked, torn away from Harmony mid-insult. “Herpes?”
“No,” said Willow. “A plan.”
***
The shape started moving towards them. It was walking real slow, taking its time. Strolling, really.
Before Andrew knew what was happening, Angie grabbed him by the arm and they were running together into the darkness. Behind them Polly was shouting orders over the hot whoosh of Palmer’s proton gun.
“What’s happening,” Andrew cried. “What was that thing?”
Instead of answering, Angie shoved him down a long corridor full of flashing red emergency lights. There was a large steel door at the end, with the words “Restricted Access” stenciled across it. Angie handed Andrew her sword and fumbled with a key card. She was sweating buckets all of the sudden, her eyes darting around wildly. Andrew toyed with the idea that she was trying to protect him, but this only served to terrify him more. He couldn’t see the creature’s eyes, but he still knew.
It was looking at you. Looking right at you.
Finally, Angie pushed the card into a slot. The door slid open with a giant wushhh sound, like something out of a movie. Everything was out of a bad movie, now. She grabbed him by the neck and tossed him inside.
“Don’t move until we come for you,” she said.
Then she slapped a button and the door slid closed, a lock firing into place. Everything was quiet after that. Andrew was alone.
It was some kind of control room, he deduced. There were panels filled with mysterious gauges and switches. Screensavers of a dozen or so monitors cast an eerie glow, the WatcherNet’s creepy falcon logos bouncing Pong-like across their black faces. There was no sound anymore, not even the wheezing breath of the generators.
He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t.
Andrew Wells was a Summoner of Demons. He was a Pisces. He’d been a Watcher of Vampire Slayers, and of Babylon 5. He was a virgin. By choice, of course. He’d never really loved anybody, or been loved by anybody from what he could tell. Tucker, maybe. Andrew hadn’t spoken to Tucker in six years. He didn’t like thinking about the past. He didn’t like being around people, either, not even superheroes and good people and family. He was twenty-five years old and he was single and he was slowly becoming a very private person.
Almost a year ago, Andrew Wells quit being a Watcher of Vampire Slayers and moved far, far away. He had a job as a clerk at Book Barn, where he babbled a lot and tried to act nice and pretended to be good and normal. He bought his lunch at the same place every afternoon, a deli where he could pick up a pre-made sandwich in a plastic cube container and pay for it quickly and leave. Andrew also taped things obsessively. Not digital stuff; actual tape. He once spent a whole day-off taping these birds in a park. He fed them and taped them and fed them and taped them until the tape ran completely out. He was alone a lot.
Andrew had trouble talking to people. Even normal people, like the guy at the deli, or like the cable guy or the landlord or stupid Reginald. It was something about their eyes. He didn’t like looking at them. Or maybe it was something about Andrew's own eyes. Something that didn’t like being looked at.
Andrew avoided mirrors like the plague. He was somehow sure there were things inside them, waiting there to eat him. He never went out at night, and he stayed out of basements and stairwells and rooms with too many corners. He took lots of pills. Long white ones and tiny round orange ones. Andrew Wells had nightmares.
Andrew Wells had nightmares like you wouldn’t believe.
Andrew Wells woke up screaming every night.
“Andrew,” a voice whispered, crackling like a prayer over the earpiece.
He snapped wide awake, then. So did the big monitor directly in front of him.
It showed a boy standing in the middle of a dark hallway. His clothes were wet, sopped in wine. The color leaked down the front of his shirt, and pooled in the pantlegs.
That’s his life. That’s his life, all over his clothes.
You let it go there.
You let his life go outside.
Shaking, he reached out towards the screen, pressed the OFF button. Four others blinked to life. Ten. The boy was standing in all of them, hands stuffed in pockets. His lips were bloody, life leaking out there too. It smeared down his white jaw, just like it did in all of Andrew's dreams. The boy's eyes were so wide open and so blue that he could almost read his mind. But, he wouldn’t dare to. He didn’t need to.
“I’m coming for you,” said Jonathan.
***
Rayne’s basement was definitely a change of pace from the rest of the joint. Though it was hard to put a label on the décor, “Satanic chic” sprung to Xander's mind. Ethan appeared to have built an entire Cathedral of Chaos under his London duplex, which forever settled the whole renter-owner question. The vaulted ceiling loomed high over a black onyx altar, framed by the most charming art installation of human skulls he had ever seen.
Drusilla didn’t seem to be aware of any of it. Xander watched the creature writhe on Rayne’s sandbox full of sandalwood and myrrh, singing another one of her cheerful church ditties. Buffy had asked him to “keep an eye on her” while she was gone. He knew there was probably a stellar quip in there somewhere, but he was still too stressed out to look for it.
A SAINT, YOU SAY?
The vampette’s eyes were broadcasting bold new frontiers of schizoid, now; crazy with a side of crazy sauce. He felt a little chill when they suddenly met his own lonely peeper. The monster titled her head at a soft angle. “Such a pretty boy,” she whispered. “Love is his name, and he is loved.”
“Thanks?”
So, the gag was this: Drusilla - who’d once ranked fairly high on Xander’s list of prime-time nightmare material - had herself a shiny new soul. Now, this in itself wasn’t a totally bizarre concept. It seemed like if you threw a rock these days you’d hit a vampire with a soul. And, if you were Xander Harris, you’d probably pick up another rock. Buffy drew those suckers like flies to…
Well, okay, that’s a little harsh.
Anyway, what was deeply weird was the kind of soul she had. Not that Xander was a religious guy, mind you. Church hadn’t loomed large on the ol’ social calendar in the Harris household. They were more of a Christmas-and-Easter sort of family, except that they usually skipped Easter too. He’d only skimmed the Good Book a couple of times, in that bored-out-of-your-mind-in-a-motel sort of way. He figured he grasped all the major themes, though. Apples and snakes. Heston and the Big Ten. Preggers Virgin. Loaves of bread. Thirty pieces of silver. Cue big death scene. Cue big resurrection scene. Cue Apocalypse. That stuff all felt pretty straightforward. Heck, a lot of it seemed pretty darn ordinary, if you asked him.
But, saints? Saints were a whole different ball game.
He recalled a long ago sunny afternoon. He was at John McCall’s eleventh birthday party, down on Rollins Road in East Sunny-D. John’s family was so Catholic, they hung a framed picture of the Pope in the bathroom. He also had what seemed to be roughly twenty older brothers and sisters. They ran roughshod over the young partiers, dealing out nuggees and purple nurples with psychotic abandon. Xander fled the carnage to a small, pink bedroom upstairs. After a brief, scientific inquiry into the contents of Mary McCall’s underwear drawer, he stumbled across a book called “The Lives of the Saints,” and began leafing through it to pass the time.
A few minutes later, young Xander decided on a far more appropriate title: “The Horrifyingly Gruesome and Painful Deaths of the Saints.” Page after page read like something out of a torture-porn flick directed by Mel Gibson. From what he could gather, a “saint” seemed to be someone who talked to God a whole bunch, got caught doing it, and was then executed via removal and/or burning of various body parts. Each tale included a helpful illustration, just in case you lacked the imagination to picture being tied to a tree and shot with a hundred arrows, or having your eyes gouged out with a fork.
Of course, the book made no mention of a hundred-something-year-old, bloodsucking murderer getting all chummy-wummy with the Man Upstairs. Somehow the authors managed to gloss over this nugget of Dastardly Deuteronomy.
Nearby, Rayne and Giles busied themselves with their clichés; posing magical doohickeys, lighting creepy candles and leafing through musty old books. They seemed to actually know what they were doing; a fact which kinda scared the hell out of him. Xander couldn’t help but wonder how much of the past four years had been a product of all their big, crazy lies. If he believed Giles – and that was a morbidly obese “if” – the crafty old Brits had this caper planned all along. Inserting Dawn into the Agency, cramming chips inside people’s brains, going all Meglo – it was all part of some twisted game he and Rayne had dreamed up years ago. And, even with all that was happening lately, Xander wasn’t so sure he wanted to play.
Kennedy and her band of psychos were one thing. He’d pull the plug on those freaks in a heartbeat. But the girls at the Ipswich ‘Mouth, they were his girls. They were brave and loyal. When he was with them, he felt like the coach of the big championship team. They loved him, and he loved them back. He bled with them.
And, now, Giles was going to break them forever. They’d need to go find normal jobs in a world where a degree in Advanced Vampire-Staking wasn’t exactly high up on an employer’s list of prerequisites. Xander wasn’t looking forward to handing out those references.
Well, her typing skills aren’t so hot. But you should see her handle a machete!
The fact that Ethan Rayne was all tangled up in this definitely wasn’t in the Land of Helping. Xander wasn’t going to pretend he understood exactly what Willow was trying to do, or exactly where she was trying to do it. But the notion of Hell’s favorite fashionista sticking his nose in her trans-dimensional beeswax wasn’t exactly giving him a warm fuzzy.
And as much as he despised Killy Idol, having Rayne shoot him into a dimension full of evil, mustachioed Bizzaro Scoobs wasn’t exactly giving him a warm fuzzy either. All consuming hatred aside, he did – technically – owe the vamp an eyeball.
Besides, there was Buffy. Sure, she might be the biggest dope in the world for chasing his lame, undead ass. But she was their dope. Xander figured he’d rather share her with the Worst Boyfriend in the History of Boys and Friends than watch Rayne’s spell break what was left of her heart.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
She was gone, again, off chasing her monster through the byways of Ethan’s top secret-ish lair. He remembered times when it was so totally the other way around. The Good Times, he liked to call them.
He imagined they would try to say their goodbyes, and fail miserably. Honestly, everyone that Xander Harris knew stunk at that particular game. But the two of them had the combined emotional IQ of a pack of starving wolverines. They would either kiss like rock stars or beat each other to bloody, oozing pulps.
Or both.
Either way, Ethan better have plenty of insurance…
***
Buffy kept staring at the door. It was a very nice door, she decided. Solid oak stained to crimson. Old brass knob polished to a mirror orb. It was very nice and expensive-looking and it was closed. She hated it very much.
She started thinking about the game plan again. Speed was key, here. If they didn’t talk, this would all go down so much smoother. Talking was the Express Elevator to Doom.
But: first things first. There was still a door to deal with. She tried to picture herself going all Superchick on it. Booting it off its pricy hinges, racing across the room like some Nationally Geographical lioness.
The orchestra swells. They kiss.
And the crowd goes wild...
Or, not. Or he grabs her mid-pounce, and hands her that old lizard eye. Tells her he doesn’t feel it anymore, that he’s somewhere else and that she should go find a somewhere-else, too. Maybe he is even kind about it. Maybe he’s all thanks-for-saying-it about it. Buffy figured any more kind words like that would kill her on the spot. She would just melt into the floorboards like Dorothy’s witch, or crumble and explode like a vampire.
Like fireworks…
“In or out, pet?”
She stood there for a moment, feeling lame.
Vampire. Duh.
There was no going back now. It was Game Time. She took a long, loose breath and, as gently as she could, pushed open the door.
Ethan’s bedroom was nearly as dark as the vampire’s old tomb, illuminated by a lone lantern on a nightstand. The décor was very Warlock-of-Chaos, she thought. Black walls enclosed an assortment of ornate Rococo furnishings, all rather tastefully evil.
He stood quietly beside the bed, scrutinizing an empty mirror. He was wearing the suit again. The getup seemed more forced than ever before, like he was getting ready to go to some dumb job in some dumb world. The top part hung halfway open, revealing the wound next to his heart. It was nearly healed, now, looking rather like a pair of seamed white lips. The sight of it threw her off balance a little, made her question her tactics. After a moment, she decided to abandon the whole wild jungle-cat plan and eased her way inside, trying to force her face to do something that looked serene. He ignored her, and quickly started buckling up the jacket.
“Hi,” she said.
“And just how’d you manage to sneak off?”
“Bathroom break.”
(stupidthingtosaySTUPIDthingtosaystupidTHINGTOSAY)
“Ah,” he said. “Probably not such a grand idea, though, leaving her alone with them. My Dru gets loose, an’ you’ll be up all night picking them out of her tonsils.” He stifled a bitter laugh. “Oh, but that’s right. Got herself a soul, now. S’pose that means we can trust–”
"Don't."
“Don’t what?”
She felt her fist balling up. Going bad already. Word-count skyrocketing. “Look,” she said. “Can’t we just be normal about this?”
“Normal,” he snorted, suddenly cruel. “You back on the sauce, Slayer? Or did you finally take one too many shots to the skull?”
“No. It’s just me. I’m me. I just want us to...” She reached hard for the end of the sentence, but it turned to string and blew away. This isn’t where she wanted to go. She wanted them to talk like Romans. Talk with their hands. The demon began chanting stern commands from its perch in her chest, making it hard to focus.
(CHARGE. CHARGE. CHARGE. CHARGE.)
“Want us to what, Slayer?”
(Killer. Monster. Destroyer. Slayer.)
"Stop."
"Stop what?
"Don't."
"Don't. Stop. Go. Start. I want.” His voice was still quiet, but something hard was churning at the bottom of it. “Oh, welcome back, Slay–“
"Stop!" she cried, and wished she hadn’t. “I mean. Please... please stop calling me that.”
He shrugged. “It’s what you are.”
(Killer. Monster. Destroyer. Slayer.)
“It’s what I do. What I did.”
"Yeah, well. We are what we do, love,” he said, with a voice as black as midnight. She could feel the darkness moving through him, spreading like a virus. “And we damn well are what we did, too. Can’t leave the past behind, anymore than you can leave your shadow. Even you should know that, Slayer.”
"It’s not my name.”
"And Spike’s not mine. But that’s how the old song goes.”
Too much talk. Going bad now.
"Just. Say my name."
“Alright, Buffy then,” he growled, close to rage. “Buffy Summers. What do you want from me, Buffy Summers?”
She stood there quietly, thinking about the question. Considering the Dauphin’s little pop quiz, this should’ve been an easy one. A gimme. But somehow the answer always got stuck on the way up her throat, tangled in old webs. Words always failed. It made her wish she’d stayed in school, memorized great poetry. The poets knew how to say these things.
"Us,” is what she said, praying it would be enough.
When finally he turned to look at her his eyes were drawn to weary slits. “Well, too late for that, pet. Dunno if you heard, but I’m off to go kill you.”
“Don't–” she started to say. Bit her lip.
“What, ‘fraid I can’t do it?” he scoffed. “Came close a couple of times. It’s what I do, after all.” He scavenged a soft pack of Morleys from Ethan's nightstand, fishing out the last cigarette. “’Besides, isn’t much time left to put it through the bloody committee. Red and I don’t off you this time tomorrow, it’ll be the big lights-out.”
His jaw was working like a gear when he lit up the smoke, eyes like black storms. And that’s the moment when she knew.
He’s not coming back.
(charge)
She walked to him, steeling for the worst. He kept struggling with the suit, cigarette clenched in his teeth, trying to fasten a busted latch. Dreamily, she watched her hands work around his wrists, tugging the seam back open. The motion felt so small and natural, she could have been helping him off with a tie. She felt the darkness drain out of him as she softly plucked the rivets, one by one. As she neared the bottom he was just swaying, hypnotized by the strange gentleness of the act. They’d been many things together, but rarely gentle. They watched together in quiet awe as her fingers went about their strange business of undressing him.
"Can't," he said, voice gruff and creaking.
"She’s not me,” she murmured. “I’m right here. I’m me. And I’m in love with–"
He ripped free, batting away her hands. He had the same look of horror in his eyes that she saw on the cliff. The cold daggers went to work on her again. She felt her face twist as she wrestled forward, trying to steal the moment back. But his long arms cut her dead every time, guiding her hands up and out and sideways. Staggering backwards, eyes squeezed shut, he could’ve been a blind man fending off a thief. Old tears of frustration welled up inside. Her demon moaned its disapproval as he kept pushing her away, as her soft advances degenerated into something more savage and desperate.
“Let me,” she gasped, clawing her way inside his reach.
"Buffy...”
Why did you talk? When will you learn?
(doitnowstupiddoITnowDOitNOWDOITNOWSTUPID)
Without another word, she sent them crashing down onto the bed. He tried to shove her off, but she was moving faster than him now, showing off her gifts. Bare hands and knees pinned him out like a butterfly, and then her legs were moving, slithering for traction on velvet, lifting her face to his neck. When she got there, a breath fired out of her lips, steaming off skin.
“Let me.”
"No,” he said.
But the word didn’t register, made no sense. His eyes were sick with grief, but were also blue, and as familiar as skies.
She began to kiss him, then: neck weaving drunkenly, tongue lashing at whatever scraps of flesh it could reach. When he broke one hand free she thought it was all over; that he’d crush her, killing this and them. She prayed he’d make it quick.
For a terrifying moment, the hand did nothing at all. When she felt it alight on the nape of her neck, it was like something magical. His mouth dropped open, inviting her inside. It was suddenly their game again, all heat and inches. The hand pressed hard against her, plowing down her spine to the final knot.
Clothes suddenly felt unbearable to her, as ugly and useless as words or doors. Who would invent such stupid things? She tore at her own like they were on fire, smoothing her length along his body. The skirt dragged over the rough surface of the suit, inching up over her bare legs. She did it again, snakelike, enjoying the way the tiny spokes and divots raked her skin. He let his hand fall along her bare thigh. It was the same, smart hand she remembered, ghosting along the muscle until it discovered the fleshy curve of her ass, her shoulders shaking as it traced down the seam, a fingertip straying onto secret contents. The abrupt, electric shock of it paralyzed her, and suddenly she was burning. She was burning alive and wondering how long it had been since she last burned.
Unable to move, she set his other hand free, willing it to go about its business, do whatever it wanted. It settled for her face and neck, then her hair, tangling in it. Gripping her at both ends he began to rock her, back and forth, pressing her so tightly to his chest that she knew he was trying to feel her heart beat.
She tore her blouse sideways, sick of it, back arching like a cat. Parts were moving by themselves, now, a vibrating empire of the senses. Her hips were steered by unseen waves, grinding and writhing in his grasp. An army couldn’t have stopped what their lips were up to, brushing and bobbing to the hot music of her breath like it was the only sound in the world.
Breathing is the gift he gives you.
It was too much. It was love, love and nothing else. Love like a murder, like war. She closed her eyes and watched the last six days of her life vanish over a stormy horizon, leaving only a screaming white panic in its place. It was always the same. There was too much to do and no time left to do it. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, and never would be.
(charge)
Shivering, she set to work on the Sun Suit again. But the garment was suddenly infuriating, demanding more attention than she was willing to give it. Her once gentle hands only wanted to rip and shred now, to violently plow the field for flesh. One of them dashed off, searching for easier prey. It found a strip of flimsy cloth between her legs, and destroyed it with a merciless twist. She felt his entire body jump at the sound of its death, as if suddenly realizing what hers had known all along.
This is going to happen.
And after it does, it will never stop.
And you will come back to me.
Soul or not. World or not.
Something growled down in his chest. He was shaking his head. He had daggers too. She swept her hand across his brow, trying to smooth the knot there. “Shhhh,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
We're almost there, my love.
Almost home.
Let me.
She rededicated herself to a latch, eyes and fingers focused like lasers on the chore. But something strange was going on above her, now, distracting her. He was trying to stand. She shoved back hard with her hips, then continued to pick and pry at the clasp. She could open the fucking thing by herself.
But Spike kept going, kept standing. He was moving so slowly, now, like a huge and ancient animal, his limbs hardening to lead. The blood in her chest began whispering something she refused to hear. When he turned away she felt her whole body seize onto one of his leathery arms, clamping down on it like a jaw. She gave it a savage twist, wrenching him back down with such force that it crushed the box frame.
(lucky for the bed)
He was talking again, all nonsense, all Greek to her, and trying to kick his way free. But she still had the arm. It was her arm now, and she decided it was staying with her, even if he chewed it off. She dragged it down sharply, shoved the hand between her legs. Cool fingers scissored there for a moment, ghosts acting on old orders. She was instantly wet, her heart drumming behind her eyelids. She rocked forward, straining to push them inside.
"Don't fight,” she said. “Don’t fight me. We need this.”
But he fought. He fought anyway. It was his nature.
She pulled harder, battle strength whistling down her spine. She felt something crack in his wrist.
It's okay.
This is nothing. This will pass.
You dreamed you killed me.
This is nothing.
He was bucking like a horse under her, shouting curses. She stuck a hand over his mouth to put a stop to it. Like pressing a button, the fangs fired down, slicing deep into the center of her palm.
Almost there.
This will pass.
Every night you save me.
She was okay now. And he would be. And they were together, at last, and it would be easy. This was how they are. The rest was all just clothes and words and doors and history books on a bonfire. She clawed at the latch again, sick of it. Somewhere above, she could feel her other palm becoming slick with blood.
Doesn't matter.
Get the clothes off. New jobs for tongues.
Love you.
Need this.
Almost home.
She felt cool fingers wrap around her throat. It took her mind a few seconds to register that he was choking her, and several more to begin to care about this fact. Just as the black waters crept in around the edges, an old, honed instinct took over. She abandoned the arm, and in the next instant she was flying out across the room.
Her back thudded against the wall, smashing apart the plaster there. She felt it rain down on her like cool sand as her brain swam in and out of orbit.
Somewhere out in the blur, she could see his dark shape moving. She rolled sideways, shaking the cobwebs out. The demon inside went about its duties, boiling the clouds away at blazing speeds. After a few seconds, the room snapped back into focus all around her.
She was sitting alone in it, covered in black paint chips and fine, white dust. A door loomed before her, open like a wound. The wood, she realized, was just as exquisite on the inside, stained the color of old blood.
As the haze subsided, she realized that she did know one poem, after all. She thought it was a funny one at the time, a clever thing to say when the moment was right. The words roused themselves to life now, leering back at her from the collegian mists:
'Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.''
She stared at the door for a long moment, listening to the sound of her own treacherous heart. Waiting for its orders.
Run, it said.
Chase.