15 hours earlier…
Wesley watched with quiet discord as Illyria studied the secrets of her reflection. She was fascinated—more likely vengeful—with the dried blood that crusted her upper lip, as well as the texture that mapped her face with the newly drawn incisions. It was to be understood. Older than time and she had never truly felt pain. Never been in a brawl that resulted in her loss. Now she was bleeding. The paint of crimson against her tinted skin looked odd even to him. And she was enchanted. Enchanted, and more than a little angry.
A dry, humorless chuckle rose to his throat. Humiliation was a vindictive bitch, uncaring of whom she struck.
“I find it strange that I still excrete these vile fluids hours after acquiring the wounds that bore them,” she observed. “My skin feels hot there, and it sends an ache through my arm whenever the pressure is increased.” She shook her head distastefully. “The human system is so odd. So frail and weak. With any minor infliction, all it takes—”
The last thing he needed at present was another reminder of the human condition and its many fallacies. Thus, Wesley held up a hand with dry indifference. “My advice, then,” he replied monotonously. “Don’t touch it.”
That was all he said before he turned away, and no sooner did he feel the burn of her gaze boring into the back of his throat. That was funny. Despite everything, she still managed to take offense, even surprise, when he dared raise his voice to her in a manner of sarcasm or indifference. That was fair as well, he observed.
And then he didn’t care very much at all.
“You presume to poke fun at my duress,” Illyria retorted coldly. “I would have yanked your entrails out by now for the low esteem in which you regard me. You too often forget your place.”
“About as often as you forget yours.” He shook his head. “And you misjudge me, my dear. If you were to reach for my insides, you would find them ripped out already. There is nothing there of value.”
She glanced down at that, as though the reminder humbled her, however laughable the thought might be. “You speak again of her.”
“I speak of no one other than myself.” Wesley turned a bit, rising to his feet to reach his cell phone. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a call to make.” With that, he very intently turned his back on her and turned his attention to the self-made task that would solidify his lasting means. The numbers punched into the dial could never be eradicated, despite how fervently he tried.
Strange. It only took that to bring back memories of his father, and his gut clinched with expected dread. There was nothing there to suggest it. Only that his ties to the Council were irrefutably drawn with blood, and even the more positive aspects of their circle could not escape his own tainting by association. His father haunted every corner of his memory still. The lasting part of his crumpling will.
A wry smile spread across his lips. It was fitting that the last of his own humanity belonged to a man who bore none.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I am looking for Rupert Giles.”
Illyria made no noise when she moved—not unless she wanted to be heard. And yet, it came as no surprise when she was behind him the next minute, leering over his shoulder contemplatively. She would naturally assume everything to be her business. “I take it your leader remains ignorant to your persistence in executing your own commands behind his back.”
Wesley favored her with a dry glance. “This is not an order. If anything should happen, I would like someone to know why.”
“And this…Rupert Giles is worthy of such a privilege?”
The solemn smile expanded, and he perked his brows with witless irony. “Were it not for Rupert Giles, I would not be standing here.” He let that thought sink in. “I will decide later whether or not to kill him for it.”
“You grow clumsy in your insubordination.”
“You mistake clumsiness with apathy.” Wesley turned away the next minute, bringing the phone back to his attention with intent. “Yes, Giles. This is Wesley. Yes, it has been a long time. Things are…” He stilled, releasing a taut breath that made every fiber of his being ache. “Things are, well, normal, I suppose. Listen, I am calling because Angel…we’re taking on the Black Thorn.” He made the obligatory pause. “Yes, I am aware that such is essentially declaring war on Wolfram and Hart. This has been in the works for months. It is hardly out of the blue. I…I just wanted to let you know that should…should anything happen, that’s why.” Another long sigh shuddered through his body. “Our association with Wolfram and Hart was a fluke, understand. Angel decided such after Cordelia died. Yes, she died. She and…” He paused once more, willing his eyes closed. “And a…a young woman you never met. Listen, Rupert, I do not have long. I was just calling to make sure that someone had a record of what happened should we not survive. I don’t know why I did it…call it an old habit that I wish myself rid of. Yes. Well, do not question anything.” Another break. Wesley finally turned to Illyria, finding her stare as cold, however inquisitive, as ever. “Yes, Angel made it very clear that we will not survive. I do not intend for that threat to extend to me, but one must always be prepared. And bearing that in mind…I should also tell you that Spike is here and with us.”
That was most assuredly the wrong thing to say.
“I do not have time to go into the how’s and why’s of what occurred. He has been with us for months now. No, Andrew mentioned nothing because Spike did not want Buffy to know. Well, I don’t know why, do I? Do with the information what you like. I’m sorry, now. Must be going.”
He cut the call while Giles was still in erratic midsentence. He allowed himself a moment of collection that coincided with the deep-rooted wonder of what had gotten into him. He didn’t care; he truly didn’t care, but perhaps out of that came just enough to merit understanding.
“Well then,” he said after a minute, turning back to Illyria. “We might as well have a look at those cuts.”
A last day. Quite possibly his last day. Angel had said so but he did not believe it. The night bore no intention of masking his final step. And still, he of all people knew that things did not always go as one planned.
And if today truly were his last day; he would like to spend it with the one he loved. Illyria was hardly that, she looked just enough like Fred without being her to give him some pained form of non-solace.
That would do just fine.
Two days later…
It wasn’t as though they could call it a coma; as far as anyone knew, vampires did not experience comas. For the better part, he simply lay in the peaceful quiet of the hospital wing. His wounds had disappeared within the first six hours of his admittance—all except the one marking his side, but the granted medical staff assured them that he would be up to par before the last of the transformation occurred.
They were still trying to pinpoint who had made it and who had not. Gunn’s body was found the day before, a dagger in one hand and a stake in the other. He would be granted a hero’s funeral when full recovery of their bearings was made. Wesley was uncovered immediately. In that instance, they had known where to look.
Those who had survived almost suffered a worse fare. There were dead Slayers and more than one witch lost to the coven. Angel, on the other hand had been released nearly at once, more to the general disapproval of the medical staff. Hospitals made him edgy, he said. Especially those that treated otherworldly patients. And he had wagered that Spike would need the bulk of the attention, anyway, for he was assuredly about to undergo the most drastic change of his existence.
There was no doubt there, he said. The Powers had chosen, and he had forfeited the lasting remnants of his own hope for solitude. He willed himself away, granting a parting farewell to her, and left finally to pursue Nina before she left him for good. He promised he would return for the funerals, but no one truly believed him. As it was his way, he would say goodbye without having to look at the lifeless faces of those that had served his side well for the past five years. That was understandable. Some things were merely too painful, even for a vampire that had seen it all.
Illyria had sustained significant damage but was expected to live. She was situated in the wing with the bulk of the Slayers that had put themselves in the crossfire. And while the coven had sustained damage, by comparison, they were best off of any that had laid their lives on the line.
Giles had naturally taken to studying the humanoid demon during her periods of rest. Angel had given him as much information about Illyria before he left as possible; Willow had automatically gone into a period of mourning in memory of Fred.
“I know I didn’t know her that well,” she had said. “But she was so nice.”
Angel had nodded solemnly, eyes glued to the figure filling the hospital bed. “It was Wesley that sustained the most significant hit with her death,” he had explained softly. “I’d like to think that he’s at peace now…with himself and what happened.”
Giles related the nature of their phone call and noted how strained the man had sounded. Granted while years had gone since they had seen each other, there was nothing resembling the man he once knew within what he was presented, even miles away. “He seemed apathetic. And if he did care, it was as though his caring worried him. As though caring made him too human for his taste.”
“Perhaps it did,” Angel had replied. “Wes died with Fred. You must understand that. Whatever kept him with us in the afterward was pushed onward only by an obligation he felt he needed to fulfill.” A sigh had rumbled off his chest at that, and he had offered a short smile. “Thankfully, he did so, and not without committing a mutiny that likely saved our lives.”
“I only wish we had gotten here sooner,” Willow had reflected.
“You got here as soon as you could.”
“It was hasty. Gathering a coven and as many Slayers together as possible.” She had looked at the ground then, cheeks tinting lightly. “Wes told us about Spike. When Buffy heard, she…”
Angel had nodded, evidently unmoved. “I understand.”
And that was the end of that. He had said his goodbyes and left. Now all was left to the tedious matter of waiting.
Waiting.
Willow and Giles were seated side by side in the perpetual hall of the infirmary. It was a time where words seemed superfluous in context and useless in nature. With everything that had occurred in the past forty-eight hours, there was too much to draw in without relying on the specifics of knowledge.
How long they sat in the companionable disquiet of shared solitude, neither could say. In all likelihood it was only minutes, but time and logic were not working hand-in-hand these days. It was Willow who broke it, her thoughts penetrating the boundary of grievance, and she could hold herself in no longer.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Giles glanced to her but did not reply.
“I mean, it’s not like we knew him really well anymore, right?” The redhead shook her head. “I saw him last year when…he had changed a lot. He was so…pained. His vibes were…I just couldn’t…” She expelled a long breath, head rolling back as she cast her gaze heavenward. “Just when you think you’re getting used to the death thing.”
The Watcher smiled grimly at that, patting her knee in empty assurance. “One can never adjust to death,” he said. “Not without losing all sense of humanity.”
“It just wasn’t what…and Fred. You never met Fred, and I guess that Illyria girl is her now, but Fred was such a darling.” A shuddering sigh escaped her lips and she shivered slightly. “I think not living on the Hellmouth has spoiled me.”
Giles regarded her with wry amusement. “And to think…it’s only been a year.”
“She’s with him now, isn’t she?”
“I would imagine so. I don’t believe she has left his side since she found him.”
Willow nodded slowly. “And she knows? About everything? Angel was pretty specific in what he thought was going to happen.”
“It makes sense to me. Before this came about, the Powers were drawn at a standstill. One vampire had technically fulfilled the prophecy but another stood in the way.” The Watcher paused, then removed his glasses and consigned them to the hem of his shirt as was habit he could never eradicate. “I told her what would happen, but I don’t know if she heard me. Or rather…that she understood.”
“It’s hard on her, Giles. She thought he was dead for over a year.”
“Yes.” A scowl befell the Watcher’s face. “And making rather foolish judgment calls in the light of that upheaval, I might add.”
“The Immortal?”
He shook his head. “I seriously don’t know what got into her.”
Willow smiled coyly. “Well, did you see him? He was rather…” She received a harsh look in turn and immediately fell silent, eyes falling despondently to her lap. “Right. Bad. Very, very bad. B-but at least—”
“If there’s any good to Spike being thrown back into her life,” Giles said. “It got her away from him. I’m still half convinced there was a spell involved.”
“No spell.”
“But Buffy wouldn’t—”
“Trust me. I know spells. I know how to sense spells. Plus, one of the first things you made me do when I got back to Rome was do that spell-detector spell. There was no spell.” Willow sighed. “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she was just trying to…move on. You know how long that took her.”
The Watcher frowned, notably displeased. “I still believe she could have implemented a little judgment.” There was a still pause. “You’re beyond positive that there was—”
“No. Spell.” Willow glared at him for his persistence but faded a minute later, placing a neutral hand on his arm. “But no love, either. From either one of them. You saw the way The Immortal pursued chicks…and sometimes…well, you know…not-chicks. He was too caught up in his own reputation to give her much more thought than she gave him when they weren’t together. I think he was a big Riley to her. The not-meant-to-be-transitional-but-turns-into-transitional guy.”
There was another brief silence. Giles sighed and settled in his chair uncomfortably. “I don’t know about the rest of it,” he said. “This business with Spike…”
“It’s what she wants.”
“I know. I don’t like it, but I know.”
“No one’s big on the wagon, here,” she concluded. “But Buffy deserves happiness. And while she hasn’t been miserable…at least for these last two months, she hasn’t been happy. She’s been living in the delusion of happy while settling in the comfy middle.”
“I think you’re forgetting something.”
Willow frowned.
“What if Spike no longer wants her?”
The redhead blinked slowly, then shook her head. That wasn’t even within the realm of reasonability. “I—”
“He didn’t contact her. Not when he first came back, not when we sent Andrew to collect the renegade Slayer, and not when he and Angel ventured to Europe…twice, I might add.” Giles glanced upward. “There’s every possibility that he’s moved on.”
“With how much he—”
“There’s no need to remind me of ‘how much he’ anything where Buffy is concerned. I merely want to be prepared. Of what he’s been doing in the months since he came back, we do not know. He might have another life. He might be in love with another woman. He might have done what Angel inevitably did and moved on, realizing that he couldn’t give her what she needed.” The Watcher shook his head. “There are a thousand possibilities, Willow. I don’t want to see Buffy hurt again, especially after what it took to get her over his death. We can be certain of nothing until he awakes.”
Despite the fallacy in logic, there was no arguing with that. A few months before, the Witch would have denied the possibility of Buffy getting involved with someone so soon, but she had been with The Immortal, living her picture of happiness. It pained her to see her as she was. Comfortable but not happy. In like but not in love. After everything she had suffered, she deserved something that she wanted. Not something she settled for.
Best friends were amazingly astute when it came to such things. For the same reason, Buffy had coaxed her through the fall of her relationship with Kennedy and made her realize that because one had ended, another was still out there. That just because her relationship with Tara was the big one didn’t mean she was a failure if the one afterward wasn’t.
In that, they had rekindled what had been lost for nearly two years and redeveloped the groundwork of a friendship too precious to lose for things such as duty and distance. Together, they had mourned. Willow had realized that she was not ready so soon to jump the gun with someone after losing the love of her life, and appropriately ended it with Kennedy before it could become too serious. Before the break could hurt worse than it did. And Buffy had shared the woes of her bad luck with men. Her own self-loathing at finding the one that had loved her unconditionally and treating him to such a point that he didn’t even believe her when she finally told him what she felt. What he had so long deserved to hear.
They were close now. Closer than ever before. And while Giles’s concerns were valid, she hoped beyond hope that he was wrong. True chances at happiness were few and far between. Buffy had been handed too many and passed them up before she knew how to recognize a good thing. If this last one proved her too late, the damage could be inexorable.
For all that she had seen, there was nothing to do but hope. They had arrived at the whim of a call, but Willow knew that it was for Spike that Buffy had tagged along. She had no true purpose here aside him. With Slayers populating the earth, she could have just as well stayed in Italy and allowed the others to deal with the apocalypse.
“Saved the world,” she muttered.
Giles nodded. “Yes. Again.”
“Think we’ll ever have to not do that?”
“I rather hope not.”
Willow frowned. “Why?”
“I believe if ever we came to a point where saving the world was no longer imperative, it would be because we had failed.” The Watcher smiled wanly. “We’re very good at what we do.”
There was no arguing with that. “Getting better all the time.”
That was all. The clandestine silence encircled once more and left no survivors. There was simply nothing to do but wait.
In all his years, Spike reckoned he had never known such softness. It was all around him. Everywhere. Encompassing every inch of him with the pure radiance of suggestion. Distantly, a warning bell sounded within depths of reason that screamed the wrongness of being.
Dead. Dead. I’m dead.
But no. He wasn’t. He remembered being dead. Really dead. It didn’t feel like this. It didn’t feel so blissful.
Someone was pacing across the floor. That was the first sound he heard. Pacing, then breathing. Heavy breathing. The scent of tears thickened the room like oil, and his heart instantly broke at the feel of it.
The scent grew with identity and bade him stop and instantaneous retribution. There was no denying it. He would recognize its richness anywhere.
But wait. That wasn’t right.
He emanated a purposeful sigh and the pacing stopped. And slowly, he allowed his eyes to open.
And every nerve in his body froze.
Heaven. I’m dead. This is Heaven. I got in. Oh God.
A voice then. His symphony. Soft, imploring, melodic. Nothing to compare.
“…Spike?”
He released a hissing breath, sitting up in disbelief, his eyes taking in the scene before him. It was real, then. Real. God, it looked real. The picture of his salvation. The siren that drew his blood home.
It wasn’t possible. Not possible.
But she was here.
Spike’s mouth fell open, but he immediately lost whatever it was he wanted to say. All that remained was the sound of her name. And strangely, at the moment, it was all he needed.
“Buffy.”