Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Drusilla, Buffy/Spike

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.
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That was not the answer Spike wanted to hear. Let it be Red. Or, hell, even the little Bit, dabbling in things she doesn't understand in her grief. (Oh, get over that, you ponce; she never forgave you.)

But, one of the dead?

This stank of Wolfram & Hart.




"The magic is old," Madame Polina announced, her hands hovering over Spike like they were being warmed. "Ancient power."

Spike knew who could conjure that kind of magic. Who could appear to him as anyone. Who would know just the right form to appear to him as...

Drusilla.

As far as any of the others were aware, she was just mad. But Spike knew Drusilla completely, intimately. She was an expert at thrall—if not better than Dracula, at least more creative. Her tarot readings were gravely accurate, to say nothing of her visions. But her deep, dark secret was that she had a wicked way with magic.

Unlike Red, Dru relished doing things the hard way, the messy way. So, it was not at all widely known how skilled she was at spells. Darla knew what Dru was up to, but she paid little attention as she thought it to be mere parlor tricks to keep the loony girl busy. Angelus thought it was more make-believe. (Though Spike did remember quite fondly how Dru held that against her sire when he was cursed by the gypsies. She could have removed the curse with minimal effort, but oh well. Good for her to teach him that lesson, the bastard!) But Spike watched her skill grow in silence, her abilities proven only in the rare instances where some result was needed immediately.

So, what could she be searching him out for now? And why did he just know Angel would have something to do with it?




"Angel, what is your damage?"

Dawn cringed at her sister's out-dated Californianism. Geez, get with the times, people!

"Oh my God. Don't you even dare bring up his name to me."

Uh-oh. He must have said something stupid about Spike. Again. Dawn tried to ignore the conversation while she scribbled out her homework, but Buffy's anger was stifling.

"I don't know how you can even say you love me when you know this conversation is rubbing salt in the wound."

Buffy was pacing back and forth now, her face flushed.

"Seriously, just stop."

Dawn closed her book, not sure if this was the point in the conversation where she should bolt or where she should hold Buffy tight.

"Angel, I love him," Buffy said painfully.

She understood that cue. Dawn's hand instinctively reached for her sister's. Buffy took it with shaky fingers.

"Not loved. Love." Buffy paused, and Dawn rested her head against her sister's stomach. "And I won't walk away from that, never again. Not like you walked away from me."

Dawn heard nothing but silence on the other end of the phone as Buffy slid it from her ear and slowly set it back on the receiver.




Guess his dark princess really didn't walk away for good.

Ten years ago, he'd have celebrated that revelation with a nice fight or feeding. But now... Spike was uneasy. Nervous. Torn. He knew, even after all these years, he could not deny her. She was his creator, his companion, the object of his worship and desire for over a century. You don't forget something like that.

But his unbeating heart, his burning soul—those were the Slayer's, whether she wanted them or not.




After Dawn had fallen asleep, Buffy cloistered herself away in her small bedroom. She pulled out a little wooden chest from under the bed. It was at least a century old, though it still held the faintest scent of clove. Buffy had stolen it from Spike's crypt while he was away on his soul-getting trip. She had no idea then where he had gone or if he'd ever return, and she found she couldn't bear the thought of it. She had forgiven him already; the bathroom scene was her fault just as much as (if not more than) his. To never see him again... it was just too much. She wanted (no, needed) something of his. So she went to his crypt while Clem was out and snuck down to the ruined lower level. (Just another part of his existence that I destroyed.) Somehow protected was this carved mahogany box, found buried beneath blankets and charred pillows. Inside, to her amazement, were incredible bits of his life and un-life. An impossibly old photo of a delicate woman with kind eyes and Spike's nose—must have been his mother. Another of a barely-dressed Drusilla, looking sultry draped across plump cushions in an opium den. One of him with black hair from around the time of WWII, smoking an unfiltered cigarette with someone. On the flip-side was written in Spike's elegant script: "Algiers, avec Beauchard, 1942". Also, in a careful, ribbon-tied bunch, was a heavy handful of black hair. By the look and feel of it, Buffy could tell it was a revered relic—the ponytail of the first Slayer he killed. Before, she'd have felt sickened by this trophy. But now, it was a sacred honor to have, both as the descendant of the Slayer as well as the lover of the Slayer of Slayers. Yet, even out of those and other mementos that were squirreled away, there was an item that, each night alone, she reached for. A little skull ring, the one Spike used to "propose" to her during one of Willow's spells-gone-wrong. When the spell had worn off, Buffy remembered throwing it at him in disgust. But, he kept it. That ring and its memories meant something to him, and now she slipped it on, hoping each night to remember that strange day when she pledged the rest of her life to him.




"Oh, it's definitely feminine," Madame Polina continued as she counted dollar bills, placing them one at a time in Stan's hand. Her eyes went skyward for a moment, like she was thinking. "Mother. That's what I'm feeling."

"Well, that answers that," Spike sighed.

The woman's eyes lit up. "Was your mother a witch?" She clasped her hands together in anticipation.

Spike shook his head, his lips a mere slash across his alabaster face. "My sire."

"Ahh... yes... indeed, a mother." She peered at Spike then. "Are you not happy?"

Stan interjected as the tension raised a few levels. "Umm... it's complicated."

Spike frowned in agreement.

Madame Polina just shrugged as they filtered back out into the musty Cleveland evening.




Willow took a deep lungful of air and coughed. Yep, this had to be Cleveland.

"He's here. He's definitely here," Tara breathed. "Can you feel it?"

Willow's fingertips crackled. She could certainly feel something, but it wasn't Spike. There was no hiding the fact that this city was located on a Hellmouth. The air was ripe with it, and she could feel the evil like static all around her. The addict in her could OD on this sensation. She didn't know how long she could last here without slipping.





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