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Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER 28: Further, Nearer

CHAPTER RATING: T/M (for some sexy time. Yay!)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Dawn & Clem, Tara & Spike, Drusilla/Giles

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: AU after AtS “Not Fade Away”

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I’m just fixing their mistakes! Ha!

CHAPTER CREDITS: Lyrics from “It’s a Sunshine Day” by The Brady Bunch

CHAPTER NOTES: Here’s a quickie for you! Thanks again for all of the reviews, messages, alerts, and favorites! I appreciate it so much!
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The headache Madame Polina had was incredible. She’d been gritting her teeth from it all day now, and even the heavy-duty migraine pills she popped hadn’t touched it. That left her assuming it was a side effect of either the bokor’s curse or Papa Jean’s cure—though, with Cleveland being a hellmouth, it could honestly be anything.

The old witch let down her long hair and began brushing it slowly, the movement massaging her scalp and lessening the pain at least a little. Between the throbbing ache, she had been thinking of Rupert Giles. How random. That name hadn’t come up for a few years now, give or take a moment. The last time she spoke with him was when he asked for the coven’s help. And she was so far from her sister witches in Devon that she couldn’t imagine him ever needing her help again. So, what was with these thoughts of him? They were hazy, kind of like something conjured by a spell but even moreso—enough that she had been writing them off as residue from Papa Jean (along with the headache) or her own mystical subconscious.

She finished off her chamomile tisane and went to take a long soak in the bath.

No, those thoughts were more like he was trying to contact the coven, with everyone asleep but me.

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Oh God, I’d give anything to listen to The Sex Pistols right now, Buffy thought, groaning. Never would she have imagined she’d be reduced to that. But, ohmyfuckinggod, even hearing Spike mimic Johnny Rotten was more tolerable than this.

She rested on the sofa with an icepack on her forehead. Dawn sat in the passenger’s seat of the RV belting out the chorus of the bubblegum pop song that Clem had blaring on the stereo.

If I make it out of this alive and we find Spike, I swear I’ll never, never, ever complain about his awful music ever again.

Buffy grit her teeth, as she had been doing since their gas station pit-stop in Bakersfield. Clem and Dawn were navigating the road, their heads bobbing side to side in unison as they sang. Loudly.

“Everybody’s smilin’,” Clem bellowed as Dawn followed with a high-pitched “Sunshine daaaay!”
“Everybody’s laughin’...”
“Sunshine day!”
“Everybody seems so happy today...”
“It’s a sunshine day!”

The Slayer buried herself deeper into the sofa cushions. I’m going to kill the rest of those Monks for giving Dawn memories of The Brady Bunch.

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“Do you think she has memories of what happened?” Tara asked Spike later that evening.

Willow still hadn’t shared with them any real details of her days as Sleeping Beauty. It was something Tara had sensed went deeper than just a random spell, and she was bothered by it more than she could say. She could tell that Spike had some serious concerns as well.

Spike ran his comb through Tara’s long hair. He loved to pamper Dru this way and had always wished Buffy would have let him do it. (A sharp pang hit him as he remembered how she had cut her lovely locks off rather than give him that joy.) He reached out and followed the comb’s trail with his fingers, abnormally thankful for this small favor.

The favor was apparently mutual, though, as he felt Tara relax slightly under his ministrations. The outfit she had manifested today was similar to the one she had worn in that first dream he had of her—a dress of gossamer cloth—and he watched as it rippled with her movements. Movements which were becoming regular now.

“Luv?”

Spike dropped the comb and reached gently for her face. When he felt the moisture on her skin, he leaned in and held her.

Tara had been silent in her sudden (or so he thought) grief, but when Spike’s steady arms encircled her, she let out a faint sob.

“She’s falling back into it again, isn’t she?”

Spike frowned and pulled the gentle witch into his lap, cradling her against him. He placed a soft, cool kiss on her forehead. “Once you’ve touched the darkness, tasted the power it grants, it’s hard to give that up. No matter how strong you are.”

She pressed her face against his throat and took a half-breath. She felt, more than heard, him continue: “Believe me, I know...”

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Angel growled. Then scowled. Then frowned. Then felt the brooding coming on.

How could he have forgotten to contact the bokor before he left England? Surely, she was still over there, and now that he was back in L. A., it would be a feat to try to locate her again. Fuck. Severing himself from Wolfram & Hart was quickly becoming one of his regrets. He had every sort of demon and witch at his fingertips then, and now what did he have? A fucking phone book. Sure, L. A. was weird, but it wasn’t likely to have listings for voodoo priestesses and covens in its phone directories.

He guessed he could go to New Orleans for help. Not like he had anything else to do these days. Angel Investigations was long-gone, along with his staff. What else did he know how to do? 200+ years and nothing to show for it, really.

Angel frowned again as he headed to the butcher’s. Maybe he just needed something to eat. The taste of Dru left a bitter sensation in more than just his mouth.

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Giles could have sworn Drusilla had been kissing him for hours. She must have sensed his irritation at her frequent forays into insanity and so instead of speaking, she was transmitting her thoughts to him this way. Quite remarkable, really. And although his lips were feeling the effects of it after so much time of disuse, he had to admit (to himself only, of course) that it was quite an enjoyable mode of communication. Apparently, she was also able to capture his thoughts during her lovely, mind-melding kisses, so this was working. As odd as it was. He imagined they looked worse than teenagers at this point.

It wasn’t until she began undressing that he realized her mode of communication was serving a dual purpose right now. She usually waited until he was weak from blood loss or thrall, but this time he was quite conscious of her actions, and, dear lord, her soft, cool, smooth, sweetly-scented, flawless skin. Oh, he shouldn’t be looking at her like this. She was someone else’s. And he was not hers. She was so young, even though she had been around a century longer than him. She was... exquisite. Undeniable. His body had given in before his will did, but the time discrepancy between the two was getting shorter and shorter the more she did this. Drusilla was breaking him...but, oh, how delightful it was. She was breaking him only to build him into something...better? Could that be possible? When her legs clutched him desperately and her pants of “my rook” grew stronger, he began to believe it.

He was the Fortress. He was the Protector.

As Dru came, Ripper shot forth a message loud and clear to the coven again.

Find me the witch. Find Willow.




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