CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike/Buffy

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: AU after AtS.

DISCLAIMER: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. Lyrics in this chapter are from "Human Fly" by The Cramps. The book Spike references in this chapter is The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first fanfic, though I've been a very grateful reader throughout the years. It will eventually be Spuffy, but the early chapters concentrate mostly on Spike himself as I find him to be an incredibly dynamic character. I hope I do him justice, and that this trip is enjoyable! At this point, I'm not sure how many chapters this story will run. I welcome any comments! Thank you for reading! :)

Prekian demons, Spike thought. Who'd have guessed?

He kicked off his boots and reached for a smoke. It would be interesting to see how the news followed up on the aftermath. The Cleveland police department was being pummeled for this latest rash of murders. So far the public consensus indicated it was a group of teenage satanists. Spike laughed to himself as he slipped a Cramps record onto the turntable. If it wasn't satanic, it was gang-related. He thought back to how everything in Sunnydale was reported to be due to PCP. At least Clevelanders had some clue that they were living in a demonic hotspot. The ritualistic slayings had tipped him off. Too clean to be a group of kids. Rumblings in the local demon bar had everyone on edge. When his buddy Gar was unsettled, Spike knew something was up. A Kailiff demon, Gar didn't scare easily. Not at all.

It only took Spike a few hours to track down the beasties. A pack of five Prekians, likely on their way out of town. But it had been a slow week for Spike, and there was no way he'd let this rare opportunity pass him by.

Now he was feeling the effects of the fight. Five-on-one, weaponless against their carved blades, Spike pulled out olympic-worthy moves to best them. It was an intense battle, certainly rash and stupid, and it lit that fire inside him he remembered from those early years of being a vampire. All fists and fangs. He shouldn't have gone into a fight like this with out Gar, at least, but it had been a long time since he really let his demon out, and he felt he needed to. Good for the soul, he smirked, knowing that meant more than a couple things to him. (The soul you got for her, his unbeating heart whispered.)

He cranked up the stereo louder, stretching the kinks out of his now-achey muscles.

I got a garbage brain

It's drivin' me insane

And I don't like your ride

So push that pesticide

And baby I won't care

Cuz baby I don't scare...

Spike inhaled a deep breath of cool night air. It really was too early in the season to have the windows open, but he liked the scent of the thawing lake. It had the fragrance of an old fishmonger's shop, like he remembered from when he was human. Springtime in Cleveland was the time of the "fishpocalypse," as he heard the college students describe it. The shoreline would be deep with dead fish, their silver bellies bloating in the sun. Lake Erie's sudden winds would carry the rotting scent all along the coast, together with the thankful sounds of hungry seagulls. Cleveland was a place of such dichotomy, constantly confirming that he chose his new home well.

He lucked out when he had arrived in town. Finding a cheap flat above an old Italian restaurant on the west-side gave him a perfect spot to keep up on all the action. His only neighbor was deaf, and the building next-door was a nightclub called The Phantasy. He could make all the noise he wanted at all hours of the night and no one would complain. The woman who owned the restaurant was elderly, and she gave him a good rate on the apartment in exchange for a helping hand. He also didn't need to steal much anymore with the wage (though small) he was paid to be the Phantasy bouncer. It really was a nice set-up.

All that was missing was Buffy.

He had tried to contact her when he was in L.A. Well, first he was too scared to—afraid that his glory would be wasted, and she'd regret those words she said to him before his very obviously-inevitable end. Surely, that's why she said what he'd longed to hear. She was clever enough to know that it would help him bear the pain of the end. And he appreciated it; he certainly did. Any scrap she'd toss him he savored. Saving the best for last made him feel the sacrifice was worth it. God, she wasn't the bloody Slayer for nothing. He loved her, and his sacrifice was so that she would make it out—so that she would live. He helped her return to life once, though he went about it the wrong way, he guessed. Closing the Sunnydale hellmouth was the revised version. He knew his love was real because he let her go. To live. That was the vision he took with him as he incinerated.

When he became corporeal again, all touchy-feely and not ghost-Spike, he'd tried to find her once more. Peaches wasn't very forthcoming with her whereabouts, but the lack of despondent brooding told him that Buffy must be okay, at least. Living her life, just like he had wanted. After he saw Andrew, he was sure the message would have gotten to Buffy of his return; Andrew wasn't known to keep a juicy tidbit like that a secret. But he never heard a word.

Spike couldn't help but take that as a sign that her last words to him really were a warrior's salve in the battleground.

You did the right thing, mate, he reminded himself daily. It was the only thing that got him through. And now that he was in Cleveland, he doubted he'd hear her voice again anywhere other than his dreams. He never told Angel or Ilyria that he was leaving or where he was going. Hell, he didn't even know if they knew (or cared) that he survived that last battle. He was done with the West Coast. California is where people come to die, he recalled from a book. Read it in the '40s and never realized how true it was, on so many levels. Spike died there too many times to count. He was heading back to New York City—busy, grey, interesting, and home to one of his greatest conquests. It was a place that always reminded him of his strength and the things he loved...before her.

Spike missed his old DeSoto as he travelled across country. He had hitched most of the way, swiping a car or two where the trains diverged. When he hit Chicago, he was happy to see a real city again. As he drove east from there, he hugged the Great Lakes and something stirred within. Cleveland. The hellmouth. Wood.

Angel had told him that the rogue slayer and Robin Wood settled in Cleveland to take on the nasties in that hellmouth. Ha! Spike had been to Cleveland before. Stayed there for a while in the late '70s. (But not long enough. Dru thought the blood there was bitter. Even the children were tainted, she swore. "They taste like rust. Old rusty nails and sewer grates.")

Cleveland was a much different hellmouth than Sunnydale. The residents weren't so vapid, weren't so in need of a slayer's help. They were cynical and poor and had thick blood coursing through their veins. Spike licked his lips in remembrance and grinned when he thought of the type of welcome Faith and the principal had probably gotten. That was something he'd like to see first-hand.

So, Cleveland it was.

Dead Boy, Dead Boy, Always End the Same by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike/Buffy

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: The action is starting to brew.

Only, there was no Slayer in Cleveland.

When Spike rooted around at the various demon bars, the response he got was snickers and chuckles, as if he even needed to ask such a daft question. Cleveland didn't have much of a vampire problem; the residents tended to take care of that on their own, whether by accident or on purpose. No nonsense there. Probably could handle a few of the lesser demons as well. Not much to keep a slayer busy here, particularly not a slayer with ADHD like Faith. Not much to keep a bloke looking for vampire revenge here either. Good. Because he meant what he told Wood; his mercy was a one-shot deal. That left only the big nasties, which was more Spike's style. Like he told Angel all those years ago, he never liked fights he was sure he could win. And with word in the underground that William the Bloody had settled there, the brassiest of demons would find their way to that part of the world. Spike remembered how much of a slump the city had been in for decades and gloated that the recent economic resurgence was due to all the new demon activity on his account. Hey, a bloke could dream, right? Better than the ones filled with heartbreak, anyway.

Stop being a poof, he chided himself. Got Angel for that. That's why he was here. Didn't need to help the helpless in Cleveland cuz they weren't. They ignored him, and he went after the big bads instead, no thanks and no glory. Just him and the fight.

Spike knew what he was doing. He was trying to justify how he could be anywhere other than in Buffy's arms. This is why he mentally argued for reasons as to why he picked Cleveland over anywhere else. Who else would care? He wished he knew some spells, wished he had paid more attention to Dru's madness and magic—maybe then he could find a way to search out his lost Slayer. (To make her love him? No, not going there again, mate.)

Spike missed ratty Willy at that moment, knowing that he could have gotten a message through to someone by way of Willy the Snitch. He'd bribe him with all the money and protection in the world for a shot at that. But Willy was likely crushed somewhere in the crater he made of Sunnydale. Stayed til the end, the greedy bastard.

Spike sighed and finally heard the ticking of the needle on the record, going round and round with crackly dead air. How long had he been sitting here? The cigarette in his fingers was nearly ash. It crumbled to the floor the moment heavy fists thudded against his door. Good, some action.

Through the peephole he saw the husky figure: dark skin with blunt spikes protruding on both sides of his face, mouth in a firm line. It was Gar.

"Did you get the message?" Gar growled as Spike let him in.

Before Spike could answer, Gar coughed. "Guess so," he said, looking the beaten vampire over.

"More like I watched the news, mate. Wasn't too hard to figure out."

Gar frowned. "Crazy white boy. Couldn't just wait for us?"

"Yeah, well..." Spike shot Gar his trademark smirk. "What can I say? I got bored."

Truth was, he needed something to get his mind off of Buffy. He was busy enough with a handful of different hobbies he'd taken and all the different roles he played now. Maria, his landlady and the owner of the restaurant below, had him fixing the boiler in the old building during most of that afternoon. That it cut into his sleep didn't bother him a bit; he hadn't been able to sleep much since Sunnydale and L.A., and what sleep he did get was fraught with painful memories of all he lost.

"Random strike?" Spike asked, shaking off his thoughts. He offered the Kailiff demon a shot of Jameson.

Gar shook his head, downing the whiskey in a quick gulp. "The east-side is buzzing. Word is there's more Prekians on their way. Passing through before the storm hits."

"Literal or proverbial?" For all his bravado, Spike wasn't sure he liked the sound of this.

"Both." Gar took the bottle and poured himself another shot. "I can barely control East Cleveland this week. And 93rd & Kinsman's trying to put itself back on the map, despite my boys. The hellmouth is brewing up something thick, and it ain't a new addition to Hot Sauce William's menu!"

Spike swallowed a growl. How could that be? Surely, he'd have felt it himself. He kept his ear to the ground, got the tinglies when the hellmouth belched. The last time he heard about Gar's territory getting this riled up was when Red went all dark and apocalyptic...

What of Me by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Willow/Kennedy, Willow/Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

To say that Willow had a lot to work through right now would be an understatement. Goddess, where could she even begin? Even before Tara's death she had struggled between her growing power and her lingering self-doubt. The time she spent in England being 'rehabilitated' had definitely helped, but something still wasn't right. Maybe it was all the apocalypses and ultimatums the universe kept throwing at her; she didn't know.

That thing in Sunnydale with the scythe? Yeah, that was cool. That was incredible. And for all the times she and the rest of the Scoobies doubted and turned on Buffy (which they did a lot, she now realized), that was one brilliant plan from their little leader.

Only, they lost a lot in that final battle. And not just the obvious, like Anya. Some things lost weren't noticed til they were far, far away from Sunnydale. Willow sees that now. She lost Kennedy well before they arrived in South America. Really, she lost Kennedy the moment she gave her the Slayer's power. The girl was too competitive, too...naive? She had no idea what life was like. What Willow's life was like. This wasn't a comic book where heroes were heroes and saving the day meant everyone lived happily ever after. She was sick of the arguments and the stupid reactionary shit Kennedy was always doing. The last fiasco she got herself in was the limit. What had she seen in Kennedy anyway? The girl was bullish, spoiled, irrational, and selfish. The opposite of Tara.

It still hurt to think back to that day when her universe crumbled. There wasn't a moment that she didn't still feel Tara's sticky blood between her fingers. But, one amazing thing happened in South America. Tara came back. No, not in the flesh (oh, Goddess, how she wished). But her essence—that she felt return to her. Willow didn't remember when exactly it happened, and she had not used any magic since Sunnydale, so she knew it was not a spell. She could sense evil now, a heightened sensation she could pick up on in an instant ever since her 'dark' moment, and so she knew whatever this apparition was, it was not evil. It was not The First, redux.

With Tara back, she felt stronger, more focused. She ended the one-sided relationship that was Kennedy. It was time to return to being Willow, the Slayer's best friend.

When Andrew came to her to gather the potentials together, that's when she found out. Even though Kennedy was not there, he didn't seem upset enough about his charge. There was something about him that wasn't—how could she put this—nervous. He should be afraid to have to relay the news to Giles that Kennedy was off gallivanting in parts unknown. But she didn't sense that at all. What she was sensing instead was—oh, what was that prissy word they teased Spike for using?—effulgent.

Andrew had a secret he wanted to spill, and even though he gave her some weird Borg reason why he couldn't say, she managed to get it to slip. Spike was alive. Or, undead. Or, well, whatever the heck he was supposed to be.

Tara buzzed around her. The good witch always had a soft spot for Spike, even while the rest of them planned out his dusty demise. The energy from her crackled enough that Willow swore she could actually feel her ghostly lover's hands clutching her.

Who else knew? Angel's gang, but no one ever heard from them anymore—not since Sunnydale, anyway. And Giles. Giles knew about this and didn't tell anyone? Didn't tell Buffy?

When Andrew left, Willow had a heart-to-proverbial-heart with her dead girlfriend. They needed to find Spike. They were going to find Spike.

This is what ran through Willow's mind as she wound through the jungle, searching for the spot Tara had found for her. She was the Slayer's best friend, and now she was going to prove it.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Spike crouched down beside the washing machine in the abandoned house, trying not to be noticed by...something.

"Never seen anything like this before," Gar replied in a similar whisper. He reached into his pocket and took out his cellphone, quietly taking photos.

"Don't tell me you're uploading this to YouTube, mate."

Gar frowned. "Just evidence. Research."

"Since when did Kailiff demons become Watchers?"

"Since we've been finding shit like this," Gar growled, snapping a few more shots from as different of an angle as he could. "How else are we going to know how to kill it?"

"Gee, I don't know. Sharp sticks seem to take care of that problem most of the time."

Gar shook his head. No wonder he was called William the Bloody. He was Bloody Annoying. "Well, go on then. Show me how that works." How the vamp managed to make it some 120-or-so years was a miracle.

Spike groaned loudly enough to be heard by Gar. He inched closer to the crack in the concrete floor. The basement was thick with the scent of mildew, and he was happy that he didn't need to breathe. No telling what kind of spores were embedding themselves in Gar's lungs, as he didn't have Spike's breathless luxury.

As Spike neared the crack under the utility tub drain, he clutched the stake he always carried with him. If this was anything like that bezoar thing Lyle Gorch told him ate his brother in Sunnydale, he knew it could be stabbed.

What he found was something less productive...or, he guessed, less reproductive. No eggs there, no big eyeballs, no movement. It was like a large mound of moss, deep green and furry.

Gar had slowly approached once Spike's smart-assedness wore off.

They both stared at the fuzzy pile.

"Well?" Gar growled.

"Well what? Your Spidey sense brought us here. I don't feel a thing." Spike put the stake back into his pocket.

Gar peered at the lump more closely.

"If you dragged me out here to study photosynthesis, it's not gonna be pretty."

Gar gave Spike a threatening look before shoving him out of the way to take some close-up shots. "I'm telling you, whatever this is...or was.. It's got evil radiating off it."

Spike glanced around the basement quickly and saw a broom leaning against one crumbling wall. While Gar was continuing his photoshoot, Spike cracked the handle off of the broom.

"Oh, sure, now the Big Bads poke at dead things," Gar chided him.

"You got a better idea?"

Gar looked at the green pile again, and his features softened. His posture slumped slightly in defeat.

"Right, then." Spike tentatively prodded the unmoving lump with the broomstick. Although it looked like a mound of mossy earth, the body (if you could call it that) gave a little under the gentle force. Okay, so this wasn't just a clod of muck. Spike moved a little closer, reaching his hand out to touch it. Was that fur?

At the touch of Spike's hand, the fuzzy pile let out an ear-screeching sound, like that of an alarm. Gar almost dropped his phone in his attempt to cover his ears.

"Video this!" Spike yelled over the noise as he tried to brace for whatever he would soon have to defend them from.

The green glob emitted wave after wave of noise, though it made no move to strike. But after a moment of this, Spike noticed something had changed. Seeping from the crack that the thing had emerged from (or guarded, Spike wondered) was a thick black substance. Like tar. Only, tar that could eat through metal, as the steel legs of the utility tub were clearly illustrating. Didn't need to be an Andrew-level geek to figure that one out!

"Oi! Watch your feet, mate!"

Gar moved the phone to scan the floor, recording this new development. He retreated slowly—not afraid, no, Kailiff's weren't afraid, just being cautious—making sure he got every moment of this shit. He'd never seen anything like it. Spike had only nudged this thing; there was no way it had been stabbed, if this...stuff...was blood. Hell, this only started after Spike touched it, and all he did was place a few fingers flat on the side of the fuzzy pile.

The noise from the creature seemed to be transforming into a metallic hum, but Spike couldn't tell if that was real or just the result of having lost his hearing. If this fucking thing made him deaf, something was gonna pay.

Spike stepped back a few paces so that he was next to Gar again. He reached for a cigarette and lit it, hoping the surge of nicotine would give him an idea. That's how it usually worked, though the cigarettes were shit these days. He missed the Gauloises he used to smoke back between the wars. Such incredible ideas he used to have. Figured that was half the reason he and Dru cut such a delicious path across Europe back then.

Flicking his dying match to the concrete floor, he took a long drag. That did, indeed, present him with a solution—only this time it was because of the match.

He watched as the black sludgy stuff recoiled from the extinguishing flame.

"Gar! I got it!"

Spike tugged Gar out of the basement and towards Gar's Hummer on the street. (Oh, how Spike hated that tank. It always reminded him of the Initiative. The only way he kept himself from cringing was by imagining that he and Gar had slaughtered a few Initiative commandos to seize it.)

Once there, Spike reached for the vodka he had conveniently stashed between the seats. He went back to the house's foundation with Gar in tow. Gar figured out what he was up to. He liked it.

Gar kicked in the basement window while Spike tore at his own t-shirt. Not like anyone in this neighborhood would really pay much notice to them, but Gar kept watch. Spike stuffed a rag made from his shirt into the bottle of vodka. He pulled out his lighter this time and let the flame consume the top of the rag before he threw the bottle into the basement.

Even though the utilities had been shut off in the house, Spike had been able to smell the traces of the meth lab that was once prominent there. That would help this along nicely.

"Gar, now!" Spike yelled as he ran for the Hummer. They leaped in and peeled out as quickly as they could before the exploding house could cause them much harm.

Gar looked incredibly satisfied. He liked a big show of manly power. All Kailiffs did. Plus, it would keep some of these bastards on Warner Road in line. This was part of his territory too, and he liked to remind the low-lifes there that they were no match for him and his gang.

Spike was satisfied too, but for reasons he'd never share with Gar. His damn soul liked to stake its territory as well, and among those low-lifes on Warner were poor old folk whose neighborhood was destroyed. He saw that when he was in Cleveland in the '70s. Stopped feeding on them back then because their blood was so thin, so filled with resign. Now that he was back in an upgraded (he hoped) version, he was doing what he could. The houses on either side of that one had been abandoned, so he wasn't gonna lose any sleep over property damage. And even if one old biddy popped her clogs he still saved seven more. The Slayer never understood relativity, but he did—the soul didn't change that. So, yeah, he was satisfied.

But, he also knew that Gar was worried about him. Not that anyone else could really tell, he being a Mr.-Tough-Guy Kailiff demon. But Spike knew. The past few days Spike hadn't sensed much evil at all. How was that possible on a fucking Hellmouth? He had joked with Gar that he probably just had a cold. Or had food poisoning from eating Lake Erie fish. But the truth was that he was nervous something was wrong with him, too. And today he'd been having what he could only call heartburn, even though it had been over a century since he had felt that, so he wasn't sure. In a way, it was almost like that burning feeling he got in Sunnydale when that bloody amulet started to work.

In a Shrinking World by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: It may be helpful for readers to know that my view of Tara at this point in her unlife is that of an earth mother/goddess-type thing; so, let that color the actions that take place in this chapter. There are some possibly-disturbing images in this chapter, but my intention was for the actions to be done lovingly, so I hope that you may read them that way. Please also note that the usage of a Mayan archaeological site in this chapter has nothing to do with the 2012-end-of-the-world fallacy; I chose it because I had spent my undergraduate degree on Mayan archaeology/epigraphy and saw that it fit well with the action in this chapter. Enjoy!

Okay, so that last attempt didn't quite do it.

"Concentrate," Tara gently scolded.

Willow looked up at her ghostly lover. "Did I hurt him?"

Tara said nothing.

"Well, at least we know it's him, and he really is out there somewhere."

Tara frowned and conjured some corrections to the spell Willow had written down.

Willow's eyes questioned her sadly before she added: "I'm sorry."

"Shhh..." Tara reached out, her hands disappearing in Willow's cheek and hair. "Just thought I'd add a little something else to the mix. Help him get through til we find him."

The expression on Willow's face showed horror. "Is he...?" Oh Goddess, what did I do to him?

Tara shook her head. "Not like that." She patted her heart.

Willow understood then. This next attempt would work.

The first thing Spike did when he got back to his apartment was take a shower. A nice, long, scalding hot shower. He placed his hands against the cold tile and stood there for ten minutes, just letting the water rain over him. Let's see how quickly he'd combust if he was wet.

Don't be such a ponce. You combusted from the inside; water couldn't stop that.

He wasted another ten minutes' worth of plumbing before he finally dried himself off and headed to bed, a bottle of Jameson in his hand.

Near the Maya Mountains, secreted away in the ruins of Cahal Pech, Willow prepared herself.

Her first attempt at locating Spike took place a couple days ago in her apartment. Once Tara explained what was necessary (and what would happen), Willow realized that Argentina just wasn't going to do. She needed to be somewhere sacred, full of latent power (and blood sacrifice, added Tara).

It took her a day's worth of research to determine which sites were best, and, then, of them, which were unoccupied for the moment. She couldn't risk a team of archaeologist or tourists interrupting her spell.

Spike set the Roxy Music cd on repeat as he settled back into his bed. This one always reminded him of Buffy. Probably because this album was one of the few things that survived after the daft bint threw a grenade into his crypt. Damn, that was a first-pressing, older than her! He shook the thought away. It wasn't just the record. It was this song...

It's the same old story

All love and glory

It's a pantomime

If you're looking for love

In a looking-glass world

It's pretty hard to find

Oh, mother of pearl

I wouldn't trade you

For another girl...

God, look at him. Might as well call himself Angel and start buggering the Powers-That-Be.

He took a hefty swig of whiskey and sang til his voice faded away...

I've been looking for something

I've always wanted

But was never mine

But now I've seen that something

Just out of reach—glowing—

Very holy grail

Oh, mother of pearl

Lustrous lady

Of a sacred world...

The warmth of Tara's spirit kept Willow from rushing. She was nervous, but Tara kept whispering encouragement. It occurred to her now that maybe she had failed these previous attempts because she was scared to let go, scared to join with Tara's power, as she thought maybe this would send her back to a place she couldn't return from. Once an addict, always an addict, right?

The problem with this locator spell was that it had to be so specific, yet so far-reaching. They had no idea where on earth Spike could be, but since they had nothing of his, they needed to find a way to narrow down the field. It would be pointless (and a drain of energy) to do the type of locator spell they'd done before because it would give them too many false leads.

Willow had tried at first to focus on root systems. She had gotten good at that from practice. But, it just wasn't working in this case. Tara suggested it was because Spike was undead—and perhaps also because of his surprising return to the world—that he no longer had "roots" in the earth. Neither of them knew for sure, but that made sense to them.

It was Tara who thought of the soul. She had suggested it even before Willow told her that Spike had gotten his back in that last year in Sunnydale. Somehow, Tara had known. Willow shouldn't have been surprised.

The combined efforts of Tara and Willow produced a locator spell that would (hopefully) narrow the targets to souled vampires. As far as they knew, there were only two of those: Angel and Spike.

Tara's power would seek out the soul. She had done so already in the previous attempt, so Willow knew that was working. It was Willow's part that only got them so far. This spell they created took blood. And, of the two of them, only Willow had it. She couldn't substitute animal blood for this. It had to be human, and it had to be powerful. That left her.

Willow hesitated at the bloodletting. Only the darkest of spells called for it. But they were trying to locate a vampire, and blood made all the difference. It took chanting and meditation and blessings from Tara to get her calm enough to do this.

But the previous attempts either didn't yield enough to make it work or just weren't sent forth with the proper amount of power. Willow could tell that they only got as far as they did because Tara tried to compensate—spending every available spark to reach out to him. That last attempt took so much effort from Tara that she was unable to reappear for almost a day.

Willow's research during that day of solitude led her to this spot right now, high above the Macal River. She laid out the makeshift map she created, blessed by Tara through the ether. Before it on the stone floor of the temple ruins she set out piles of herbs. In her lap she held a small artifact stolen from that site's dig. It was an offering bowl—or what was left of it, at least. She was unable (cringe) and unskilled to follow the traditional bloodletting of the Mayan elite, but Tara instructed her on a modified version that she thought would be acceptable.

Tara readied herself for what was to come. She asked Willow to add fenugreek to the spell toward the end. If this worked, it would be her gift to Spike.

Willow looked out over the ancient Mayan ball court and took a deep breath. It was now or never. She hummed lowly, gathering the elements to her. Slowly and carefully, she sprinkled some herbs into a singular pile, in a particular order, lighting them. As she absorbed their scent, she reached for the porcupine spike she had kept hidden. Eyes closed, she quickly pierced her tongue. She leaned over the offering bowl, letting blood droplets fall in. The ancient Mayans knew just what to do for their bloodletting ceremonies, and she thanked them, as this way produced an incredible amount of blood in a short amount of time. Of course, their version was a bit more painful and ceremonial, but Tara believed this would do for the spell.

Willow dabbed at her tongue with some strips of cloth before dropping them gently into the offering bowl. She then lit the offering, adding the rest of the herbs to it. Chanting again, she focused on the blood sacrifice, channeling the ancient power within her as she sat connected to the temple. When the flames dissipated, she sprinkled the fenugreek on top and prayed that Tara had strength to finish the rest.

Oh, Mother of Pearl...

Spike drifted off to sleep, the feeling inside him warm and burning. The Jameson was good, and his Slayer was in mind and his long-dead heart, so he was ready. Go ahead, he dared the Powers-That-Be, she's in me so deep nothing you do will change that.

Just when he thought he'd incinerate again, his soul fluttered back down into its home, and his body was overcome by a sensation that he had long since forgotten...

"Mother?"

"My sweet William," The apparition in his dream reached out to him.

He hadn't dreamt of his mother in, well...forever. That thing with Wood was a reminder of the past, but it wasn't a dream. His unlife had been plagued by nightmares of the demon his mother had become, but never of her like this.

So, this was the new way the Powers-That-Be were going to fuck with him, eh?

Not a chance.

"Oh, sod off. You bastards think this will break me? Haven't you been paying attention?"

His hands struck out half-heartedly at the ghost, The First, whatever the hell they were teasing him with. Only, when he did so, flesh hit flesh, and he recoiled at her gasp.

"What the...?"

"My child, my everything..." Spike's mother moved closer to him, her fingers touching his face, his hair.

He stood there, shivering. Her touch was real. Her scent, like the violet water she used to dab on her veil-like skin. "Mum," he whispered, so softly that only God could hear him.

It was then that she held him, cradled him close so that all he could sense was her, as she was. The love and pride she had had for him danced across his skin, seeping into his pores.

He couldn't help it now. He clutched her tightly, sobbing into her long hair. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Mummy, I'm so sorry..."

"Shhh... shhh now," his mother whispered, rocking him.

"I only ever wanted to save you."

His mother's hands smoothed his hair as he cried, the way she always did when he was a wee child. "You did, my dearheart..."

Spike felt so small then, so innocent, so much like the little boy his mother doted over. His hold on her did not change, even when her countenance did. Beneath him, he felt the swell of her body, felt her frail frame take on the shape of someone younger, someone strong with magic.

Someone he knew would not hurt him.

"...You saved us all."

All around him fluttered gossamer cloth. He was curled on her lap, clutching at what still draped one shoulder and her lower body. Her long blonde hair shimmered in the half-light. Even through tears he knew who that was. He thought he'd never lay eyes on her again.

"But, my mother..."

Tara ran her fingertip over his eyelashes, catching a tear. "I brought her here for you."

"How did you...?"

Tara's finger moved to Spike's lips. "Not sure how much longer I can keep you. We haven't forgotten, Spike. We haven't forgotten you..."

His tears fell again, but Tara held him close. She cradled him against her breast, concentrating. Slowly, his sobbing subsided, replaced by the hope and reverence he was suckling from her.

Tara hoped this would help him hang on til she and Willow could send Buffy to him. This poor, long-suffering hero.

In his dream, he watched themselves slip gently under the surface of a pool of mother's milk, neither one letting go of the other.

When Spike finally woke, he wiped the still-wet tears from his eyes and felt better than he had in years.

Getting Off in These Dimensions Where Time Itself Stands Still by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

Willow's map glowed in two spots, just as she had hoped. One spot was in her makeshift southern California, while the other was in...umm...Chicago? Detroit? Cleveland? Pittsburgh? New York? Somewhere in between?

Yeah, so drawing wasn't her strong point. Good thing the glowing didn't show up in another part of the map—the part that included the non-US portion of the world.

"He's somewhere...important," Tara said pensively. "I sensed he was drawn there, maybe by memories."

"New York!" Willow exclaimed. "He'd totally go there, cuz...oh..." She deflated. "Nikki Wood, the Slayer." She frowned a bit. Was that still a good memory, or a bad one?

Tara flitted back and forth, pacing ethereally, but Willow couldn't see it. She had expended a lot of energy on the spell, particularly the part that drew Spike's mother to him. Thankfully, Willow trusted in her powers for that brief moment, otherwise who knows how long Tara would be M.I.A. For the time being, at least her voice was reaching Willow.

"Should we try to find Buffy first?" Tara asked.

Willow gathered the map and let the wind scatter the remaining traces of their spell. Even the offering had turned to fragrant ash.

"No. Not until we really have Spike back."

"Yep, Big Bad is back!" Spike growled as he dusted a few vamps behind The Phantasy. Those losers clearly thought they'd get a quick bite to eat at the local club's goth/industrial night. Didn't expect a full meal like this, did they? Bastards.

Still, nice way to iron out the kink in his shoulder from sleeping awkwardly earlier. Boy, what a dream he'd had. He knew it was just madness, but he didn't care—those moments with his mother were so real. His memories of her were buried so deep inside him that it had to mean something if he dreamt of her. Especially what she said. After all he'd done, after what he turned her into—she still looked at him as her world. Whether it be madness or a trick, he didn't care. It was everything he'd ever wanted that wasn't Buffy. Oh, and Glinda—how did she sneak herself in there? He thought of her every so often, but he couldn't imagine what would have made him dream of her. It had broken his heart to find out upon his return to Sunnydale that she had died, particularly at the hands of that wanker Warren. If only he had made a snack of him that one night instead of trying to get back at Buffy. Sure, it would have hurt like hell for a while, but what was a migraine when it could have prevented something like Tara's death and Willow's almost-apocalypse? So, to see Tara again in his dream, that was a pleasant surprise. He'd always liked that one. Never played the game of betrayal that the Slayer's friends seemed to partake in often. Part of that was because she was a good soul—he had always felt that coming off her in waves. But he knew the other part of it was because she was (and would always be) an outsider. And that's the part he felt kindred to. Perhaps they were from different ends of the spectrum, but he and the witch had an understanding because of that status that none of the others would ever be able to share.

Spike wished he could remember all the details of his dream. The parts with his mother were the most vivid. Down to the very scent of her. The parts with Tara...well, they felt cloaked in magic, as if he wasn't supposed to remember. But he was good at breaking rules, and dreamworld or reality—mere planes of existence couldn't stop him. Beyond the warmth that she left him with in the dream, he remembered her words. He wasn't forgotten. Spike smiled involuntarily at that. What else had she given him? He concentrated hard, the way he remembered doing when he was disembodied in those first days at Wolfram & Hart. Through the milky haze of his memory, his mind latched on to...oh...oh... now, wasn't this a treat!

"Ow!" Tara squeaked.

"Where are you? Willow asked, stopping momentarily from her packing. "What happened?"

Tara clutched her breast for a second. That was weird. "Must be taking a while for the effects of that spell to wear off." She floated behind Willow, assessing her progress. "Almost ready?"

Willow nodded gently.

"Are you nervous?"

"A little," Willow lied. The truth of the matter was that she was terrified. Terrified of not finding Spike, and terrified of finding him.

Tara sensed this and willed a warm breath at the back of Willow's neck. She could see the red-headed witch relax a bit at that. "I'm with you. You'll be fine."

Tara's soft voice brought an extra beat to her heart. Even beyond death, Willow loved her more than she thought could be possible.

"Thank you for... you know..." Willow waved the magically-hacked airline ticket towards Tara's voice. She had no idea how else she could have gotten to NYC otherwise. Her money situation was practically non-existent, and she definitely didn't have enough power right now to teleport there—not even with Tara's help. She knew Tara would not have normally approved of her using magic (or her computer skills) in this way.

But, "the universe owed Spike at least this much," Tara had reasoned and thus relented.

So, with a few glances around the sparse little room, Willow gathered what remained of her life and left Argentina for good.

All Tomorrow's Parties by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

Ah, what a relaxing evening!

First, getting a chance to rough up some little wannabe punks at the club—doubt they'd be assaulting the girlies again any time son. Then, dusting a handful of newbie vamps out back—only thing they got a chance to assault was Spike's nose. Now, an unplanned poker game with his mates.

Gar had commandeered the stereo when he arrived, and something that sounded more like Fyarl than English thumped around them. Krolik, from the Miquot clan, sat next to Spike, eyeing Gar and his musical choice with disdain. Next to him was H'Ryknog (or Ryk, as Spike called him), a M'Fashnik demon who was one of Krolik's pals. Finally, there was Stan, an Empath demon with an unfortunate disability—he was not empathic. Spike's mates weren't too keen on the un-Empath, but Spike couldn't help it—damn this bloody soul—he reminded him of Clem. And, sometimes, it was nice to hang around with someone who didn't have death and dismemberment on the day's agenda.

"So, what was that thing?" Stan asked between handfuls of Chex Mix. Gar had been showing off his photos of the fuzzy creature from the other day.

"Bloody disgusting is what," Spike said as he upped the ante. No mewling this time, though. The demons here in Cleveland played for cold, hard cash, not kittens.

"Grrrr..." Ryk sounded as he shuffled his cards around.

"Hmm...I sense a bad hand," Stan replied, casting a side-long look at the M'Fashnik. He chuckled softly at his own self-depreciating humor when demon eyes landed on him.

"No, it's a Grrr'Rr," Ryk clarified.

"Yeah, well what the fuck is that, then?" Spike spat, taking a healthy swig of whiskey.

"Like a golem, only not clay. More like..." Ryk searched his English vocabulary. No one saw the card he slipped into his hand.

"A compost heap?" Spike offered snarkily.

"Had evil coming off of it," Gar added.

Ryk shook his head. "Not evil. Magic."

"Huh?"

Stan stole a peek at Krolik's cards while the others' eyes went to Ryk.

"It's not a demon. Just the left-overs of a strong spell. You leave 'em alone, they eventually just shrink back down to nothing." Ryk shrugged, sending another hidden card to the floor.

When Krolik leaned down to pick up the offending card, the extra aces he had stashed under the table fluttered into Spike's lap.

"Hey!"

Krolik shrugged.

"Uhhh... Chex Mix, anyone?" Stan offered, hoping to prevent a brawl.

But, Spike could care less about the game right now. He was more concerned about this Grr-thing. Someone was wielding some major mojo here, and he had obviously been dealing with its effects first-hand—and on scales he wasn't about to reveal to his mates. He hadn't quite believed Gar's earlier assessment that something big was happening in the Hellmouth, but perhaps the Kailiff was right. Spike wished he could summon Glinda the way the Little Bit had summoned a vengeance demon. He was sure she'd be able to determine what was going on.

If only the poor girl were still alive.

"I've never been to New York before," Tara admitted excitedly. Her gaze had been directed upward for the last ten blocks, amazed, like a true tourist, at all the tall buildings. Thankfully she was incorporeal, otherwise she'd have been knocked down and shoved aside more times than she could count. Instead, she floated through the typical crowds on the sidewalk.

Willow was still a bundle of nerves, trying to lead them to areas that she thought Spike might have been. She had time on the flight from South America to narrow down the choices, and the area they were in, NoHo, seemed to be the best to start off.

There was an old hostel on Bowery, and Willow decided that's where she'd bunk (secretly hoping that Spike had chosen the same locale)—it was cheap, located near the old CBGBs (where she knew Spike had once frequented), and offered a great "hiding" place with its eclectic clientele. Plus, she could stay there up to a month with no questions asked, just like the foreign students who came to NYC on holiday or to study. The building had been a boarding house for at least a century, but the owners had tried to upgrade a bit. Instead of three open floors of bunk beds, they had constructed partitions throughout—little sleeping compartments secreting only a bed and a shelf —that looked like garden sheds. Their walls were just about 7 feet tall to provide privacy, with doors that locked; but the little rooms' "roofs" were only covered with latticework, so that they were open to the super-high ceilings of the building, allowing for air circulation throughout the entire floor. So, the sound from each compartment filled every space—whispers of conversations in countless languages, soft music playing, the clicks of fingers on laptop keyboards, snoring, rustling of sheets along the plastic mattress covers, grunts and moans from lovemaking...

It was the latter that finally made Willow relax, urging her to drop the luggage bags into her little room and slump back on the lumpy bed. Without putting much thought into it, she wriggled herself out of her clothes and laid there, letting the soft sounds of others' pleasure wash over her. Tara slipped out of her own ghostly garments, gazing at the long-missed view of her red-headed lover.

"I need you," Willow whispered as she watched Tara's translucent form approach her.

Tara's lips curled into her trademark crooked smile before she crawled weightlessly onto the bed. She straddled Willow and closed her eyes, concentrating on the girl beneath her, gathering power from her own desire as well as all the coupling going on in the building.

Willow gasped as she felt sparks dancing over her skin. They trailed over her breasts, down her stomach, over her thighs, to her center. "Tara..."

This was working. Oh, Goddess, this was working! "Grasp," Tara beckoned her lover. She tried to instruct her more, but lost her words when she felt Willow's hands hold her hips.

Willow thought only of what it would be like to feel Tara's soft curves again. It was a sensation she'd give her life for. And at that moment, her fingers sparked and remembered that warm skin.

The witches wielded this heart magic for as long as they could.

Even in his dream state, Spike could feel himself grow hard. The dream he was having of his Slayer was incredible. They weren't fucking like they had always done. No, this time they were making love. They were doing what he had never done in his life or un-life. Sure, he and Dru had their own soulless version of it—which, after being around humans for so long, he determined was probably closer to the real thing than what most people did—but that was still nothing like what he was dreaming. This time, he and Buffy were giving each other all of themselves, slowly, fully-aware of every movement, every feeling, every meaning. It was so overwhelming that he was surprised he hadn't woken up. Something like magic kept him there, in a state of near-orgasm, for what seemed like hours.

"Goddess, that was amazing," Willow gasped.

Tara panted next to her, invisibly clutching her lover. "Wish I had the energy to do that constantly."

Willow smiled. "Even if we could never do it again, that was so worth it."

They both snuggled through each other, drifting off to sleep.

Spike had some serious cleaning to do now.

Hadn't made such a mess of his sheets since the Slayer used him as her personal sex toy a couple years ago. (Damn, but that was a glorious dream.) And that was only the bedroom.

He'd have another round of "patch the sodding walls" in the living room from the poker game last night. At least he managed to swipe a majority of the pot while they were brawling. He preferred not having to steal from local shops if he could help it; they would recognize him now that he'd given up eating shopkeepers. Sometimes he really missed those days. Much more enjoyable back then when he and Dru could take their own leisurely time comparing the merchandise with a nice warm beverage.

Speaking of warm beverages, fuck if he wasn't bloody starving. That dream took a lot out of him, literally and figuratively. He threw his laundry in the wash and fixed himself a mug of blood with a few hearty dashes of cayenne.

What was up with his mind lately? He thought about that as he tried to enjoy the liquid sustenance. He'd had more dreams in the past week than he'd had in years. At first he thought that maybe it was because he moved to another active Hellmouth, but he'd been living here for a short while now and this hadn't happened before. Slowly, he was starting to think that it was the opposite. That things had been getting weird at the Hellmouth because of him. Prekians only came about in an area strong with ritual magic, not the other way around. This Grrr'Rr was another example, especially with the way it responded to his touch. His touch. Was he unwittingly conjuring up this mess? Sure, he had been moping over Buffy a lot these days, but what of it? Had he accidentally made a wish to a vengeance demon or to a witch?

The more Spike considered this, the more agitated he got. His manipulation days were over, dammit. He had endured more than a century of being used, by everyone and everything, for every purpose under the sun and moon. And he had fought back by manipulating, himself. But after he saw what it did to Buffy, he had lost that twisted desire. So, no, this current magical atmosphere couldn't have been his doing. It just couldn't, he grit his teeth, trying to convince himself.

"Should we try another locator spell, now that we're here?" Willow asked the lovely specter seated at the café table with her. She was sipping a cappuccino that seemed too bitter.

Tara eyed the people snug in the coffee shop with them. She had been thinking on this for a while now, actually, not sure if what they were doing was creating more problems than not. Strong spells always left traces of magic in both the ones casting them as well as the ones receiving them. What were they upsetting with this recent onslaught of power? She didn't know how to explain her feelings to Willow. "Maybe...we should try to find him by sense, first."

Willow scooped out some of the milk froth with her tongue. "Wouldn't it be quicker to..." Oh. She remembered this now.

"We've been throwing out a lot of magic lately," Tara said gently.

Willow's eyes were downcast, ashamed to have almost slipped up.

"Let's...you know, balance it out for a while. Let the Goddess have a well-deserved nap." Tara smiled. Yeah, that's how she wanted to say it.

Willow, herself, couldn't help but smile. She looked up to catch her lover's warm gaze. "I wonder what Buffy will say? When we find him?"

"That asshole!" Buffy spat, slamming the phone down on the receiver. Why was he doing this?

No, no, she knew why. And she really didn't want to go there again. Spike was out of the picture—well, at least as far as Angel was concerned. So, sure, why not pursue her again? Her feelings for Spike were just because he was convenient, right? She cringed at the memory that she had said those words to the blond vampire once—and had not taken it back after she saw the genuine hurt that quickly passed across his face. God, Angel didn't know anything. She wasn't a naive sixteen year-old anymore. That girl had died (literally) a few times over, both before and after he betrayed her. Yeah, her "true love". Not the evil dead that her true love kept warning her about—no, that one stuck by her even when she wanted to be left alone.

Everything with Angel always had to be life-or-death, cataclysmic. Ever since Sunnydale (or, actually, a month or so after they—no, say it right, after Spike—closed the Hellmouth; Mr. True Love never checked in with her after that battle to see if she made it, the bastard), Angel had been calling her all the time. First, acting like he had earth-shattering news but not really willing to tell her anything, then under the guise of just wanting to "chat" (when the hell did they ever do that?), then to try to meet up with her because of something about losing the curse (oh yeah, like she was going to believe that line), then all that business about the Immortal, whoever that was. Now, all of a sudden, it was some ultra-possessive thing about surviving hell again and wanting to reunite with her before someone comes after her or some shit like that. Is this what Angel always spent all those broody days doing? God, Spike was so right about him. She almost wished Angel hadn't destroyed the Gem of Amarra, because, seriously—he could use a nice sunny day of smelling flowers and playing with puppies and going to Disneyland or something.

Him calling her constantly, trying to see her again? No, not happening. Her heart was still hurting over Spike, and Angel was only making it worse. She wished she could talk to Giles about it, but every time she brought up Spike, he wiped at his glasses. That just made her slip away to cry it out before he could scatter the broken bits of her heart.

Devilry by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

.

Tara had a nagging feeling. So far their time in New York City hadn't yielded the kind of leads Willow had hoped. He wasn't here, of that Tara was sure. Even though they hadn't done any locator spells since that one in the Mayan ruins, she knew. The nagging feeling she had was that he was in a dark place-figuratively yes, but also physically. She had to try to find him.

With Willow sleeping a deep, well-deserved sleep, she searched out for him in the only way she knew how.

Bugger this.

Spike pulled the sheet back and sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He held his head in his hands. These dreams were getting to be too much.

Now Glinda was taking up residence in his head, appearing almost every time he closed his eyes. Sure, he liked the bird, but come on now. Every word she said to him sounded cryptic, and it was starting to make him nervous. Were these dreams supposed to be prophetic? In the visions she was constantly trying to comfort him. Maybe he just wasn't used to people acting that way towards him, but it unsettled him because it felt like it was supposed to mean something-like the way one is calmed before death. Yeah, that's the way. Were the fucking Powers-That-Be sending him a message that, indeed, his time was up? God, not this again.

"Oh, look at you!" Maria, Spike's landlady, exclaimed when he came downstairs to the restaurant. "You look like you've seen a ghost! Have you been eating? You're too thin. You need pasta. Come, here, eat," she rattled as she pulled him into the large kitchen. "Even your hands are freezing! Are the radiators not working again?"

Spike smiled a bit to himself. She took care of him, even though she didn't have to. He owed her, not the other way around. Still, it was nice. Reminded him of his own mum and of Joyce.

Maria served him up a steaming bowl of vermicelli topped with her rich red sauce and sprinkled with lots of fried garlic-just the way Spike liked it.

She smiled proudly when she saw him dig in. "Good for the heart," she said. Spike nodded in agreement as he ate. "And all that garlic keeps the vampires away."

He couldn't help himself then. "I wouldn't be so sure, luv. Vampires could get used to cooking this good."

Maria laughed her hearty laugh at that, pinching his cheek. Thankfully, the food warmed his skin enough to pass for being alive. Still, he couldn't help but feel like she was also preparing him for the end. What was going on?

He was somewhere near water. The magic rippled that way. Tara felt a pull westward. Judging from Willow's map, it had to be somewhere along the Great Lakes. But, what significance would any of those places have? Why would he settle there? Still, the pull she was getting was strong. Dark and strong, kind of like…

"A Hellmouth. Giles said there was an active one in Cleveland. Why didn't I think of that?"

Tara shrugged. She hadn't noticed that she was currently invisible.

"Duh," Willow answered herself, misinterpreting Tara's silence. "Because it's Cleveland."

But, then, a sudden realization hit her. "Oh God, he wouldn't know… Faith is there! With Robin!"

Willow panicked. She didn't trust the rogue slayer and the principal, not even after their participation in that final Sunnydale battle. And after all this work she and Tara did to find Spike, there was no way she was going to let harm come to him now.

But Tara had another worry, now that a Hellmouth was involved. With such a source of dark power, what effect had their spells made?

"Wow, I can just feel it rolling off of you," Stan said, holding his hands out over Spike's chest like he was doing reiki.

"Oh, sod off, you cripple," Spike spat. For a second he regretted saying that, but Stan didn't take offense.

"No, I don't mean feel like feel," he emphasized with wiggly fingers at his head. "I mean, there is some serious magic coming off you. Who'd you piss off this time?"

Spike shivered inside but kept his cool in front of his pal. He had been thinking the same thing lately, and Stan noticing only confirmed his suspicions.

"Don't know, mate. But getting a bit tired, yeah? Can't sleep a wink."

Stan thought for a moment, trying hard. "Maybe you just need to kill something."

"Sometimes I wish I could have just killed him," Buffy groaned.

Dawn glanced up from her book with wary eyes.

"…again, I mean."

"If I knew he'd be hogging the line with all his calls, I'd have done it myself," Dawn quipped. "Or told Spike that you wanted him to do it."

Buffy frowned at the mention of Spike. And at the conscious jab Dawn made at her, knowing full well that Spike would have done anything she wanted. It was so easy to make her regret her life's awful decisions these days.

"Even the monks hated him," Dawn continued. She pulled another licorice twist out and bit off both ends, using it as a straw for her glass of milk.

Buffy shook her head in her hands.

"I mean, they must have. Cuz all the memories they stuffed into my head of him suck. Like, full-on craptastic suckage, not tingly Spike suckage."

"Dawn!" The blood ran straight to Buffy's cheeks at that.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Like you did a great job of hiding that from me. Everyone on a Hellmouth knows you don't come home with bruised lips just from dusting vamps." Grown-ups were so dumb.

The girls sat quietly for a moment before Buffy's voice broke the silence, shakily: "I miss him so much, Dawnie."

Spike had taken a long walk to the lakefront, hoping some fresh (if you could call it that) air would relax him a bit.

It didn't do much.

Instead, as he walked up Hird towards his apartment, something cracked inside him. In the shadows of the parking lot between The Phantasy and the housing projects behind it, he saw a struggle take place. A demon, possibly a Lei-Ach, had a girl backed against the dumpster. If this was, indeed, a Lei-Ach demon, then that meant the girl was hurt and weakened, as these days they preyed only on the ones who weren't gonna make it. He slipped in closer, and the long blonde hair was all he saw before he felt the shift to gameface. The demon inside roared, hurling him into the creature. Spike's fists and nails rained down on the Lei-Ach, tearing at him, causing the demon's already blistering grayish-white skin to bleed profusely. Even after the poor girl (who, he later saw, was a junkie) had scrambled away, Spike did not relent. He couldn't. He had seen that blonde hair as Buffy's in those short seconds, and he gave every ounce of pain, heartbreak, and longing for her to this demon in the form of a vicious assault. The Lei-Ach didn't stand a chance, could barely get a swipe in edgewise. Blood coagulated in his long, stringy hair as he bitterly held onto his life. Spike cracked the demon's face into the asphalt, then swooped down to straddle him, fangs bared. A look of confusion passed by the Lei-Ach's eyes, at least that's what it appeared to be through the blood. The battered creature's black tongue slipped out slowly, as if to tender resignation and defeat.

Spike stopped, suddenly aware of himself. His way wasn't torture; that was Angelus's gig. So, what the fuck was he doing? He could taste the tears that had been coating his own face the whole time.

The Lei-Ach reached out a shaky hand, and Spike knew there was no way he was making it out now. The vampire lurched forward and snapped the demon's neck, putting him out of his misery.

If he wasn't sure before, he certainly was now. Someone, somewhere, had cursed him.

.

Juju by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike & Other

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

.

"Ugh. We must be cursed," Willow groaned. This was the second traffic jam they were stuck in on their way out of New York City.

The woman sitting next to Willow on the Greyhound bus ignored her, because that's just what you did. But Tara still flushed with embarrassment. "Inside voice, hon," she telepathically reminded Willow. "Let's not draw more attention to ourselves than necessary."

"Oh! Sorry!" Willow smiled shyly at her ghostly lover who was seated on...err, in...her lap. So far no one on the bus seemed to notice. "You look extra spectrally today, so I think we're good. Are you good?"

Tara nodded. "Just trying to build up my energy again. I'm kinda guessing I'll need it once we hit the Hellmouth."

"How do I always end up like this?"

"I'm tellin' ya, Spike—it's legit. We can make some good money on a Hellmouth this way."

Stan was trying his hardest to get the vampire to help him with his new business venture as an exterminator of sorts.

"I thought you got Ryk for that," Spike spat.

Stan's cheeks flushed for a moment. "Uh, yeah... that was until he ate my last client."

Spike groaned. Suckered into something daft, yet again. "Fine. Let's get on with it before I change my mind."

A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of Madame Polina. A neon sign on her porch advertised palm and tarot readings.

"Oh! I knew you'd be here early!" the woman exclaimed dramatically, as if to provide some kind of proof of her services.

Spike stifled another groan as he felt his eyes roll. I'm a master vampire, for fuck's sake...

As he and Stan approached, however, her false demeanor dropped. Spike could tell she was reading something off them.

Stan, of course, didn't notice. "So, you say something scared you in the basement?" He flipped open a pad of paper and started scribbling notes.

"Oh, it didn't scare me," she corrected, her eyes on Spike although she was talking to Stan. "It ate my dog."

Stan stopped writing suddenly, in deference. "Ah, uh... yes, I can see how that would be a problem."

"Right, then." Spike wasn't liking how this woman was eyeing him. "Let's get to it."

Stan smiled brightly, covering for Spike's crassness.

Madame Polina led them to the basement door, chatting along the way. "Thank you for coming so late at night; I didn't think anyone worked this late."

"Well, that's when all the critters are about, innit?" Spike replied with a touch of irritation.

Stan jabbed him. "We do the night shift. It's our specialty." He beamed, hoping Spike's sour attitude didn't just cost him a customer.

Neither of them caught Madame Polina's sly smile.

It was a garden-variety beastie, all fur and fangs and grrrr and arrrgh, though it put up quite a nice fight.

Stan cowered on the upper steps of the staircase as Spike dove in, hungry for a spot of violence. His dreams this past morning were more of the "we're coming for you" theme, so he was completely on-edge. If there was one thing Spike hated feeling, it was helplessness. So, he held that feeling at bay the only way he knew how—with a good fight.

This little creature was deceptive. It was no larger than a border collie, but its mouth was overflowing with jagged, razor-like teeth. Madame Polina's poodle wouldn't have had a chance.

Spike went a few rounds with the creature, eliciting gasps and shrieks from Stan. The little bugger was frighteningly quick, darting around and baring its fangs with every move Spike made. It sliced up Spike's hand after a charge, but the pain only served to give Spike focus. The vampire finally dropped the little beast with a well-aimed barbecue skewer.

"Bloody hell," Spike panted. "Hope you pay by the injury and not by the hour."

Stan smiled uneasily, still shaking. "Sure, uh, anything you want, Spike, ol' buddy..."

"Have they found you?" Madame Polina asked Spike as she wrapped his wounded hand in gauze.

"You know?" He thought he had been smarter than to fall for the phony psychic routine.

"Can feel the magic coming off you."

He growled, looking at the patched hand. "So, I am cursed then."

"Cursed?" Madame Polina repeated with a slight chuckle. She pulled back the curtain separating her kitchy gypsy parlor from... a room that looked like The Magic Box. This was no palm reader. "Oh, that's no curse." She reached for an old apothecary jar filled with a fine-grained powder. "Feels like a locator spell."

"But, who...?"

Madame Polina warmed a pinch of the silver powder in her hands, whispering a chant in a language that sounded unfamiliar to Spike. A quick second later, she blew the powder towards him.

"Hey!" Spike raised his arm to cover his face.

The powder sparkled red before disappearing in thin air as it fell to the floor.

"Well, that's interesting."

Spike opened one eye to peer at her.

"The one who seeks you is already dead."

Giaconda Smile by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Drusilla, Buffy/Spike

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

.

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.

Sick Soft Gooey & Cold by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike & Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER CREDITS: Lyrics in the bar scene from "Too Drunk to Fuck" by the Dead Kennedys

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: Here we go! This chapter is dedicated to my hubby (who is stuck having to hear about how Spike would do for me all the stuff that he complains about doing—Ha!) and my fellow readers/writers ginar369, A Dreamweaver, Darkfaerie18, cavemenftw, & hollowjb.

.

Okay, that was it. Spike didn't care how much he had loved Drusilla—she was not going to use Glinda against him.

He'd had another of those dreams, this time even stronger than ever. The good witch had been sitting with him in Hyde Park, circa 1875, nibbling on berries whilst he read poetry to her from his leather-bound journal. Unlike the others, she was deeply interested, captured by his use of verse. The look in her eyes broke his heart metaphysically as he viewed the scene while it happened, and he wanted desperately to wake up.

Now that he was awake, he could feel his soul and how that dream affected him. If he had been given such attention back then, how would his story have turned out? Would he still have met his fate in that dark alley five years later? Or would he have been long-dead, having spent his mortal life humbled by appreciation? He didn't know if those poems he was reciting to Tara had been the same ones he had written to Cecily; so many years had passed and so much suppression of that painful humanity had occurred that he honestly couldn't remember just how much of his mortal life he had obsessed over the ungrateful woman. But Tara hadn't seemed to mind either way. Her lips, plump and dreamy, were stained red with strawberries and blackcurrants, sometimes moving as though she had heard his verses before and was mouthing the words with him as he read. Something so very like Drusilla to do.

Spike ached, sending out a mental plea to his dark princess, wherever she was, to spare him from further torment. If she was coming for him, let her come; he wouldn't fight her. Just, enough with the witch. He missed Tara deeply, more than he thought he should have. His soul is what made it worse—now that he had that added dimension back, he could see and understand how she gave him chances the others didn't, how she related to him, trusted him. She trusted him to be a good man even when she knew he was soulless, a monster...

Please, Dru, let the bird go.

He could take Buffy. Dru could have her fun with that; Buffy gave as hard as she got, and he deserved whatever could be hurled at him. But Tara was an innocent.

Please, let her go.

"I found him. He's on the west-side," Tara spoke confidently in Willow's mind. She was brushing her dark blonde hair as she walked through her lover.

Willow shivered, not realizing the sensation was from Tara. Her thoughts had been pre-occupied with the energy from the Hellmouth ever since they had arrived in Cleveland.

"Huh?"

"Spike. He's west of here. Maybe 10 miles, maybe less."

"Oh! Yeah!" Willow spoke aloud. "Spike. West. Good."

Willow's hands were shaking around the thin paper coffee cup. It was now morning, and they were still at the Greyhound station. Enough of the other bus riders had just fallen asleep on the benches at the station that the witches figured they'd do the same and save some money instead of trying to find an affordable hotel for the night. While Willow slept, Tara had taken the time to reach out to Spike again. Now that they were on a Hellmouth—and in the same city as him—Tara found it much easier to gather the energy to connect with the vampire. She was confident they'd find him within the week. Interestingly, though, the witch had not felt the familiar tingle of a Slayer. Willow had been sure that Faith would be here, but Tara hadn't found any indications of her. She hoped that that had nothing to do with Spike. Tara knew that Spike has lost the cruel chip and that there had been some rough moments, but she still had faith (no pun intended) in him and in what she knew he could become. That summer without Buffy was all the proof she ever needed as to what kind of person (yes, he's a person) he is.

But Willow was acting odd. Even for Willow. Tara thought it was just nerves, but she felt something different coming off her lover. Something like static. Something she wasn't sure she liked.

Someone dropped a few coins in the jukebox and the vibrating sound of the Dead Kennedys slithered past the demons' heads.

.

Went to a party

I danced all night

I drank 16 beers

And I started up a fight

.

Krolik lit his cigarette off Spike's as they sat at the bar counter of the 5 O'Clock Lounge. The place was a dive, filled with a mix of demons and heavily-tattooed humans. The vampire and the Miquot preferred this bar to others because of the heavily-punk rock crowd, the cheap beer, and the fact that it was only a parking lot away from Spike's apartment. Couldn't get more convenient than that.

.

But now I'm jaded

You're out of luck

I'm rolling down the stairs

Too drunk to fuck

.

"You sick?" Krolik coughed out after a long drag.

Spike eyed the demon. His yellow skin looked beige in the dark, smoky haze of the bar. The shirt the Miquot was wearing bared his muscular arms, showing off a new tattoo he had gotten.

.

I like your stories

I like your gun

Shooting out cop tires

Sounds like loads and loads of fun

.

"You do that on purpose?" Spike moved his eyes quickly to the ink before bringing them back to Krolik's. He took a swig of piss-poor beer.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

.

But in my room

Wish you were dead

You bawl like the baby

In Eraserhead

.

The vampire's gameface appeared. "Looks a might bit familiar, mate."

The tattoo featured a lithe succubus with cascading locks. Not unlike Drusilla.

Krolik stretched his arm out and looked down at it. "Guess it does." He went back to his drink, stubbing out his cigarette on the counter.

.

I'm about to drop

My head's a mess

The only salvation is I'll never see you again

.

Spike shook off his demon guise and smoked. This whole Dru thing was wearing him out. "Not sick. Just not sleeping," he finally admitted.

Krolik smirked, running a strong hand over the mohawk-like reptilian spine on his head. "It's the shit you're drinking."

Spike frowned as he looked at his beer.

.

You give me head

It makes it worse

Take out your fuckin' retainer

Put it in your purse

.

"Not that. When was the last time you tasted a kill?"

The vampire grumbled.

"That's what I'm saying. If you were meant to live on pig's blood, you'd have been a fucking wolf."

.

Too drunk to fuck

You're too drunk to fuck

Too drunk To fuck

.

Krolik leaned back on his stool, sorting out all the humans in the bar. "How 'bout that one?" The Miquot's head nodded over to a hazy female approaching them, her long hair moving independently of the low-hanging smoke in the room. "If I were a vamp, I'd have my fangs buried deep in those juicy tits faster than..."

Spike didn't hear a word Krolik said after that. The woman they were gazing at looked like Tara.

He quickly stumbled out to the street to catch his breath and clear his head. But, doing so, he ran straight into someone on the sidewalk. Someone whose familiar gasp sent a shiver of fear through his cold body that nearly made his undead heart start beating again...

.

A Static Lullaby by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Spike & Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: I absolutely love the idea of Spike and Tara being friends and always felt that if she had lived longer on the show, they'd have been confidantes. So, hopefully you share my sentiments. Or, if not, hopefully you can tolerate it enough to continue reading! :)

.

"Spike!"

The vampire's eyes were wide, afraid, angry. "You! You've been doing this!" He wanted to shove her away and hide.

"What? No!" Willow reached out to him. "We've been trying to find you!"

"We?"

Willow's hands were on Spike now, feeling him in amazement that he was real. Like, really real. "Me and Tara."

His world was being turned inside-out right there in the street. He shook his head. "I think I need to lie down for a bit." His hand went to his eyes painfully.

"Please! Wait!" Willow cried. This was not how she imagined their meeting. Panic rose in her until she realized that he was leading the way to his home, the building next-door.

"What did you do?" Spike asked Willow. His voice was shaky, and he knew it. Half angry, half amazed, he held his hands up to mirror Tara's ghostly ones before him. This was, to him, too much like Buffy's resurrection.

"Nothing!" Goddess, when will everyone stop blaming me for things they can't explain?

Tara hadn't said a word since she led Willow to that bar. Even though she knew Spike was "alive," she still couldn't really believe that there he was, himself, corporeal, soulful, chipless. She concentrated on him, on his hands that were held up before her. Her fingers crackled.

Spike couldn't believe he'd see Glinda again in his waking hours. She was lacking that thick sound of a pulse, but the scent of her—oh, there was no mistaking it. Heavy sandalwood and earth, sunshine and rain; it filled his sensitive nose, and he breathed her in. Remembering that trick again from his days as a spectre, he concentrated on her, on her hands that were held up before him. His fingers reached out to entwine with hers.

And each felt the other.

Tara gripped Spike's fingers tight, looking at him in awe. But Spike tore his hands away suddenly. The absence of touch was shocking, but only for a split-second. Because Spike had meant only to pull her into his arms.

He held her tight, a combination of "thank you" and "I never thought I'd see you again."

Willow watched the flickers of magic crackle off of them, knowing that they both must be concentrating hard. She smiled to herself. We did it. We found him.

Buffy dusted a nest of vamps half-heartedly. She was feeling a bit like she did when Willow had brought her back from the dead. Like something got left behind.

Only, this time, she knew what it was.

Her eyes went to her hand as she walked back to the apartment. She had left Spike's ring on today in the hope that it would make her feel alive again, like he always had. But the conversation she'd had with Angel the other day still haunted her, made her ache, and reminded her that her heart had been left in that crater that was Sunnydale.

Spike made Willow spill the whole story, leaving no detail out. He'd spent enough time with the Scoobies (and Giles, the stuffy tosser) to know that nothing that Red dabbled with was trivial. Everything she had ever dealt came fraught with consequences. So, straight away, he wanted to know every move she made so he could prepare himself for the fallout. As she spoke, Spike was able to pull some threads together. The "storm" Gar had told Spike was brewing at the Hellmouth—he could put money on it being because of the magic used to search for him. That Grrr'Rr thing? The sudden appearance (and then disappearance) of Prekians? The burning pain of his soul? Oh, he could understand those things now. Damn witch.

Willow yawned after her tale. Tara ran a transparent hand through the girl's hair. That made Spike soften a bit. He couldn't harbor so much anger towards her—hell, if anyone would know how Buffy was doing, it was Red.

He'd had no idea if she had somewhere to stay, so he offered her the small bed in his second room. His apartment had been Maria's once, and she had left behind some things in the small office room next to the bedroom. Spike had little use for the room since he had neither roommates nor guests. Currently, it housed the spare furniture and his weapons chest.

"It's not much to look at, but you're welcome to it," he said.

Willow hugged him gratefully, nearly falling asleep in his arms. Tara was nowhere to be seen.

Once he had safely put Willow to bed, Spike grabbed a bottle of Jameson and a pack of cigarettes, then locked himself away in his room. This was too much for one night. He opened the window, letting the cool spring air drift in. Slipping out of his clothes and under his sheets, he lit his cigarette, poured himself a shot, and gazed up at the moon, hoping that, somewhere, his Slayer was doing the same.

It was nearly dawn where she was, and Buffy mouthed a silent goodbye to the faint outline of the moon. This was the time of day she dreaded most, when the sun came up and everyone returned to life—everyone except her.

She could tell Dawn was trying hard to cheer her up. The Angel jokes were being laid on pretty heavily these days. But how could she explain to her little sister when she couldn't explain to a 200-year old vampire? She didn't want to "get over" Spike. She wanted him in her life, in any way she could have him. Now she understood why he was willing to settle for the scraps she tossed him all those years. She'd give anything for the chance to apologize, to make it all up to him (or at least try). If the pain of his absence was all she had of him now, then she'd wed herself to it.

She ran her thumb over his ring.

I do, I do, I do.

The flutter of Spike's curtains rippled through her.

"Would you mind some company?" Tara asked, not wanting to approach if it would disturb him.

He blew out a long stream of smoke, then patted the spot beside him in bed.

The witch became more opaque now, changing from transparent to translucent. When she settled on the bed, she made an indentation in the sheets.

"Please don't be angry with her. I planted the thought in her head to find you. After Andrew..."

Spike coughed, holding his cigarette away from her. "So that little bugger did say something."

Tara blushed. "He tried not to, but..."

A soft, sad chuckle slipped from the vampire's lips.

The witch leaned back on the bed, matching his position. They were reclined against the headboard, pillows bunched at the small of their backs.

"So, I guess the Slayer's moved on, then?" He tried to keep the pain and bitterness out of his voice, but he could feel Glinda rest a hand against his chest.

"We don't think she even knows."

Spike turned to her.

"We think that Giles and Angel have kept you a secret."

The vampire tilted his head back, a slight hitch in the drag he took from his nearly-spent cigarette.

He didn't need to say a word. Tara could taste the hurt he felt just by being near him. She looked at his eyelids sealed tight, trying to stave off tears. The sharpness of his jaw, clenched. His throat, constricted. The smooth marble of his chest, still. How Buffy must have looked at him at one time. Oh, it broke her heart.

"We'll find her for you," Tara whispered, reaching for his pale face.

Spike shuddered when the witch's fingertips grazed his skin. He didn't dare open his eyes, because if he was dreaming he didn't want it to end; he needed his friend's comfort right now.

"How did you know what my mum was like?"

She leaned in and gently kissed each eyelid. "I didn't."

"But, she was so real."

Tara nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see it. "That's because it was her."

Spike opened his eyes then, red-rimmed and glassy.

"I just found her and helped her come forth."

His lips parted to speak, but, for once, he had no words.

Tara placed her lips upon his, exhaling some held magic. He felt her as if she were flesh and blood before slipping into the warmth of sleep...and his dear mother's welcoming arms.

.

Alone Doesn't Feel So Cold by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER NOTES: This chapter is a bit light on the action and heavy on the conversation. But, it's something that I wanted to see and that I felt was important to the development of the characters. Also, I veered away from the Buffyverse cannon regarding Spike & Angel during WWII; I am not sticking with the WWII storyline that was presented in the ATS episode "Why We Fight". Hope you enjoy it!

.

She chastised herself as she watched him sleep. It wasn't right of her to just assume that he'd want this. Even knowing what his heart needed didn't make it right, no matter how altruistic her motives. Isn't that why she had broken up with Willow those years ago?

Tara had willed up enough concentration to close tight Spike's curtains before checking in on Willow. The little witch was still sound asleep, clearly exhausted. She was making those little sounds of hers, kind of like when a cat snores, and Tara felt warm with relief. The past day had been wound tight from worry—about Spike and about the Hellmouth. Willow may have tried hard to hide it, but Tara could see plainly that the power here was bothering her. She wasn't sure yet what could be done about that, but they'd figure something out. That's what you did when you loved someone, right?

Letting her lover get some well-deserved rest, the good witch returned to Spike's side, burrowing herself under the covers.

Hey, I really am under the covers!

It was weird how she hadn't needed much effort to gain a sense of touch near him. She and Willow still had to concentrate like Zen masters for this to happen. And inanimate objects were another story altogether. But with Spike—so odd how she could feel him. And, now, how she was leaving an impression in the bed like she was really there. How she was under the sheet instead of through it.

She sure as Hades wasn't complaining, though. This was incredible. It made her want to touch everything.

Tara pulled the sheet up over her face and giggled. She couldn't help it. Then she pressed her nose into Spike's ribs. He rustled a bit, but did not wake. She giggled again until she accidentally caught sight of bits of him that were for a lover's eyes only. Blushing, she pulled her head out of the sheets and ran her fingers along the pillows instead, then along the headboard, feeling the distinct change between satin and metal. Such ordinary stuff, but how incredible it becomes when you've been without the sense for so long!

"Mum," Spike whispered softly, reverently, in his sleep. Gently, he turned, his face that of innocence.

Tara imagined what he must have been like as a child. Wide-eyed and shy, she would bet. Just like her. From having met his mother, she knew he was adored and fragile. Amazing what the demon had done to him. Yet, she also knew that the man was still there inside; he hadn't allowed the demon to destroy it. This was the thing that made her realize what he truly was all those years ago, when the Scoobies still wanted him gone. When she discovered his hard-earned soul, she laughed bitterly; he hadn't needed one. Why didn't they see that?

Spike's lips mouthed "Mummy," though without breath he made no noise.

He wasn't a creature; he was someone's beloved child.

Tara moved closer to him, gathering his still body to hers. The energy to bring his mother to him was pulling from her, but it was no longer draining. Her heart wanted so much to spend time with them, watch his mother dote on the son she was so eternally proud of, but she knew this was too private, too dear. Instead, she let him nuzzle her, mumbling in his sleep.

What a great sleep.

So great, even the lumpy pillows on his bed felt warm and plump. He took a deep breath, eyes still closed, and settled his face back into them happily. Tugging at a pillow case, he slipped his hand inside to fluff one, then...

Huh?

Tara squeaked.

"What the...?" Spike opened his eyes suddenly, discovering an overflowing handful of Tara's chest. Different kind of pillows, mate!

"Gotta stop meetin' like this, luv," the vampire smirked, copping another feel before pulling his hand back to himself.

Tara flushed, her crooked smile forgiving him. She'd better find Buffy for him soon!

"Hey, wait a tick... how can I...? I mean, you...?"

"No idea. But neat, huh?" She beeped his nose, obviously pleased at this new discovery.

Spike grinned as well, laying back into his actual pillows and staring up at the ceiling. Could his life get any stranger?

Tara knew what he was thinking. This was just too weird. She couldn't help but reach out and brush the crumpled curls from his forehead. The stiff gel he used had worn down in his sleep, making him appear more human, more real. It was incredible to feel that. (Oh Goddess, to feel anything!) But the sensation brought her back to her earlier thoughts. She couldn't take advantage of him, as everyone else had done. As she, herself, had been taken advantage of.

Spike felt a change in the energy around Tara. Didn't need to be a witch to figure that one out; his century-plus as a woman's companion taught him well enough.

"You can tell me, pet."

She had forgotten how perceptive the vampire was.

"I...I'm s-sorry if I f-forced you to d-dream these past few weeks. It w-wasn't my right. I d-didn't mean to..." She found that she could barely say the words, realizing so acutely that this had been done to her. "...to v-violate your m-mind, your p-privacy."

He looked at her then and saw how torn she was. Her eyes hid nothing. And he understood. She didn't need to continue. He'd been the one who exposed the lie that her father had forced upon her. He remembered vividly what happened to the poor girl at the hands of the hell-god. Saw what Red did to make her forget (hell, he even experienced some of that manipulation himself).

But, she needn't fuss over him. Not like this.

"Hush, luv," Spike said softly. He took her hand from his hair and placed his lips over her shaky fingers. "Never had a reason not to trust you." He kissed her hand gently, hoping to calm her. "Never will."

Tara's eyes looked teary.

"None of that now, pet. I've already gone soft." He gave her a little smile. "Any softer, I'd be a poof like Angel. And one of him's enough."

"God, the phone calls were bad enough. Now he's clogged my inbox."

Dawn frowned. "Okay, I know I'm not Spike, but could you ignore stupid Angel for a half hour so we can have a nice dinner?"

Her words were said a little too loudly in the restaurant, and a few pairs of eyes flicked their way.

"Sorry, Dawnie," Buffy sighed, turning her phone off and slipping it into her purse. She knew it wasn't fair to keep putting her sister through this. In a way, she almost hoped Angel would show up at their apartment just so she could tell him to his face to leave them alone already. It's like they needed to get a restraining order or something.

"I just..." Dawn didn't know how to say this right. "I guess I just wish you could move on."

Buffy's eyes reddened at her.

"Or...well," Dawn corrected, "that I could bring Spike back. I mean, in a non-bringing-back-mom way." She watched her sister slump a little in her chair. "For both of us. Cuz seriously, I can't enjoy this crap with you." Dawn smirked playfully as she motioned to the deep-fried food on her plate while eye-ing the taste-impaired healthy stuff on Buffy's. "Spike never made me feel guilty for enjoying things."

"Dru always said it was an acquired taste," Spike reminisced. "But she was mad as a bag of frogs; the bloody meal cost more than a car, and it all just tasted like a wet sack of nickels!"

Tara laughed with him, happy to have this chance (however belated it was) to be the friends they could have become had she not died. She knew regret was a wasted emotion, but she couldn't help but think how much they all had lost by dismissing Spike throughout those years.

"Okay, so sushi is out," she chuckled. "What was a perfect meal, then?"

Spike closed his eyes for a long moment, thinking. "Paris, 1944," he finally replied. "Bread, butter, and Gauloises with Camus. Hands-down, best meal ever."

Tara looked at him curiously. "Are you serious?"

"Dead."

She smiled. "There's so much I wish I knew about you. Stuff that isn't in the Watcher diaries."

He reached over and stroked some silken strands of her splayed hair, smoothing them down with care, satisfied. "Can ask me anything. You know I love to talk."

Her eyes glittered.

So he told her about that memory:

It had initially been Angelus's idea to head to Germany when they had heard of Hitler's rise. He'd always been calculating and clever—the curse hadn't changed that—but Spike had grown to distrust his judgement. Particularly with this whole Nazi thing. Chaos, Spike could understand. Infiltrating ranks to fuck the order up—yeah, he'd have a go at that. But Angelus was taking too long with this game. When he started on the mercy killings at the death camps, Spike had had enough.

He talked a good talk, Spike did. But underneath all that swagger, he was still something of a decent bloke, demon be damned. It was the fight that mattered. Always the fight. Being undead made him see that even more clearly, made him value and respect those who did that in life. Angelus's mercy killings were wrong, unfair. These people were fighting. They were surviving. They were proving to the awful reich that they would win. But Angelus, the bastard—he was "saving" them from that fate. Even then, the poof was only acting on his own guilt.

So, Spike left.

He found himself in Paris during the occupation, aligned with a French Resistance cell. Here were some humans who understood the fight, the rebellion. He befriended a bloke who called himself Beauchard during the war, and they wrote for the underground newspaper of their cell's name: Combat. Risking capture, torture, execution—Spike was used to that as a vamp, but it was so different with human companions. Every moment was sacred.

That day, he and Beauchard (who was actually the author Albert Camus under a code name) had been typing feverishly, trying to get the paper finished before being discovered. News of Nazi experiments had leaked and Beauchard was so distraught he could barely keep anything down. Spike managed to maintain his composure, as he had spent the first twenty years of his unlife under Angelus's tutelage; none of the Nazi atrocities were anything new to him. So, he shared his tobacco and his strength with the writer, and when they had the issue ready for print, they broke bread. The overhead lights had been flickering, the air was stifling, and the fear was palpable. But that simple, desperate meal—it made Spike feel like a man. A man who stood for something. Crucial and necessary.

He hadn't ever shared this story, but it felt good to. Especially with Glinda.

"You knew Camus," Tara said in amazement. "That's just.. Wow. I read his books in high school."

"Good, brave man," Spike replied. "Sodding brilliant." He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "If the Slayer hadn't blown my crypt to pieces, I could have shown you a great photo of us." Spike frowned. "Miss that bloke." He took another drag, still deep in thought. "Changed the kill for me, really."

Tara snuggled close to him then. He was truly an enigma.

"So, yeah, that was the perfect meal."

In the next room, Willow continued to sleep. She was aware that Tara and Spike were having an hours-long conversation. She even wished she could join in, especially when she thought she heard the topic of WWII. But now was a bad time. The Hellmouth was pulling her insides toward its center, and she felt more and more like she was slipping.

So Willow did the quickest thing she thought might work—she cast a somnambulist spell on herself so that she'd succumb to sleep instead of darkness.

Blue Moon Baby by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara, Tara/Willow

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

CHAPTER CREDITS: A bit of a reference to a line said by Teeth in the "Tabula Rasa" episode. Also, another to the film "Pretty in Pink".

.

Madame Polina knew they had found the vampire. She could feel the white magic blowing into Cleveland from the witches. Or, actually, from one of the witches. The one that was…dead? Something wasn't right. Not with that good witch, but with…the other. Polina felt cloudy; that's the only way she could describe it. Like one of the overcast skies that settled over the city, obscuring the sunlight beneath. She had to find that strange little exterminator. Warn him.

When Spike went to take a shower, Tara floated into the little room where Willow had been sleeping. She was surprised that she hadn't heard her lover stir yet, but she had been enjoying her conversation with Spike so she didn't interrupt.

Instantly, she could sense something wrong. The magic coming off of Willow now was stifling. What had she done? Willow seemed so peaceful and relaxed-a look like ecstasy-, and Tara suddenly felt sick; did she fall back on her old habits and become drugged with power?

The good witch had to know. She buzzed around her lover's prone form, assessing the situation. For some reason, she was unable to send Willow any messages telepathically. It was like a heavy door had been placed there and could not be budged. Tara tried to touch the witch, but whatever spell was on her had been so powerful that it seemed to rebuff Tara's energy. She hovered, watching the soft breathing, hearing the little snores that reminded her of their beloved Miss Kitty Fantastico. The spell itself hadn't felt evil or anything like that, so she was confused-surely, it couldn't have been from the Hellmouth because the darkness would have been overwhelming. And who would have even known that the two witches were in this place? She hadn't sensed at all that they'd been followed or targeted.

Tara hadn't felt so helpless in a long time.

Spike trudged on past her, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. She could barely even see him, really, but already Tara felt the blush rise to her cheeks. He was so comfortable in his own skin—always carried himself that way, she noted—and, although she hadn't spent intimately close time like this with him before, she could imagine what this did to Buffy. And, by that, she didn't mean the sexy stuff. She knew Buffy enough to see now how uncomfortable Buffy must have been. Spike's simple acceptance of himself was in stark contrast to the insecure Slayer, who had so many levels of expectation shoveled upon her that it was a feat to find where they ended and she began. Buffy had opened up to Tara during that painful year (a reminder, again, of her role as safe outsider), but what the Slayer didn't know is that Spike had done the same (a reminder, again, that she and the vampire were kindred outsiders). Tara could see that Spike had been the only one who was able to delve deep enough to find Buffy through all those expectations. He saw her there, tried to bring that self to the fore, but, as Buffy clearly shared with Tara, that raw, bare self was someone she was ill-equipped to deal with.

The good witch's heart ached now as it did then, remembering how much pain and loss occurred because of this. Damn the Powers-That-Be for putting a child into the role of Slayer. Damn the Watchers Council for discouraging development of her humanity. Damn her parents for their lack of trust and support when she needed it most. Damn her friends for their selfish judgements. And damn that voice inside her that kept her from ignoring all of those pressures.

Tara heard clothes hangers scraping along the metal bar in Spike's closet. She sighed, focusing her mind back on the situation at hand. Couldn't touch Willow to wake her. Couldn't seem to generate enough energy to rustle objects near her either. She definitely needed Spike's help. And, unlike the other Scoobies, she wasn't afraid to ask for it.

She slipped through the open door into his room. He was standing near the bed, looking like he was deciding between shirts. Tara couldn't help but smile. Not only at his Buffy-like indecision, but also at the sight of his lithe form. He was exquisite. If his hips had suddenly swelled and his boy parts disappeared and his chest morphed into something grab-able, she'd be on him without a second thought.

Spike caught her. His trademark smirk spread across his lips. "Thinkin' of switchin' sides, luv?"

If this were three years ago, she'd have probably run away. Instead, she giggled.

He winked at her then. "Anytime. Always fancied you, pet." Spike eyed her playfully and noticed that, as he did so, her form became more opaque.

Tara knew he was teasing, but her body couldn't help but react to it. Such a charmer. No wonder Buffy couldn't stay away from him.

Spike finally chose a shirt and slipped it over his head, but didn't bother with shoes. He loved the feel of carpeting against his bare feet. Didn't have that luxury in his crypt or even at Wolfram & Hart.

"Have to work tonight for a bit," Spike said to the witch. "Just next door if you need me, though." He nodded in the direction of The Phantasy.

"Actually..." Tara wasn't sure she knew how to say this. What could Spike do?

Spike's eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Umm... it's Willow."

Red? Yeah, that always got his attention. He braced himself for it.

"She's... still sleeping."

Spike let out his held, unnecessary breath. "'S'alright, luv. I'm not evicting my guests." He smiled gently.

Tara approached him then, wringing her hands lightly. "No, I mean... she's under some sort of spell. And I can't touch her. I can't wake her."

Spike's lips morphed into a frown.

"Can you..."

Tara didn't even get a chance to finish her sentence. Spike rushed out of the room. As he left, she felt her body lighten, and she was able to float through the wall. She solidified again near him, but still could not touch Willow; it was as though her hands became invisible as they approached the magical field radiating off of the little witch.

Spike had no such ill effects. He reached down and shook Willow firmly. If she had simply been asleep, it would have been enough to bring her 'round. But her eyes stayed closed, her lips modeled into a comfortable half-smile.

Bloody hell. Spike gathered the witch in his arms, holding her to see... what? If she felt odd? If he could squeeze her awake?

He looked up at Tara. "Think someone knows you're here?"

Tara shrugged. "No idea. I mean, who would? We didn't tell anyone. And... why would anyone care?"

Oh, Angel would care, Spike thought bitterly.

"She's blocking my texts now," Angel grumbled. He was hoping this expensive phone call would yield better results.

Giles sighed. "You don't even know that he's still alive."

"He's blood, Giles. He's my blood." Angel cringed at the thought and even moreso at the sound of his voice having admitted that aloud. If he hadn't turned Drusilla, Spike would never even exist. "Of course I'd know if he was dust. Again."

Giles was torn, as usual. Getting older didn't seem to make his role or his decisions any easier. "I did as you asked," he replied tersely. "What good that's done, I do not know."

"You love her. You want to protect her. You're her Watcher... Her father."

That struck. Angel knew it would. His soul was Liam's after all.

He was pretty sure he could hear the man cleaning his glasses. But if this didn't work, Angel wasn't sure what else he could do. Outside of finding Spike himself.

Gar took one look at the tableau before him and frowned. This vampire was surely going to be the death of him.

The scene the door opened to was of a slight, red-haired girl draped in Spike's arms, the vampire looking up like the Virgin Mary holding Christ after he was pulled from the cross. Floating behind as the Holy Spirit was something (or someone) in a fluttering gown.

"Now what did you do?" the Kailiff growled, slamming Spike's door. "And why am I here?"

Tara was startled. This demon didn't look (or feel) like someone she wanted to spend the next few hours with, ghost or not. She hovered protectively over her prone girlfriend while Spike explained to him why he called.

"Oh, you can't be serious." Gar paced the small room.

"You owe me, mate!

Gar shot an angry glance to Spike.

But Spike was most definitely serious. "Don't you dare forget what I did for you on Miles. I could have left your sorry corpse there, and you know it. Those were sodding bullets, not stakes."

The Kailiff hissed for a moment before finally relenting. "If anyone finds out I'm a fucking babysitter, I'll dust you myself, you bastard."

Stan wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he loved pet-sitting. When his cousin Roy had to hide his poker winnings, Stan had reluctantly obliged to be the "safe house". He promised not to eat any, but Roy never came back to claim the winnings—and every demon knows the old saying: time is what turns kittens into cats. So, with that batch spoiled already, Stan found himself a pet-sitter. Eventually, most of his wards escaped. But, still, the experience stuck.

When his lovely neighbor Tia asked him to watch her dachshund for the weekend, he was doubly pleased. Here was a way to have a little non-evil companion for a couple days as well as a hanging favor with the pretty girl.

So, there the two floppy-eared creatures were, each eating cheese curls out of a bowl on the floor. Were dogs supposed to have this? Stan didn't know, but Puddles seemed to think so. They were in the middle of a John Hughes marathon, and the scene where Duckie was alone in his room listening to The Smiths had Stan all teary. Damn Andie, that bitch! How could she pick the "richie" over the one who loved her with all his heart?

Just as he reached for a tissue, his phone rang.

.

Voodoo Dolly by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara, Tara/Willow

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER CREDITS: Lyrics from "Voodoo Dolly" by Siouxsie & the Banshees.

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: Lots of back-and-forth in this chapter, but I hope it adds to the feeling of craziness that I intended!

.

Willow had really done it this time. She could hear a commotion, but couldn't open her eyes. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Her limbs, too. Not in a bad way or anything, but this spell seemed to be lasting much longer than she had anticipated. She sensed that Tara was getting worried, and now that she thought about it, she couldn't break through her mind to talk to her lover. That's odd.

Somewhere, she heard barking, and she wished she could wake up. What the heck was going on out there?

Puddles was not pleased. He'd been happily munching away on forbidden snack foods when his weirdo caretaker got a strange phone call.

Suddenly, he found himself moving his little legs as quickly as possible to keep up. The two of them had taken to the streets and were in a rush to get somewhere. He huffed and panted and couldn't wait for this insanity to end.

But their arrival did not resolve that. Puddles had finally gotten used to his strange-looking neighbor, but this was too much.

In the middle of the room was a frightening monster—all muscles and spikes with mean eyes and a grumbly demeanor. Floating around behind him was a ghostly apparition. And there, sprawled across the sofa, was a girl who was most-likely dead (given who/what she was surrounded by). Puddles wanted out. He did the only thing he could think to do.

"Aww no. Shit no," Gar spat as Stan entered. "Get the fuck out."

Stan held up his hands. "Hey, hey, grouchy-pants. Just stopped to see Spike." He took a tentative step into the apartment, tugging a non-moving Puddles in with him.

The dog looked around and started barking. It was obvious he was scared. Just don't pee on Spike's carpet, Stan begged. He'd never be able to explain that one.

As Stan closed the door, he saw what Puddles had been looking at. Were they too late? Did Spike just kill someone?

God, I'd love to snap that wanker's neck, Spike thought as he watched some douchebag cut in between two girls so he could dance with one or the other of them. Spike had already thrown out one rowdy bloke, and his shift had barely begun. He peered through the smoky air for signs of non-humans. None so far, but it was early days yet. He hoped that Gar had settled down by now; he didn't want to come home to a wreck. And Glinda wasn't very keen on being left in the Kailiff's care, which gave his unbeating heart a sharp pang for a moment. But it couldn't be helped. Unless she wanted him to go out and mug someone, he needed this bloody job.

Spike hoped that Tara was using this time to figure out a "cure" for Willow. He had no idea what he'd do with Sleeping Beauty. It was a bit too much of a liability for a wanted Big Bad like him. And if Red got eaten, he'd never have a chance to win the Slayer's heart back.

There was no way Tara could concentrate on Willow right now. Gar was so full of demonic energy that any movement he made set her off. She knew he was Spike's friend, but damn. This other demon seemed benign, and he looked like an Empath even though he radiated no empathic energies. Strange. But his eyes were kind, and he had a goofiness that reminded her of that saggy-skinned demon Clem back in Sunnydale. And, then, omg—doggie! Except, she realized that dogs were sensitive to ghosts, and so she retreated back to Willow's side, hoping he'd stop barking soon.

"So, hey, I'm babysitting tonight, too!" Stan noticed aloud nervously, hoping to calm himself and the dog. He slid into a chair, patting his lap for Puddles to join him.

Gar growled, leveling eerie yellow eyes at him. "I'm a bodyguard, not a fucking babysitter."

Stan nudged his head towards the witches. "Kinda late, huh? I mean, unless she's more valuable dead." Her ghost was hovering above her body. Were all Kailiffs this dumb?

"Bitch ain't dead!" Gar shot back. "She's cursed!"

Tara cringed at Gar's word choice.

Spike's sharp hearing caught an odd conversation on the other side of the club. He'd spent years traveling around the world, infiltrating the underbelly of society in all its forms, so he knew what he was hearing. It was a voodoo curse.

He sniffed the air quickly and picked up the scent of the bokor. When his sight caught up with his sense of smell and hearing, he paused. The bokor was gorgeous. Luscious ebony skin, curves cascading down her body, long braids dripping over them.

She had only just started, and he knew the process would take some time. Judging from her languid chant and her comfortable stance, it looked like she'd be here a while.

He was gonna play with this one.

Spike craned his neck and leaned over the DJ booth to make a request.

"Sure thing, Spike," the DJ replied, reaching for some vinyl. He'd have gone all-digital already if it weren't for that damn bouncer. Always wanting the old shit. He held his clove cigarette with his teeth as he slipped the record out of its sleeve and slid it onto the turntable.

After the previous song finished, the crackle from the needle snapped through the club, and a sultry voice intoned:

She's your little voodoo dolly

And she's gonna make you lazy

It worked, just as he knew it would. The bokor snapped her head over to the DJ, and Spike smiled at her. His bright white grin grew until it twisted into something menacing.

Like the little drum in your ear

Transfixes you to your fear

The bokor caught the look just like she caught the song. It was a trap. She grabbed her bag and darted out of the club.

Spike smelled her take the back exit and shifted. He was faster.

"Didn't fancy meetin' a bloke like me here, eh, Dolly?"

He held her shoulders in his hands in the darkness of the back alley.

She was stiff in his grasp, but he could feel that she was trying to hide her fear. Her heartbeat was erratic, like someone calming herself. That made him smile again, revealing his fangs.

"Vampire," she hissed. "I have no business with your kind."

He loosened his grip on her, taking one hand off her skin to brush a few thin braids back. "This is my town, luv. Any business you have here is my business."

Her lips moved into a slight frown, and as he was savoring the next move something flashed.

She had thrown a strange concoction into the air or let loose a spell or something.

He coughed with breath he never needed, letting go of her completely to bat away at the powder or whatever it was that had gone to his eyes and nose.

In the seconds that took, she was gone.

When he had regained his composure, he sniffed and peered, a hunter with his prey.

Bloody hell.

The only words that came to Tara's mind were "Bloody hell!" And in Spike's voice, definitely.

This was hopeless.

Every spell she could think of to get through to Willow had failed. If she could slump onto the couch in defeat, she would. Instead, she floated above, pouting.

The Empath was now snoring away in the chair he sat in while the dog was chewing on Spike's rug. If she could stop him somehow, she would. He had already nudged through the garbage, licking at discarded blood bags in the kitchen. The Kailiff had been texting non-stop since the other demon fell asleep, and he had ignored the witches.

Tara wanted to go to Spike but didn't dare leave Willow's side.

.

Wilder Wilder Faster Faster by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

.

"What the…"

Tara solidified and fell to the floor with a thud and a squeak when Spike stepped through the door.

"…bloody hell is this?"

Puddles stopped gnawing on the rug and barked at Stan's feet. The Empath shuddered awake, wiping drool from his mouth. "I'm up! I'm up!"

Gar was pacing back and forth over the garbage in the kitchen, having a heated argument with one of his gang; he hadn't the slightest idea that the vampire had returned home.

Spike took stock. "No way. This is not happening."

"It's…uhhh… not what it looks like," Stan offered. He had no idea what he just woke up to, but that might buy everyone some time.

"Actually, it pretty much is," Tara sighed. She gathered herself and stood up, rubbing her sore bottom.

Spike's eyes looked like they were going to pop. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself.

With the dog barking again, Gar's gaze shot back to the living room. He was still yelling at the person on the other end of his phone, but seeing Spike made his face lose some of its tightness. He stomped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and headed to the door. One finger pointed at a clearly-frazzled Spike, then Gar pulled it back to himself and sliced the air at his throat.

A rumble began in Spike's chest as he slammed the door behind the Kailiff. His fists clenched in time with his teeth.

"You have exactly three seconds…"

Puddles whimpered and ran behind the chair. Tara moved closer to Willow so that she became a bit more transparent. Didn't want to get in the middle of this!

Stan fidgeted, his ears drooping more than normal. He started wringing his hands. "Madame Polina phoned…said someone came here for you. Found you. Bubbling with darkness and… Would be the d…" He was scared to even say it.

Spike eyed him and motioned for him to continue. This wasn't nearly enough.

"…the death of you."

"I'm already dead, you git."

Stan looked up at the vampire, his eyes giving away whatever hid in that odd head. "She said she saw it. I had to…"

Spike couldn't really stay angry at him after that. Not with those damn eyes and the hand-wringing and the thick scent of genuine worry. He stepped away from the door and slumped down onto the couch next to Willow. This night was exhausting.

Tara materialized at his proximity, and he pulled her into his lap before she could fall again.

"Hey, what's on you?" the good witch asked. She ran her fingers over his hair and jacket collar, feeling the strange powder on him.

"Careful, pet. The tell-tale sign of doom that the batty bird was spoutin' on about. Found the 'bubbling darkness' at the club in the shape of a voodoo priestess."

Tara and Stan eyed Spike curiously.

"Looks like she caught me with her curse before she escaped."

The witch sniffed at the powder, then flicked some of it into the air.

Stan hid behind his hands. "Hey, don't curse me! I'm pet-sitting!"

Tara shook her head, smiling slightly. "No, no. It's just a simple smokescreen. There's no magic in this." Her hands began brushing the rest off.

That answer didn't do much to settle Spike's nerves, though. "Well, she was in the middle of cursing someone, then. I heard it right as rain. Gotta stop her before she causes someone damage…"

The vampire stopped speaking as soon as his brain caught up. He and Tara looked at Willow and then back at each other.

The longer Willow remained asleep, the harder it was for her to fight the spell. She was succumbing to the magic, for sure. Still, she reasoned, it was better than giving in to the Hellmouth.

She could sense that Tara was close to her, but she was no longer able to hear conversations or tell what could be going on outside her mind.

Willow assumed that, by now, Tara had figured out something was wrong. Perhaps she was already working on a counter spell. And, hopefully, Spike would keep her safe.

"Nope. Nothing," Tara sighed. "That was the last shot I had in my arsenal of tricks."

Spike paced the room, nonplussed. He looked at Puddles, and the dog hid by the leg of the chair again. Stan was on his hands and knees in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess the dog had made of it, and Puddles cowered, not willing to acknowledge the damage done to the rug.

"Get this mutt outta here," Spike spat as Stan got up.

Stan frowned apologetically. "Sorry, Spike. I'll make it up to you. I'll…"

"Yeah, you will. Right now." The vampire glanced over at the sleeping witch. "Bring me the fortune teller."

In the Nest of the Cuckoo Bird by MaireAilbhe

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

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER CREDITS: Lyrics from "Tear It Up" by The Cramps and a recited verse from Song of Songs 6:10.

.

Spike was sitting on the edge of the chair, head in his hands. How did things always manage to get bollixed up surrounding him?

With a sigh, he leaned back, letting his tired skull rest on the tufted material. His toes poked at the now-frayed edge of his rug. Tara was sitting cross-legged on the floor between him and the couch, where Willow was softly snoring. The good witch looked deep in concentration, her lips defaulting to a smear of that trademark crooked smile.

"No need to waste your energy, luv," he said softly so that she wouldn't be too disturbed. "Stan's bringin' some heavy help."

"Oh, I'm not working on Willow," Tara replied telepathically. She kept her eyes closed and did not move. "I'm trying to find Buffy."

Buffy thought she might like England. She knew she didn't want to be apart from Dawn, not after all that happened over the past few years. And with Dawn at school in London, it felt right. Even if it did mean that she had Giles there to remind her (whether he meant to or not) of all she lost in Sunnydale.

For the most part, Giles had been less demanding of her this time around—perhaps he realized how much of a role he played in her brokenness. Or, perhaps he realized that there were now hundreds of slayers, so that Buffy was no longer the Chosen One. But with his changed expectations also came something else. He was holding something back from her; she was sure of it. He shared less of his feelings with her here in England, which she thought strangely backwards. He was back in his homeland, yet he always seemed uncomfortable. Yes, Buffy thought she might like England, getting to experience a place so dear to Giles' (and Spike's, she could not forget) heart. But it just felt like one giant cemetery to her.

So, she sighed when her feet took her in the direction of yet another graveyard. Something tingled inside her this time, though. Like the feeling she got when a vampire was near, only deeper, deep-down in the marrow of her bones.

Tara's concentration (and the extra boost of power the Hellmouth gave her) seemed to be paying off. She had three separate threads of magic reaching out for the Slayer, one on each plane of existence she had access to: the living, the dead, and the ethereal. Since Buffy inhabited all three planes at once, this was ingenius. But Tara had never tried this before, so she could only hope to rein the process in and not get carried away. Something clicked within the good witch, though—something that felt of the primal nature of the First Slayer, and something that felt of Spike in a distant, roundabout way. It all led her to a place that Willow might have been able to map out with a GPS, if she were awake. As the energy swirled inside, the three threads of magic braided themselves and struck out suddenly. Tara's eyes snapped open at that moment, her concentration severed. Wherever the magic went, she was pretty confident it had reached her target; the witch may be humble, but she was also quite accurate. She couldn't help the giggle that slipped out.

Spike caught it, and his countenance slowly warmed.

The Slayer squeezed her way into Highgate Cemetery, feeling the pull so strongly it was almost like one of those destiny things. God, she hated that. It reminded her too much of Angel and all that Powers-That-Be shit. "Destiny" and "fate" were just pretty words for "cowardice" and "laziness," as far as she was concerned. That was one thing Spike believed that she had always agreed with, even back when he was her mortal enemy. But in the dusk her pace quickened, in a strangely familiar direction. She had never been in this section before—had no reason to since no vampires would be rising from any of these old graves—yet she moved deftly between the stones. Something was beckoning her towards an enormous tree. That tingle returned to her bones, and she instinctively pulled out Mr. Pointy. When she arrived at her destination, all she found were two grave stones, meticulously cared-for despite their age and location. So strange, Buffy thought. Who would visit such old relatives so often? The poor souls had died the same year, so long ago. But, what did that have to do with her?

She studied the names for a long moment before it finally hit her. The names...oh God...she hadn't remembered, hadn't thought...

It was then all she could do but clutch at his stone, the dearly-departed William Pratt, beloved son, cherished one, memorialized beside his mother Anne. The loud sobs that forced their way out of her small frame hid the rustling coming from behind the tree.

"You're serious?"

Spike couldn't believe it.

Tara nodded, slowly uncurling herself from the floor and standing up. "I don't know where she's at yet, but I'm sure I found her. No one's got a signature like that." She smiled proudly.

Spike paced the living room again, only this time out of excitement. He glanced back over to the witch, and she smiled at him. His recently-tired body hummed with energy now. Laughing, his fingers switched the record player on.

Tara felt herself being pulled into Spike's arms as the music came blaring out.

"Well, come on little mama let's tear this damn place up!" Spike yelled in time to the song, tugging the witch close to him then spinning her away, hands still connected.

Tear it up up up up up

Tear it up up up up up

Come on little mama let's tear this damn place up...

...Right now!

The two of them danced frantically as the song played, dipping and twisting—the look on the vampire's face mirroring the joy in the witch's laughter.

When the song ended, they fell onto the floor in a jumble of limbs, panting.

Spike pulled Tara to him playfully, holding her close.

"No matter what happens, just promise me one thing, pet."

Tara nodded and smiled gently, her inter-planar mind already sure of what he was going to ask.

"That you won't ever leave me."

"Giles, I'm not 14 anymore," Dawn groaned. "I get it. She just... She's so..."

The Watcher said something that the girl didn't like, then tried to correct himself quickly before too much damage was done.

"How can you...?" Ugh, this guy was unbelievable sometimes. No wonder Buffy never listened to him. "That's just crazy talk. Seriously, she needs help, not a babysitter."

Dawn poured herself a rootbeer float and plopped down on the sofa, leaving a glob of ice cream on the counter to melt into foam.

"Well, you can't right now anyway. She finally left the apartment tonight for some fresh air."

Pizza would go so great with this. Where was the number for delivery?

"Giles, she doesn't even have to tell me. She..." Dawn suddenly felt like she was about to commit the ultimate betrayal. "She calls out for him in her sleep."

Okay, that's not what she expected. God, was this guy even paying attention?

"Not Angel, Giles. Spike."

And again with that sound that had to be him cleaning those stupid glasses.

"Just...could you think of something for her? I know I made a fuss about her not sharing her feelings and all that when mom died and then with the resurrection thing, but... she's a wreck."

Buffy sobbed until there was nothing left inside her. The deep tingling feeling never stopped, but with the passing time she lost real awareness of it, not so much ignoring it as no longer having that boundary between what was "her" and what was "it".

That had to be the reason why she didn't move when the vampire finally revealed herself; why she hadn't noticed; why Mr. Pointy lay beneath her, unreachable.

"Who is this that appears like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, majestic as the stars in procession?" the vampire recited, her voice twittering. She moved her eyes upward, away from The Slayer and to the gently moving leaves. Slowly, a moment of lucidity swept over her. "Daddy had to have you first," she said softly, sadly. "But he didn't understand. He never understands."

Buffy watched her, still, no surprise, not even a shiver. "Are you gonna have your 'Good Day'?"

There was no anger or spite in her words. Just a calm acceptance of the next few moments. She wouldn't put up a fight, not this time.

Drusilla tilted her head to the side gently, looking at the weakened Slayer like a shy child would a strange new toy.

The scent of lavender filled Buffy's sinuses as the vampire approached. Lavender and something hauntingly sweet...

Journey to the Center of a Girl by MaireAilbhe

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

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.

CHAPTER CREDITS: A few lines have been borrowed from the BTVS episodes "Flooded" and "Dead Things"; you'll recognize them when you see them. Also, Drusilla says a line from "Stanzas to a Lady, On Leaving England" by Lord Byron.

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: This one continues the angst, since that's my favorite! I found this one a bit of a challenge to write, so I apologize if you feel any of the characterization isn't what you expected. It's based on my wishful thinking of what the series could have been like. That said, I'd also like to give a major "thank you" to ginar369, to whom this chapter is dedicated!

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"...hyacinth," Spike sighed. "Like lavender and hyacinth, she was. No matter where we went or what we'd done, Dru always smelled like that.

"I thought vamps were supposed to smell like death?" Tara replied.

"Is that what I smell like to you?"

Spike felt her shake her head against his chest.

"No, you smell like..." Her blush seeped through to Spike's skin.

"Go on, then," he urged her, feeling cheeky.

"...Sex."

The vampire laughed then, gratified. Tara followed suit, and they were back to acting like drunks.

The evening had ended on a good note, with both of them tired from dancing and chatting. Poor Willow was missing out on all the festivities, though, so Spike ventured out of Big Bad mode and got creative. While Willow was snoring away on the couch, he and Tara tossed pillows and blankets on the floor beside her. The comfy pile then became a soft nest for movie night...until Spike chose the film.

Perhaps Blue Velvet was a bad idea? Or, perhaps not, as it meant the vampire enjoyed some extra cling time. He really hadn't meant to pick something disturbing, but, hey—vampire here! Evil and all that.

How they got on the topic of Drusilla was anyone's guess, but if that kept Glinda at his side, so be it. He hadn't thought much about his dark princess in quite some time now, really. Running his hand through Tara's soft hair, he tried to imagine where Dru ended up.

It was ironic, really, that they'd both end up here, at William the Bloody's grave. Buffy hadn't paid much attention to that kind of stuff in school, but she noticed it now. A lone tear managed to gather itself in one of her eyes as Drusilla weaved silently towards her. The vampire moved without hindrance but did not strike out at her. She saw the meticulously sharpened nails that had slit Kendra's throat and hoped that would be the weapon of choice with her, too. Her slayer sister had looked so peaceful when Buffy found her in the old library. It hadn't been the kind of honorable death an incredible fighter like Kendra had deserved, but Buffy could suffer it.

Buffy knew Drusilla was an expert at thrall, but the calmness she was feeling wasn't from that. She knew what thrall felt like thanks to stupid Dracula, and this wasn't it. This was...lavender. The overwhelming lavender that scented Drusilla's impeccably white heirloom gown.

The Slayer turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, waiting. She didn't want to see the look of enjoyment or triumph on the vampire's face. Inside, quickly, a prayer fluttered through her mind and then the hope that somehow her soul would find its way to Spike's so that, at least on some plane, they could have the eternity she had denied him.

Moments passed without the shifting sound of a gameface, without the swish of nails through the air.

Maybe I'm already dead? Buffy thought.

"No, my William brought you back to life," Drusilla whispered against the girl's cheek. "I saw it, as I see everything."

Buffy opened her eyes then to find Drusilla crouched over her lap. It had been many years since the Slayer was this close to her, but she hadn't remembered the vampire being so slight. It was like she was weightless, just a waif of a thing. A porcelain doll, with her long black locks and pale white skin. Those big eyes that were, at once, both innocent and frightening. How could something this fragile be so deadly?

"Aren't you going to kill me?" the crumpled Slayer mouthed. The breath wouldn't even move past her lips.

Drusilla reached her hands up to Buffy's face, catching the tear that finally fell from her eye. She tasted it, savored it like stolen honey on her fingertip. A smile blossomed on her blood red lips. "Coo, coo, coo, little pigeon. You'll fly away soon enough. Is that what you want of me, then?"

Buffy's lips trembled. When she saw Drusilla lean in for the kill, she clenched her eyes shut, a final whimper the last sound she made.

"She must have been something, to have stayed with her so long," Tara said dreamily. Would she, herself, have 100+ years with Willow? A century...she couldn't even fathom that.

"My everything, she was." Spike smiled involuntarily at a memory of Drusilla catching fireflies in Highgate Cemetery the year he had gravestones made for himself and his mother. Dru had picked the spot for the false graves, beside her favorite tree. That night he had inspected the stones and their placement, finding his lover dancing around them. She was plucking fireflies out of the air, twirling, as though in the midst of a strange interpretive dance. As she caught one, she'd trap it in a lock of her hair and then move to fetch the next victim. The result was a macabre bouquet of twinkling curls that made her giggle.

Spike conveniently paused that memory right there, before the part where Dru suddenly became aware of the fact that those pretty blinking lights were actually bugs now buzzing to get free.

Still, whether lucid or mad, panicked or calm, hungry or sated—she had always seen him, reached out for him, needed him. She knew him so intimately, read him like an open book. Being with her for over a century must have brought him that gift, because he was able to do that with Buffy effortlessly, despite how much she might protest to the contrary.

Tara picked up on that incredible perception, too. Was it really something Spike had inherited from his sire, or was it within him all along? He was a poet, that she knew whether he wanted her to or not. Being a witch gave her access to much information; being a dead witch gave her access to so much more.

She had been asking him all these questions not only to make conversation and not only out of genuine interest, but also because she hoped it would garner some sort of clue on how to connect more concretely with Buffy. Tara knew she had found her out there somewhere, but without Willow's help she had to come up with a new strategy.

Willow finally stopped drifting. Wherever she now was, it felt eternal but unsafe—the kind of place you visited to pay your respects but didn't dare overstay. In a strange way, it made her feel the way the scythe did when she cast the spell that awoke the slayer in the potentials. There was someone here she couldn't see, someone waiting patiently for her. The room smelled of pencil lead and the fruit drinks Xander always "borrowed" from her at school. Her heart swelled with the sense of unrequited love.

What is this place?

The one hidden in the shadows spoke to Willow then, in a voice that was three voices—all recognizable but singularly unfamiliar: "YOU DARE RETURN TO ME?"

Willow shivered, reaching out to feel her way around, confused. There was a flickering light ahead, the kind that appeared when a film ended and the projector kept running.

"Please, I don't know where I am..."

Myriad laughter echoed in response.

"Please..." She felt her eyes begin to tear.

The laughter ceased as the air thinned. "AS YOU WERE, SO ARE YOU STILL. BLIND, DESPITE ALL YOU HAVE SEEN."

Willow stepped forward, but found herself invisibly blocked from going any further. She tried to think up a spell that would dissolve the barrier and let her pass.

Suddenly, the voice(s) bellowed: "YOU RANK, ARROGANT AMATEUR!"

The words made her cringe with remembrance. "W-what do you..."

"YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE."

She shivered again as she was cast out, slowly drifting back the way she came, realizing belatedly that she was no safer within her own consciousness than on the Hellmouth.

Drusilla knew what she was doing at the moment. She'd had her taste, the salty Pacific of the Slayer's tears. And though this was not what she had once anticipated, Dru's visions never failed her. This Slayer's blood would not reside within her, not like this.

Instead, she leaned in and pressed her cool lips to the frightened Slayer's warm ones and forced a breath within her.

The vampire's hands held the Slayer's face firmly, so that she could not move before the message was passed. This, Drusilla conjured while lucidity allowed her.

. . .

Instead of feeling her life draining, Buffy felt a warmth filling her throat and chest. Bright, like the fire that had consumed Spike in those last moments. Spike! In her mind's eye, this is what she saw: his face, made entirely of sunlight, mouthing the words she never allowed herself to believe—I love you. Was her soul with his now? This didn't feel like heaven, but it couldn't be hell. The sunlight morphed from Spike's face to a view of him holding her that night she was cast from her home. He placed soft kisses along the crown of her head as she slept, never once daring to move, never once daring to let her go. Before her heart could swell, the view switched again—this time to his prone form draped upon the chapel cross, burning inside and out from all he sacrificed to give her what she needed. Pain seeped into her then, and the image transformed to his battered face in the alley near the police station. Him laying there bearing the brunt of her guilt completely, selflessly. Just as she felt a scream rise within her, the image changed again. This time, her eyes finally saw what his did—her, free, alive, in the throes of ecstasy, undulating above and below him, glittering with sweat like a gemstone. The look on her face held no doubt, despite how much she tried to deny it to him. When she had gone all distant back then, she didn't see what he was actually doing. Now, with only that in her view, she saw how he worshiped every inch of her, inside and out. The way he moved in her, the way he saw her, the way he touched her—reverently, when he wasn't trying to counter the violence she threw at him and controlled him with. No, this was him making love to her, in those moments before dawn, while she was too exhausted to hurt him, before she kicked him in the head and ran out, virtue fluttering. And then the way he looked at her—even then, without the soul. It was no different than what he had done all that time later, before their final battle. No different except that she hadn't broken him back then. At that realization, the image morphed to him holding her torn hands the night she was resurrected, and then to the confession in his crypt the following day. She hadn't noticed then the overwhelming pain in his brilliant blue eyes, but she did now. It was the look of a man who didn't know how much more failure he could take. Then the image changed to Spike helping Dawn with her summer-school homework during those lost months, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. There was no soundtrack to these visions, but with the way Spike looked at Dawn's textbook, it appeared he was yelling at it. As she smiled at his child-rearing techniques, the image switched to the suffering he took from Glory on Dawn's behalf. How he never let her down, even when it hadn't benefited him. She was happy that she had been smart enough to give him the kiss he so deserved for that. Buffy knew she wasn't very perceptive, but looking back, that was right. Further back the visions went, to things she hadn't connected, things she hadn't even known about. Times he stepped in and assisted her in fights without making his presence known. Even back to the moments before she sent Angelus to hell—she saw now in her mind's eye how Spike had hesitated for a moment. Her mortal enemy and even then, if but for a few seconds, he had thought to help her beyond their simple truce.

At that moment, Buffy gasped, her eyes opening to see Drusilla's face mere inches from her own. The vampire's eyes were closed, but the smile playing across her lips was wide, satisfied.

"Do you understand now?" Dru's voice echoed in Buffy's head.

The vampire opened her eyes then, releasing Buffy from her hold.

"But...why show me this? You...you don't need to torture me. I'm willing to go."

Drusilla giggled then, lifting Buffy's hands to her lips and kissing each palm once. "Daddy taught us the same lesson, didn't he? Only, he left you the sun and me the moon. Poor Slayer, how is it you do not see?"

Buffy's eyes began to tear. She wished the vampire would just kill her already. She didn't understand what Drusilla was playing at, and she didn't know how to translate crazy.

Dru tried to rein herself in before the madness took over. Even after all this time, it was still so hard. Concentrate.

"Our prince, he walks," the vampire whispered.

Buffy peered at her through glazed eyes. "What?"

The vampire tried again; she was slipping. "He waits to be found by you. Needed by you. Ask the Watcher." She felt the Slayer shudder beneath her.

Gasping for unneeded breath, the vampire arched herself off Buffy's lap and did something of a glissade back towards the tree.

"Yet still he loves, and loves but one," Drusilla sang before she disappeared.

Buffy slumped against the gravestone, forgetting to breathe.

I Only Think Of You by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Buffy/Spike

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

CHAPTER CREDITS: Some lyrics to "In Heaven" from Eraserhead and a reference to that fabulous episode where Buffy reveals where she was before she was resurrected (you'll see how clever I was, just you wait!)

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: I struggled with the Giles section, so I apologize ahead of time if you notice that. I have definite feelings of what was going on in Giles' mind regarding Spike during the series, only it was very hard to translate that to words. Lots more angst in this one, plus my take on what happened in that basement scene during "Chosen". Yay! :D

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"I knew you'd be the death of him. Burned him all up, you did. But he's mummy's shining boy. Both of us..." Drusilla's long nails ran over Anne Pratt's gravestone. She stopped then to look at the Slayer with glittering yellow eyes, the visage of the demon. "Like a phoenix, he comes back for princess. Not for me, but for thee."

Was that anger or hurt that flickered across her face? Buffy wondered this in the second it took the vampire to pounce.

Drusilla's kiss was just as sudden, telling the demon all she needed to know to confirm her visions. "Yes, you love him, you dreadful girl."

...

Buffy's eyes opened painfully to the morning sun. Was that a Slayer dream, or had Drusilla left Buffy a parting gift to remind her why she was not yet dead?

Her body ached the way it did after the intense battle at the Hellmouth, yet she hadn't even landed or taken a punch. Leaning against Spike's gravestone, she was exhausted- mentally, physically, and emotionally. But there was one place left she needed to go.

Giles had been writing a lot lately. His Watcher journal didn't get much use these days, but his personal one—it could probably be considered a new psychological treatise by now. Freud and Lacan had nothing on him. It was true he'd had no idea what being Buffy's Watcher would really put him through, but this latest stage of their relationship was the one he found the worst. It was marked by her loss of trust and confidence in him, his need to keep secrets, and an overwhelming emptiness that pervaded both of their lives.

This latest drama with Angel had filled pages upon pages of his diary and had Giles so torn he could barely sleep. He hated, first and foremost, having any dealings whatsoever with Angel. He hated it back when Buffy loved the vampire, but he was willing to tolerate it for her sake as well as for the potential information such a partnership could glean. Now, having known the evil that this vampire could unleash, he hated it even more. But, still, he did it for Buffy's sake. This thing with Spike—it was built on an unhealthy obsession with the Slayer, then her unhealthy obsession with him. Angel reminded Giles of this at every opportunity, and it merely kept the fires of the Watcher's distrust of Spike well-stoked.

He had been surprised that Spike had actually gone through with his Hellmouth sacrifice. What the vampire had gotten from it at the time, he didn't pretend to know. And Buffy gave him only a one-sentence explanation of what actually happened down there. But when Angel informed him that Spike had returned, Giles was even more surprised to find that the blond pest hadn't come for Buffy. What game was he up to now? It couldn't be that he had honestly changed. That would throw out everything the Watcher ever studied, learned, and believed in. (That's what he reminded himself each and every time Spike violated the unspoken "rules".) No, Giles had to believe that it was another of the vampire's twisted plans, sacrificing himself when Buffy thought she could love him, hiding himself away so as to keep her pining for him forever, making sure she would always be his. To ultimately have his third Slayer.

The Watcher poured himself another Scotch. So many years on, Giles didn't think he would still be losing sleep because of Spike, especially not after having the vampire disappear from their lives for such an extended amount of time. He had been so relieved to hear that Spike had gone down in that final battle. Certainly, he wouldn't show that to a mourning Buffy; he was man enough to know that he ought to respect the fact that she, at least in her mind, had lost someone important. But, ultimately, he found much comfort in the knowledge that the source of Buffy's distraction and unhealthy reliance was now gone. She could move on, as she did when she killed Angel, and perhaps have finally learned the futility of a relationship with the enemy. Giles had looked forward to the day when Buffy would take a suitable suitor, and he could walk her down the aisle to her happy future. Yes, the Watcher's Council was right that he loved Buffy with a father's love. That's why he grit his teeth and listened to Angel when the vampire had told him to keep Spike's return a secret. No good could come of it.

Spike looked at the still-sleeping Willow. "Where is that bloody Empath already?" he growled.

"Well, it is pretty late," Tara offered. She was buried under a blanket, clinging to Spike's side through another movie. First Blue Velvet, now Eraserhead. She hoped he had something different in mind for the next one because she was pretty sure her nightmares would be filled to overflowing from these picks. Was it too far-fetched to hope that he had some good ol' Scooby-Doo cartoons lying around?

"Oh! Here now, it's my favorite bit." Spike pulled her attention back to the screen, resting his face against her hair. The chunky-cheeked lady in the radiator began to sing: "In heaven, everything is fine..."

Over and over, the woman's soft voice sang those words. Tara closed her eyes and thought back, once more with feeling, to Buffy—not noticing the tears that began to well up.

Giles dropped his pen on the desk and rubbed his eyes. Buffy relied on Spike time after time because she felt she could count on him. He didn't leave. No, he bloody well didn't. Not even when he should. Spike was reckless, throwing all caution to the wind. Giles felt a pain in his heart as youthful memories surfaced. That's it, isn't it? That's what this was all about. Giles didn't like Spike because he reminded him too much of his younger self, the brash, risky Ripper. He'd been paying his entire life now for that rebel. So much pain he caused. The deaths of his friends were on his head after that whole Eyghon period, and for Buffy to have seen that side of him... How could he let her get involved with another 'Ripper,' knowing how painfully short her life was already doomed to be. How could he let her be haunted by the vampire's past the way he was haunted by his own? He hissed, feeling his blood pressure rise.

"Oh, give it up already, you ponce," Ripper spat at him in his head. "What else does the bloke have to do to prove to you he's not a wanker?"

"Who are you to talk, mate?" Giles replied aloud, coughing as he downed the rest of his Scotch.

"I'm the one of us who's not blind! You're a useless codger. You leave her 'for her own good' every time she needs you. So, who's left behind for her, eh? HIM, ya berk."

Giles shook his head violently, the alcohol settling uneasily. "No. Don't you blame that on me, you bastard."

Ripper cackled. "Truth hurts, mate. God, look at you. If I'd known I'd turn out like this, I'd have conjured something stronger and gone to Hell with it. I fucking HATE you!"

"Yeah? Well, I hate you too!" Giles yelled in pathetic defense, his voice echoing through his apartment. He gripped his glass tightly, trying to hold himself back from hurling it at the wall.

She didn't know how she made it to his door. She didn't know how she was still standing. She didn't know how she'd last the next few moments. So many thoughts were going through her head that it was like the static on TV when you got the wrong channel.

Giles was yelling at someone. That was the only thing her ears could pick up on. But she had come too far to turn back now.

She knocked on the door weakly for what seemed like minutes. When that did no good, she smacked at the wood with the flat of her hand, leaning her body against the door to keep upright.

...

"Dear Lord!" Giles gasped when he saw her. He had finally ascertained that the odd thwapping sound was coming from outside, but he hadn't expected to find a girl slumped over at his feet.

"Buffy! What happened?"

She moaned softly, reaching out to prop herself up. Giles gathered her in his arms, his heart rate increasing when he discovered how light she felt.

Before she had time to respond, he carried her into his apartment, placing her on the sofa. He scanned her for injuries but found nothing external. It was obvious, though, that she hadn't eaten much since he last saw her. Or slept. Her skin looked painfully delicate, like antique lace. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Dawn had not exaggerated when she said that Buffy was a wreck.

Giles was too busy trying to make sure she wasn't hurt to see that she mouthed "where is he?". But Buffy was no match for her exhaustion and dehydration. She succumbed to some real sleep finally while Giles sat on the floor next to her, keeping a tense vigil with the remainder of his bottle of Scotch.

She saw him then, on that final night in Sunnydale. She had been on the porch, trying to gather her thoughts and push down her fear. From above she could hear the sounds of Willow and Kennedy, Faith and Robin. In the dining room, Giles played a game with the others who couldn't sleep. Spike had respectfully given her space to deal with what would come next. For years she had wanted that from him. But tonight?

When she moved down the steps to the basement, Spike rose from the cot. He had the gaudy amulet in his hands, so she knew what he was doing. Tomorrow was going to be the end of something.

"Slayer?"

He looked at her with those crystal azure eyes, so full of hope and pain all at once.

Buffy said nothing. She locked her eyes with his, making sure he knew she saw him. Really saw him. Her footsteps echoed against the concrete as she approached him.

He stood still, nervous momentarily for what would happen next. A stake? A punch for old time's sake?

Instead, not breaking her gaze, she took the amulet from his shaking hands and tossed it on his duster, which lay in a heap on the floor. He was about to say something when she grasped his arms and leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was incredible. It was the kiss of a person who had nothing left to lose and who meant it as surely as that.

Spike wanted to give into it, but after a few moments he broke away, gasping for air—the irony of their role reversal not lost on him.

"Slayer, what is this?"

Buffy didn't stop to think about what to say, as she usually would. There was no time for that. "This is you and me, right here, right now."

Spike softened a bit, thinking he understood. "All right, Slayer. I can do cold comfort. I won't...expect anything from it." His breath would have hitched if he kept speaking, so he stopped.

She undressed him before she undressed herself. He made no move, simply let her remain in control of the moment. If this was what she needed, he would deny her nothing. As always.

They coupled slowly, wordlessly, for a good hour, the only sound emanating from them being soft gasps and creaks from the old cot.

Finally, Buffy rested her forehead against Spike's. "This isn't cold comfort, Spike. This is... what we should have had."

Spike looked up at her then, his eyes daring to glaze over. "Buffy..."

But she wasn't done yet. "Please... if I don't make it..."

He clutched her arms tight at that, stilling her. "You'll make it." His eyes glowed the angry yellow of the demon then. "You'll make it, even if I have to move Heaven, Earth, and bloody Hell."

At that, he rolled over, pulling her with him so that he was on top. She reached for his face, the face that would be her savior's, and he thrust into her with a passion borne of his burning soul.

Those still awake in the house bit their tongues and said nothing of the moans that rose from the basement during those few final hours before dawn.

The tear that rolled down past her ear and onto the sofa woke her.

Giles watched its trail, already pained from seeing her in such a wasted state. He didn't know how much longer he could take this.

"Where is he?" she rasped, eyes still closed.

"What? I don't..."

She cut him off. "Spike. Where is he?"

Giles sighed, reaching for her. "He's dead, Buffy."

The Slayer did not relent. "I know he's dead." She turned her head towards her Watcher and opened her eyes then. "Where is he?"

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How Far Can Too Far Go? by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: more like un-pairing in this one!

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

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: Aaaaaaand...the shit hits the fan! Enjoy the beginning of chaos! :D (Note: this chapter is a bit dark!)

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"Where is he?"

Giles had been through countless trials in his life, battled demons, withstood Angelus's cruel tortures, and still he remained strong, never gave in. But with a broken and battered Buffy boring into him with desperate eyes, he thought he might finally have met his match.

He reached an unsteady hand out to her, cupping her gaunt cheek. Once it had been so rosy and soft, and he had worried that she would think more of keeping its sweet look than of her sacred duty. Now he wished for those early days.

"Buffy," he said softly, "you saw what happened to him. What makes you think he is...well, somewhere?" Giles tried to sound gentle, unsuspicious.

She didn't react to his touch. Without emotion, she simply replied: "Drusilla."

Willow was starting to sense where she was again, as well as voices. She couldn't feel anything yet, so she just assumed she was still on the bed. But she could tell Spike and Tara were near. She kept hearing Drusilla's name mentioned but not enough of the conversation to know what about. So, she concentrated as hard as she could, through her self-imposed sleepiness.

They were still trying to find a way to wake her up. She was relieved about that. Spike was complaining about someone who was supposed to have arrived to help. Tara was suggesting... Dru? That didn't even make sense. No no no no no. Somehow, Willow had to shake herself out of this, and fast.

"I'm not sure that's wise, pet."

"But, if she's as skilled at magic as you described her, then maybe she can figure out a counter spell?" Tara would take any solution at this point. "Hey, maybe you could, like, hold Willow's eyelids open a little and Dru could work her thrall and convince her to wake up?"

Spike looked at the gentle witch and sighed. He was such a pushover. What was it about women that made his sense of reason and self-preservation fly straight out the window?

"Right. Next problem is that I've no idea where she could be."

Tara frowned at that. Doing a locator spell for Drusilla wouldn't be as accurate as the others she had done. This would take time. More time than she thought she could bear.

Dawn didn't actually start panicking until she saw Buffy's cell phone placed neatly on the kitchen counter, in plain view as though to make a clear point: she hadn't expected to return.

She tried to think back to earlier yesterday evening, hoping to find a clue to Buffy's current whereabouts. Dawn remembered the typical sibling argument, then the pouting after the mention of something that reminded one or the both of them of Spike, then the normal goodbye while she was locked in her bedroom on the phone with her new boyfriend before she fell asleep, and then waking up at noon with no sign that Buffy had ever returned. All the things Dawn knew her sister always carried with her on patrol were prominently left in the apartment to be found, resting in order on the counter the way Buffy always put them right before she packed them on her person for each patrol.

Her first thought after discovering this little tableau was to call Giles. Only, his phone had been busy. She tried and tried and kept getting a busy signal. Plan B was to go out and search for her sister. Every cemetery she could think of, she visited. When she got to Highgate, she found her only clue: Mr. Pointy.

It was resting on an old grave, in an area of the cemetery even Dawn knew would have no use for a Slayer. How it got there could only be the stuff of nightmares. In full-blown terror, Dawn ran as fast as her feet could take her to Giles' flat.

"Drusilla?"

Giles looked at Buffy like she must be delusional. Whether that was because she allowed Dru enough time to talk to her or she believed Dru, Buffy didn't know. But that look was serving only to fuel her rising anger.

"Where did you see Drusilla?"

Buffy propped herself up. "It doesn't matter. What matters is what she told me."

"And that was?" Giles shifted on the floor to restore the physical distance between them now that Buffy had moved.

"That he was back." She looked at him now, her eyes cold and sharp. "And that you knew."

Giles blinked at her, the pause before speaking giving him away. "Buffy, Drusilla would say anything to trap you. She knows just what to do to cause you to stumble. We've been over her past in the Watcher diaries..."

Buffy's head shook. "No. She had her chance, and she didn't take it."

"What are you saying?" The alcohol was no longer numbing him. He could feel the fear trying to break through.

The Slayer sat up. "I'm saying that I offered her the blood of a Slayer and she declined because she saw the truth."

Giles didn't know whether to cry or be sick. How many levels could he possibly fail this girl for this situation to be happening right now? So he did the only thing his body consistently remembered to do. He removed his glasses and moved to clean them.

But Buffy had anticipated this. Angrily, her hand shot out and snatched the offending object.

The force of her movement shocked Giles and sent him reeling back onto the floor.

"Don't you dare do this to me!" she growled, her grip tightening enough that he could hear the glass crackling.

Suddenly the apartment door burst open.

In a flurry of long hair and limbs, Dawn rushed in, panting. "Giles! Giles! I can't find... Buffy!"

Upon seeing her sister, she moved to embrace her but stopped when she took in the scene.

Giles was on the floor looking as though he was preparing to be hit. Buffy was standing facing him, blood dripping down her hand from what appeared to be Giles's shattered glasses. "What...what's going on?"

"That's what I was just about to find out, Dawnie." Buffy's words were spoken the same charged way she used to talk to Spike back when he was trying to kill her.

She released the broken glasses and let them fall to the floor, ruined. When Giles went to retrieve them, she stomped her foot down, keeping them there.

"Where. Is. He?"

"Buffy, please..."

"God help me, Giles. If you don't tell me where Spike is..."

Dawn gasped. "Spike?"

"I... I don't know," Giles replied, softly, broken.

Buffy gave an anguished laugh. "Of course. And, let me guess: you were only protecting me. Doing what's best for me. Welcome to Sunnydale!"

The tension was rising in the room, but Dawn didn't budge. Her mouth was wide in shock as the realization of what was being said sunk in. Spike was alive. And Giles didn't tell them. An inaudible scream echoed through her skull.

Giles shook his head. "No, you don't understand. My duty, as a Watcher..."

The growl that escaped from Buffy's small frame stilled the room.

"What about your duty as a human being? As someone who claims to love me?"

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"You and Angel, Willow and Xander... I'm not a person to any of you, am I?"

Giles turned his head away, but Buffy thrust her hand out to stop him.

"You're going to tell me everything. And you're going to tell me now." She did not release her firm grip on his jaw. "The very least you owe me is the truth."

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Changing the Rain by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Buffy/Spike, Dawn & Spike

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

CHAPTER CREDITS: A line from the Buffy episode "School Hard"

AUTHOR'S CHAPTER NOTES: I realize I took some liberties with the Angel episode "The Girl in Question" in this chapter, but please keep in mind that what Giles is relaying is what HE 'knows' from Andrew...so that explains the discrepancies between what was actually going on and what is being portrayed in my story. And, again, I apologize for any hiccups felt in the Giles section; I continued to have difficulties expressing him the way I wanted.

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It's just more bullshit, Buffy thought.

Giles was finally spilling his guts and telling her what he knew about Spike's return. She was not surprised to find out that it would have something to do with that awful amulet. Was she supposed to be happy now that he had worn it instead of Angel? She was torn over that, as there was no telling if things would have been worse. Would Angel have insisted on staying to close the Hellmouth as Spike did? Spike was nothing if not persistent, stubborn; Angel himself warned her all those years ago that "once he starts something he doesn't stop until everything in his path is dead". Spike sure followed through on that in Sunnydale. She'd have never guessed back in high school when Angel told her about Spike that he, not Angel, would be the one who saved them all.

"I sent Andrew to L.A. to bring back a disturbed slayer. When he returned, that's when I found out that Spike was back."

"But, why didn't he come for us?" Dawn cried. "For Buffy?" She was still standing behind the couch, on the periphery, shaking.

Giles wouldn't look at her as he thought up an appropriate response.

"He tried, didn't he?" Buffy asked the Watcher, feeling her blood pressure rise again.

"I..." Giles began, thinking. "After the spell Willow did in Sunnydale, I knew I had to keep you..." He looked up at Buffy then. "...the Slayer... protected."

Hearing that line, Buffy glared at him. "And?"

"He and Angel went to Rome to find you."

"Rome? But I've never even been to Italy!"

"I know. Andrew's apartment became your home. You were living in Rome and with the Immortal. That way, no one would dare attack you." Buffy was not supposed to know of this plan, but being forced to reveal it to her now didn't make it any less brilliant. He had successfully kept all sorts of nasties from catching up with her because of this.

Buffy's mouth had gone from a thin line to a gaping wound. "You...? You!"

Dawn didn't know what this all meant, but judging from Buffy's reaction, this was not a helpful move.

"Who is this Immortal person that I'm supposedly with?" Oh, she was pissed. Here the guy she wanted to be with was searching for her and she's being portrayed as some cheap whore who moved on with barely a few months past his incredible sacrifice.

Giles felt a bit of embarrassment at this part of his plan, but he wanted to make her imaginary life in Rome as realistic as possible for the demons who might be after her, thinking she was weakened from Willow's spell. It wasn't a secret to the demon world that Buffy had a penchant for vampires; her relationships with Angel and Spike were what forced him to have to come up with this part of the plan. Hooking up with the Immortal was the next best thing to the Master, who everyone knew was destroyed, or Dracula, who everyone knew was otherwise occupied. "He's an old and powerful master vampire. Feared and revered by all."

Buffy looked like she might be sick.

"I... You have to believe that I tried, Buffy. I tried the best I could to keep you safe, alive."

Dawn began to cry now, the extent of loss finally hitting her. This elaborate lie kept their lives in purgatory.

Tears threatened to spill from Buffy's eyes as well, but she grit her teeth, forcing them back for now. "So, explain to me how you don't know where Spike is."

Again, with reluctance, Giles told her about the battle in L. A. He, himself, had few details on what actually happened other than Angel had survived and Spike was assumed to have also made it. But no one had heard anything from the younger vampire. He wasn't in Los Angeles anymore, but that left the rest of the world.

The betrayal Buffy felt upon hearing the full tale was too much. When she found that her thoughts had turned to physically harming her Watcher, she knew it was time to leave. Dawn was still crying behind her, and Buffy didn't know how quickly that sound would push her into the 'no return' zone.

"If it's too late, Giles... If I've lost him again..." She had to take a breath to steady her voice. "You'd better channel Ripper, because I promise you... nothing less will save you from me."

She left him with that thought and the cruel sound of her anguished voice repeating those words over and over. He clutched his broken glasses and didn't move from the floor, shedding the first tears he'd had since the deaths of Jenny and Joyce.

"I... uh... I think it might be too late," Stan's voice crackled over Spike's phone.

This, of course, was not the answer Spike wanted to hear. "And why is that, mate?" He barely held back the irritation in his words.

Tara trembled next to him as he held the phone in such a way that she was able to hear everything being said. This couldn't be good.

"Well, she's..." There was a muffled whining from Puddles in the background. "Hold on."

At that, the connection ended.

Spike and Tara looked at the phone and then at each other.

A few moments later, his cell phone beeped as a text came through. Spike opened it to find a fuzzy photo of Madame Polina. She was sitting upright on her velvet loveseat but staring straight ahead at nothing, her eyes grey and dead.

"What does that mean?" Tara whispered, clearly frightened. The zombified look on this woman's face horrified her. And, not only that—this was their final hope for Willow.

Spike rubbed at his temple as the phone rang again.

"So...umm... I... what do I do?" Stan asked, flustered and uncomfortable. Puddles was still whimpering.

"Don't move," Spike sighed. "I'm on my way."

"Do you think he's moved on?" Buffy asked her sister meekly.

They were huddled together on Buffy's bed, having cried themselves into exhaustion after the painful discovery at Giles's apartment. Each of the Summers women were being tortured by the full range of emotion over the news of Spike's existence—guilt, despair, anger, betrayal, loss and also longing, joy, hope, and love. It was a sensory overload, and they didn't know what to do to absorb it all other than clutch each other and cry shared tears.

"Buffy, he never moved on from you before, not even when you were dead," Dawn replied, wiping her knuckles against her eyes. That summer, so long ago, would always remain a clear memory. If she had ever doubted Spike's love for Buffy, that summer proved her wrong.

"But, the Immortal? God, what he must have thought!"

The exasperation in Buffy's voice was choked a little by the duskiness from having spent the day either yelling or sobbing. Could Giles have found any worse a way to make Spike suffer? She had never admitted to him that she used Spike for so long, toyed with emotions that she knew, despite her protests, were true. The only one she shared that info with was Tara, and Tara would betray no one. When Spike had left Sunnydale after the whole bathroom incident, Buffy woke up to what she had been doing. The thought of him never returning made her promise herself that she would change. She had taken him for granted in so many ways, drove him to prove to her that he was, in fact, a demon—because she couldn't accept that he could feel for her the way he did without a soul. (Because, look at how Angel was without a soul! Oh, what a fool she was.)

But when Spike did return, it was more difficult than she ever thought it would be. The knowledge that he had gone off to face impossible feats in order to change himself, yet again, for her made her scared. No one had ever risked everything, really risked everything, for her love. How do you handle that sort of offering? She approached it so tentatively, not realizing just how little time they had left. After he closed the Hellmouth, she made herself another one of those wishful promises—that if only he'd return, she'd be everything he ever wanted and needed. She wouldn't let him go again. Only, now that he had returned, Giles made the decision for her. Giles and... Angel. Even with a soul, Angel was manipulative and torturous.

"Ow," Dawn squeaked.

Buffy opened her eyes and realized that she was clutching Dawn's arms far too tightly.

"I'm mad too," the younger sister said in empathy. "He... he never knew that I forgave him. That I still loved him." She stopped for a moment, looking into Buffy's eyes through tears. "Maybe... maybe if he knew that, he'd have fought to get us back." Dawn tucked her head under Buffy's, hoping not to cry again.

Buffy gathered her sister close, feeling a sense of kinship she hadn't before, despite their struggles. Dawn was too "new" to Buffy when their mother died for her to share her grief. But with Spike, the relationship between all of them was relatively equal, the connections made on similar levels.

"Then, maybe we need to go fight to get him back?"

Dawn looked up at Buffy, hopeful. Her trembling eyes said 'really? You mean me helping, too?'

The frown that had been on Buffy's face these past months slowly morphed to a slim smile—or as close as she could get to one.

When I Was Dead by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 21: When I Was Dead

CHAPTER PAIRING: Tara & Spike, Buffy/Spike, Drusilla/Spike, Giles/Joyce

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: AU after AtS.

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

CHAPTER NOTES: For those of you outside of the USA, Spike's reference towards the end of the chapter is to a pizza chain called Papa John's. I've also thrown a little Haitian creole in this chapter for your linguistic enjoyment. Let the drama continue!

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No matter what he did, she didn't react. This was slowly becoming a recurring theme with him.

Stan watched Spike as he tried everything he could to get Madame Polina to move. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly... but at least she had a pulse.

"I think she's a zombie," the Empath pronounced sadly.

Spike growled. "She's not a fucking zombie," he retorted. Whatever the hell she was, he'd been bored of it already. "Oi!" he yelled as he slapped her face.

"Actually, she just might be." Tara materialized at Spike's side unexpectedly.

"Eh?" the demons muttered in unison.

"This looks like voodoo." She pointed towards the foyer.

At that, Puddles ran out of the room, following her finger like he was scolded.

Stan's gaze went to his four-legged ward, but Spike turned to the witch.

"Thought I left you with Red?" His voice wasn't angry, but it definitely was tinged with something. Worry, maybe?

Tara bit her lip and slumped slightly. "I figured maybe I'd be more useful here with you."

The vampire softened then. They hadn't been able to rouse Willow so far, despite all that they tried; surely a few hours away wasn't going to make much difference.

A moment or two later, Puddles came bounding back in, something feathery in his mouth.

"What'cha got there, boy?" Stan asked him, crouching down as if to play.

Spike didn't have time for this. He shook Madame Polina again.

"Oh Goddess, don't touch!" Tara cried out. Everyone dropped what they were doing. Spike's face looked guilty while Stan's showed fear.

Tara pointed to Puddles. "The talisman! Don't touch it!"

"But... I already did! Oh no, Puddles! He's cursed too!" Stan clutched the poor dog, and the two of them both howled in anguish.

"Bloody hell! Will you wankers knock it off?" Spike held his head. Even the damn Scoobies weren't this bad.

"You're not cursed. She is." Tara pointed to Madame Polina. "Just leave the talisman alone so we don't contaminate the magic. Otherwise it will be harder to reverse the spell."

"This is ridiculous," Spike muttered to himself as he reached for his cell phone. He growled again while the call went through.

He could have been sitting there for a day or a week; he didn't know. The ringing phone broke the dead stillness that had consumed him. It rang and rang and rang as he reestablished where he was. His living room, crushed glasses in his hand. The darkness around him said that, whenever it was, it was night. He slowly reached out towards the sound.

"Did I wake you already?" Angel asked, his voice eager.

Giles said nothing, barely holding onto the phone.

"I can leave any time now. Don't have Wolfram & Hart's jet anymore, though, so it might take a little while to plot out the course. But, she won't have to wait long."

The Watcher was shaking enough that he nearly dropped the receiver. "I'm out," he whispered, his voice foreign and barely audible from disuse.

"You didn't tell her I was coming, did you?" Angel continued, either not having heard Giles or not caring. "I really want it to be a surprise. A gift."

The excitement and anticipation in Angel's voice was just too much. Giles clutched at his stomach as he gripped the phone. "I'm out," he rasped again before slamming the receiver down.

Before he slumped back to the floor, he ripped the phone cord out of the wall.

The excitement and anticipation in Dawn's voice was just too much. Even she, herself, knew it was bordering on insane.

Buffy was sitting on the floor of her bedroom sharing the small treasures of Spike's wooden chest with her. It had been hidden as a secret for so long, but after last night Dawn felt her sister soften towards her, and Buffy thought it only fair that Dawn get to see these pieces of Spike's unlife as well. Dawn could barely contain herself. Buffy wanted her to help find Spike. To remember and celebrate with her.

Dawn squealed as she held a photo of the vampire from sometime in the 1960's. He looked really Mod, like he was about to zip away on a scooter. Dru was pinned next to him with shampoo-commercial-perfect straight hair and a mini dress that rivaled anything Twiggy ever modeled.

This journey through history was a rare opportunity the sisters both cherished that evening. Aside from a pair of her lace panties and a grainy security camera image of Spike and Drusilla having really gory sex in what must have been an old prison, Buffy shared each item with Dawn, telling her anything she might have known of the mementos.

"But, how do you even have this here?" Dawn asked. "I mean, Sunnydale is a freakin' crater!"

Buffy thought back to that last morning in Sunnydale. She knew one of them wasn't going to make it. Call it part of that Slayer vision, but the knowledge was there. So, she packed the box in her duffel bag with the few other sentimental items that would define her should either she or he be the one who died. If it were to be her time, then Spike would discover that she had saved his precious memories for him. And if it was his time, well... here we were.

"I knew you loved him. Even if you wouldn't admit it, I knew it." Dawn held up a dainty lace collar that must have been Drusilla's, inspecting it.

Buffy hadn't been so sure. There was something between them, definitely. But all those months they had sex—that love seemed one-sided; she was so numb that the love permeating from their coupling had to really be Spike's. And even that last year, after she found out about the soul... True, she no longer hated him. She liked him quite a bit then, despite what she said to anyone else. But love? Until Spike's sacrifice, she hadn't let herself see and feel the extent of their actual relationship. It struck her then that he denied her at that last moment so that she would get out to safety. He knew all along that she'd grown to love him, just as he told her. But she compared and defined love to her feelings for Angel. So, no wonder everything she had since His Holiness had failed. Who could live up to that distorted fantasy? What she had with Spike was real. Real, grown-up, fucked-up, like relationships actually are. It had been at that point of realization, once they had driven far from the destroyed town that was once known as Sunnydale, that Buffy understood just what she lost and just how she felt about Spike. The pain of loss she experienced later, after the Scoobies split up and went their own ways to live "normal" lives, was something no one but Dawn understood.

"Ooh! Look at this one!" Dawn had put down the old choker and held the photo of Dru in the opium den. It was one of Buffy's favorites, too. "I know she's like super scary crazy, but, God, she's really gorgeous."

Buffy leaned in, and they both followed the scene. Dru was cushioned by dark pillows. She laid across them like a sleepy cat, stretching. A thin scarf or shawl was draped over one hip and pooled between her legs. Otherwise, she was nude. Her bare skin was flawless. It appeared as though her hair had been put up to hide its length—the photo seemed to be from the 20's, after all—but after whatever (likely naughty) things she had been up to, locks splayed out against the pillows and her shoulders.

"No wonder he stayed with her that long."

"Yeah. Plus, that look on her face. It's like she's got him in her thrall," Buffy added.

Dawn giggled. "You don't need thrall when you're that gorgeous. I mean, he fell for you, didn't he?"

Buffy blushed and hugged her sister close.

He was out there somewhere, and they were going to find him.

Giles eventually picked himself up, opening his back door and leaning against the frame. The cool air of near-dawn drifted in from the garden. She was out there somewhere, and he prayed that she would one day forgive him. He closed his eyes to wipe away the rising tears. What he saw in his mind's eye before him, approaching from the shadows, was a vision of the Slayer's mother, Joyce. Sweet, strong Joyce whose love he tasted once and silently longed for ever since. He was exhausted, but he'd stand there all night dreaming of her if he could.

"Rupert, you'll catch cold like that," she scolded gently as she reached the light that filtered out from his apartment.

Hearing an actual voice, he opened his eyes then. Without his glasses, he couldn't see details. But he definitely recognized her figure and her scent. This had to be a dream; it was too real to be, well... real.

So, don't let it go, old man!

"Please forgive me," he pleaded with her. How disappointed she must be in him. She surely trusted him to watch over Buffy, and look what a royal mess he'd made of that.

Joyce reached for him. He saw her up close then and caught the smile that rarely came out around him. "Buffy's a stubborn girl. Like mother, like daughter."

He held her hand then, chilled from being out in the dewy cold. "Come in for a spot of tea?"

She shivered, confirming her need for a warm drink. "You've always been such a gentleman. I've missed you," Joyce replied as she stepped over the threshold.

The shriveled old man who was ushered into Madame Polina's foyer looked like a zombie himself. Gar could clean his teeth with the man's limbs, and by the look being shot Spike's way, maybe he would before the night's end.

Stan and Puddles were still huddled together on the floor, tired from panicking. Tara was perusing Madame Polina's vast inventory of ingredients, marveling at the knowledge the woman must have. Spike, on the other hand, had gone through a pack of cigarettes and almost all of his patience. He needed to get back to finding Buffy. All this curse garbage was wearing his nerves thin.

"Right, then. Who's the corpse?" the vampire spat. Tara's gaze turned to them.

"Papa Jean," Gar replied, shoving the man towards Spike.

Spike coughed out the drag he just took. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Gar frowned. "Look, he's the best there is."

"Sekonsa, vanpir!" the old man croaked in agreement.

"Yeah, well... if he charges me a delivery fee, I'll be paying it with the spikes on your ugly face." Spike got up then and pointed to the talisman on the floor. "You know what that is?"

Papa Jean nodded. "Wi, ouangas, sa. Been cursed." He peered down at it, then glanced slowly over to Madame Polina. "Yon boko." The vampire's thoughts clouded his for a moment, so he replied to them: "Pa gen, not what you think. Ayiti, not like La Nouvelle-Orléans. Sa majik not from mambo. Boko a sorcerer, not priest."

Tara studied Papa Jean's aura, intrigued.

"What the fuck is he trying to say?"

Gar grumbled. "It's Haitian voodoo, not that shit you know from New Orleans. He says the magic here was done by a bokor, not a priestess. Evil payback stuff."

Spike took another drag from his cigarette, eying the man.

"He's the leader of the Haitians here. Oldest I know." Gar turned to Papa Jean then. "Ki laj ou?"

Papa Jean smiled through parched lips. "Old as him, maybe," he replied as he nodded to Spike.

"Oh, stuff it. You wanna live to be as old as me, mate? Then you'd better get to work."

Tara was so excited to see what this priest could do that she hadn't even noticed the telepathic stirring back at Spike's apartment telling her that Willow's eyes were fluttering open.

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The Masks, They Slide by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 22: The Masks, They Slide

CHAPTER RATING: T/M (for some sexy time, much of which is not entirely consensual)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Tara & Spike, Giles/Joyce, ?/? (you'll just have to read to see!)

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: References to the BtVS episodes "Band Candy" and "Flooded"

CHAPTER NOTES: I enjoyed writing this chapter. Perhaps a little TOO much. Heh.

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This dream must have been the longest one Giles had ever had. He and Joyce had been talking (and flirting, he had to admit) for hours now. Sometime after she came inside, the sun had risen so brilliantly that his awful hangover forced him to close the draperies. His theme tonight had been profuse apologizing—since Buffy was no where to receive it—but Joyce was having none of it. Whatever he had done, she brushed off as though no apology (to her, at least) was necessary. Instead she allowed him to confess and share with that gentle warmth he remembered. She listened, and seemed to only have eyes for him. How his conscience managed to allow him this shred of happiness, he didn't know. But he intended on taking advantage of it for as long as possible. Who knew when he'd have a reprieve from his guilt again?

Their mutual flirting and need increased as the day went on. By the afternoon, they were secreted away in Giles' bed, a trail of clothes leading down to the cooling teapot. Without his glasses, Giles found himself needing to be closer and closer to Joyce, wanting to see that glittering in her eyes he always cherished. Her soft gasps and moans made him feel virile and alive again, just like that never-spoken-of night when they relived their teen years together. But this time, instead of rutting away like horny teenagers, they savored the moment, making love until they both had each others' bodies memorized. Joyce had the softness of a mother, but underneath that was the playful young woman that he imagined she once was. He wanted to please both, for as long as he could.

If Giles had been exhausted before Joyce visited, he was dead to the world now. He basked in the afterglow as he fell to her side, stretching out the kink in his back and closing his eyes happily. Beside him, Joyce let out a giggle.

That's another first, Giles thought. He wished he could have had more time all those years ago to experience each of these delightful sides of Joyce. She stirred a bit, settling into his sheets. Smiling, satisfied, he reached out to stroke her. But the firm breast he caressed was not Joyce's.

"Dear God!"

She tsk-tsk-tsked as she straddled him then, pinning his wrists on the mattress above his head. "Naughty boy can't even remember his lady's name! It's Drusilla, luv."

His heart raced, and he felt her demon respond to it. As fast as his eyes searched for his bedside stake, she tore one of her hands from him to hurl it away.

So, this was his payback, eh? He'd have laughed at the awful joke if he weren't so scared.

The vampire giggled again, back to gripping his wrists tight. "No, no," she replied to the Watcher's thoughts, brushing her breasts against his frightened face. She wasn't here to kill him.

He trembled beneath her.

The delicious fear caused her demon visage to come forth. "Well, maybe just a taste..."

Willow had been slowly regaining consciousness over the past couple of hours. The first thing she noticed was that it was now morning. How nice to see some daylight after being in the dark of sleep for so long! The second thing she noticed was that the apartment was empty. How was it daytime and Spike not be here? What was going on?

Suddenly, Spike's door burst open. Standing there, hulking in his figure, was a demon of the sort she had hoped she'd never see again after Sunnydale. A M'Fashnik. Visions of Buffy's flooded basement hit her.

...

Upon seeing the girl bundled on the sofa, Ryk stopped. He was planning to tear through Spike's place to get back the money the vampire stole from him on their last poker night, but this was too delicious of a diversion.

Looks like the bastard was saving himself a little treat for later, he thought, eying Willow. Just because I ate already doesn't mean I can't have a little taste...

The motley bunch looked on as Papa Jean did his thing. There was some chanting, then a sprinkling of powders that Stan could see would clearly ruin the carpet, and then more chanting.

Spike played with his lighter, a nervous tic. That is, until the old man started a low singing, at which point the vampire lit up another cigarette and inhaled strongly.

The vibrations coming from Papa Jean were deceptive in their strength. He held his bony arms high, the crepey skin humming as his voice lowered. Each being in the room, demon and otherwise, felt it rattle to the core.

So rapt was their attention on the old priest that none saw Tara flicker away.

Drusilla had her taste and a little more. The Watcher was now asleep beneath her, his breath shallow but his heart pumping steadily. He wouldn't give up. That's why Angelus couldn't stand him. But Dru, she always liked this one. Not only did he seem unbreakable, but he was spicy with magic. Whether from his kisses or his blood, she had enjoyed his taste from the first time she had him, all those years back. He wasn't like the other Watchers, and she should know—Watchers were her thing. Angelus had his virgins, as he was in it for the power. Spike had his Slayers, because for him it was all about the fight. And Dru had the poets and the Watchers (who were often one in the same), because she needed something to reach the deeper levels of her, something that found her past the madness that Angelus had created. They were her connection between heart and mind, what made her whole again. Their blood spoke of knowledge and prophecy, structure and piety; it was the closest she could get to God now.

Giles may have been able to hide his Ripper days from the children, but not from her. Dru uncovered that delightful secret as soon as Spike had sought out this new Slayer. Although Dru's injuries in Prague led them to the Sunnydale Hellmouth, it was her visions that led them to the Slayer and her Watcher. She knew Spike would be obsessed with the Slayer; she didn't need her special sight for that. That was his way. But her visions told her this time would be different. Not only would this Slayer prove to be her gallant prince's undoing, but this Watcher was not what he seemed. Beneath his unassuming exterior was a smoldering darkness that called to her. While Spike danced with the Slayer, Ripper was hers.

Remembering this caused Dru to lap at the prone Watcher's neck, moving down to his chest. Her lips sucked at the skin above his heart, slowly waking him. As his pulse increased from awareness of the situation, Dru slid her fangs in. Her gentle undulating against him hid the quick sharpness of that moment, enough that he merely gasped. After that, there was no pain. In fact, the rhythmic draw of his blood made his head swim. But instead of feeling as though he was being drained, he felt a flush of warmth, of desire.

Oh God, is this what Riley felt? His rational mind tried to make sense of what was happening. Giles felt incredible, needed for the first time in years. Now he knew why Riley fled to those vampire whores. He didn't want to acknowledge it, but the bite marks on Buffy's neck made him understand, too, why even the Slayer would want to continue with a vamp lovelife.

The more Dru suckled on him, the harder he got. He wouldn't voice this. No, he didn't even want this, but Sweet Lord...

Drusilla knew what she was doing. Hell, she'd done it for, what, 150 years? Without breaking her lips from the wound, she wriggled down his length, listening to him moan. Sometimes she liked that sound even more than the screams. And, now, she had this powerful man exactly where she wanted him.

'Ere the Flowers Unfold by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 23: 'Ere the Flowers Unfold

CHAPTER RATING: T/M (Sex & Violence! Sex & Violence!)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Willow/Tara, Spike/Buffy, Giles/Drusilla

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: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: This chapter features my thoughts on the whole 'champion' thing that ran through both BtVS and AtS. I had Dru tell it, so hopefully it isn't too convoluted. Some serious action is brewing, and I wanted to give you a bit of a lead-up before it all blows sky-high. Things are going to get dark again in the coming chapters. I dedicate this chapter to cavemenftw!

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"Okay, so where should we start?" Dawn asked, braiding Buffy's hair.

"L.A."

Dawn squinched her face up, even though her sister couldn't see. "I don't wanna go back to California."

Buffy understood, definitely. "I know, but it's the last place he was seen. Someone's got to know something."

By someone, Dawn knew exactly who her sister meant. Angel. "Couldn't you just answer your phone instead? I mean, it's not like he's not reaching out."

The older sister began to shake her head until the tug on her hair reminded her that Dawn hadn't finished. "No, I want him to say it in person. That way I can be sure that he tells me. And I can see if he's lying."

Drusilla's visions didn't lie. Perhaps she did, but what she saw...that was something so incredible even the Watcher's Council had documented it whenever they could. Perhaps unwittingly, she had helped quite a few Slayers with her premonitions, allowing them to prepare for near-apocalypses or even her and Spike's own bloodshed. Giles wondered if the Council had some secret plan to utilize Drusilla and that was why she had survived for so long.

Or, he could be completely wrong and simply under her thrall. Which, considering the past 24+ hours spent in bed with her, could be true. Especially since his desire to stake her had completely dissipated.

"Oh, you 'staked' her all right," Ripper snickered. "Nice staying power, old man."

Giles pushed the voice back and heard Dru again. She was rocking him gently in her arms, telling him the most unbelievable story. When she first began, he thought she was talking to an imaginary Miss Edith, but then he slowly realized that the visions she was describing were from a prophecy that was even more archaic than the Shanshu. It was something he had discovered back in those early years in Sunnydale, when Mr. Flutie was still principal at the high school. The wording of the prophecy was so strange that all the scholars he consulted not only gave him different translations but also discounted it as poetry. But there was something about this one that made him continue his research. Granted, he hadn't been able to fully break the code (which is what he was convinced the odd wording had been), but, still, he kept it in the back of his mind for when he had a free moment.

The scroll itself was lost in the destruction of the high school, so Giles was completely in awe that Drusilla even knew it existed let alone was able to fill in details. She couldn't have been simply reading his mind, because he hadn't figured out any of these things. She knew, and from what she was describing, she knew well before Giles had even located the scroll, well before she and Spike had even come to Sunnydale.

He listened intently now, not even noticing her thin fingers caressing his cheek or the supple breast that his face was pressed against. She described the roles of both Spike and the Slayer in this prophecy, and he could clearly hear the pang of loss in her voice as she did so.

"We can try to keep them apart, but it's fated," she lamented softly, petting him like a small animal.

He learned that Drusilla kept cheating on Spike in order to push him away to this destiny. But she didn't want to give him up, and so she slipped a few times by returning to Sunnydale. When Spike earned his soul back, she knew that she had lost him forever.

"My dark prince, my sweet William," Dru cried, still clutching the Watcher.

Giles rested his hand on her stomach then, a strange tinge of compassion spreading through him. He felt guilty for betraying his fellow Watchers with this display, but he couldn't help it now. He had pitied her back when he heard the story of her turning, but she was a demon and what was done was done. But now, after all this, after everything, he was finally understanding that there was more to it. These three vampires—Angel, Drusilla, and Spike—were showing him that the person didn't abandon the body to the demon. No, the demon just overpowered the person. And, in their cases, only sometimes.

Motorists driving along the Detroit-Shoreway area would have seen a strange black blur rush past them and assumed it was from someone's exhaust.

They would not have known it was demon-powered Spike rushing back to his apartment. Tara had sent him a telepathic S.O.S. when she had transported herself back to Willow's side. The sound of her voice echoing in his head told him that there was no time to spare.

...

Willow's eyes had been flickering black as the M'Fashnik approached her, and she pleaded with Tara for help. She was afraid that if she let loose even one protection spell here on the Hellmouth, she'd never stop. And it wasn't helping in the least that this demon made her think of Warren. Tara hovered around her girlfriend but was effectively useless.

Please hurry!

Ryk moved closer to the prone witch, noticing that she was somehow weakened—no doubt from Spike's sampling, he was sure. His sharp teeth glittered in the room's light.

A squeal erupted from Willow when he yanked her off the sofa and into his rough grip. Her feet dangled in mid-air as he sniffed at her. She smelled sickly-sweet, almost too sweet for his tastes, really...but he was already here, so why fuss over it?

Tara panicked on four different planes, trying to work some sort of spell. She couldn't even penetrate his mind. Helpless, again.

The demon brought his face to Willow's throat, lapping at the tears that had collected there. Her skin was such a creamy white that he couldn't wait to watch himself tear apart that snowy flesh. That strawberry blood would be such a treat. But what he hadn't anticipated was having a flaming blanket (or what was left of it, at least) tossed on him.

The shock of the sharp heat caused him to release Willow, and she fell to the floor in a painful crunch. Tara surrounded her immediately.

Spike looked like he had third-degree burns, but that barely slowed him down. He stomped on Ryk, perhaps to put out the flames from the blanket so as not to burn down his apartment. But he did not relent even after the risk of fire had faded. When Ryk flailed his scaly arms to free himself from the woolen trap, Spike reached down and dragged him up. Ryk raised his forearm, managing to slice through the angry skin on Spike's bicep.

The vampire hissed, but the pain only served to empower him more. He was due for a nice spot of violence. How convenient that it made house calls.

Ryk was seething now, eying up his opposition. He knew there was a possibility that he'd run into the vampire when he broke into the apartment, but he honestly had expected him to be sleeping the sleep of the undead. Still, he was a mercenary; this was just another day at the office.

Spike struck out then. He wasn't in the mood for analyzing the situation. This fucker was in his house, messing with his property (Now, now, they aren't yours, his soul started to argue before his demon head-butted it down)...

"Don't know what you're playin' at, mate, but you picked the wrong bloke."

Ryk's arm moved to backhand him, but Spike was too quick. He grabbed the M'Fashnik's offending appendage and cracked it against the corner of the wall. Ryk howled and raked his other hand down Spike's burned face, eliciting a similar reaction.

Willow huddled against the sofa, sure that she had broken something in her fall and scared to death for Spike.

She shouldn't have been, though. Not with the feral look in his eyes, the face of the demon clearly visible despite the sun's damage to his skin.

Ryk was looking for something to distract Spike while the vampire restrained him. But Spike was still quicker. The half-empty wine glass beside him would work nicely.

"Checkmate," Spike hissed before smashing the rim of the glass against the wall.

Ryk's wide eyes watched the ragged edge head towards his throat.

"You're my Rook," Drusilla cooed, peppering the Watcher's tired face with kisses. "You're the fortress that will keep this secret safe. Even Daddy couldn't break those walls."

Either Giles was going insane too, or being Dru's captive for this many hours had given him some strange skill at translating her non-sequiturs. "That's why you came to me?"

The vampire nibbled on his lips then, pleased. "You're the only one who can save my prince now. And now that you know..." She stopped, suddenly looking fearful. "Promise me. Promise you'll do it for princess."

Giles looked at her curiously. "But the Powers-that-Be... if they took the curse from Angel... He's their Champion."

Dru shook her head, a twisted smile morphing from the momentary fright she'd had. "Oh, no. Not Daddy. That was so my William could prove himself."

Now Giles didn't understand. Dru began to sway atop him, but he grabbed her wrist to bring her back to the matter at hand. In her odd sort of way, she explained to him how Angel's curse was lifted not as a gift but as another punishment. Angel's half-hearted redemption was an affront to the Powers-that-Be. In response, they removed the curse so as to show him that even with every chance at a 'normal' life, Buffy would still choose Spike. Spike, who had proven himself to be the true Champion. Not Angel, the cause of the Slayer's doubt and misery.

"But, I don't understand what this has to do with me."

Drusilla looked deep into the Watcher's eyes, stilling him not with her thrall but with her sudden lucidity. "He's coming for her. He's coming, and all I see is ash and burning. Bright light. Screaming green light."

Giles was sure about so little at that moment. But the look on Dru's face was not one of madness or revenge, hunger or trickery. If she was here as a portent, he knew, somehow, that he needed to heed it.

"Protect them. Protect the prophecy."

Never Enough by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 24: Never Enough

CHAPTER RATING: T/M (for violence. Also: Character Death Warning for the next few chapters!)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Angel(us)/Spike, Angel/Buffy, Buffy/Spike

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: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: This chapter ties up some of Angel's obsessiveness that has run through my story...perhaps in a way you hadn't expected, or in a way that you can't stand in fanficdom (sorry ahead of time if you fall in the category of the latter; I tend to enjoy stories that use this reasoning). I've also used the names Angel, Angelus, Liam, William, and Spike purposefully; you'll obviously need to be familiar with the series to know what that means. As mentioned in the rating above, this chapter also begins my warning for character death. If you cannot deal with characters being killed off, please skip this and the next couple chapters! (I will put a note in the upcoming chapter when the character deaths have ceased.)

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A flood of memories washed through Angel as he got off the plane. He had lucked out with the flight, the timing perfect enough that he could sit in first-class rather than the cargo hold. And the flight itself seemed so quick and comfortable that he hadn't time to really think about what it would be like to be back in London. So his nighttime arrival brought with it feelings he hadn't anticipated. Racing there was all about Buffy. But being there... it conjured up images of Spike and Drusilla. He could tell everyone how pained he was over targeting Dru and turning her, but for all the credit they gave him over being all soul-having, he was no better than he ought to be. How much of a 'white hat' could he be when he had the soul of Liam? Liam had been born of privilege, but still wanted more. He broke rules not to be clever or because he had to, but because he could, because it kept him at the center of everyone's attention. That sort of power was priceless. So, to be 'cursed' with his own soul? How much different could he really be?

But the only one left who actually knew this about him was Spike. Spike, who he had thought once upon a time would tear apart the world with him. Angelus hadn't known, though, what type of man William had been. If he had realized this was who Dru chose, he'd have forbidden it. William's heart and devotion were too pure; Angelus could never create the kind of tyranny he enjoyed with someone like that. Oh, sure, he tried at first. And it was nice to have a male partner around; the women were just for entertainment, as they had also been for Liam. But Spike was so responsive to Dru that Angelus began to resent him. Why did she garner more attention than her master? Because she was the one who turned him? As far as Angelus was concerned, he was Spike's sire; he was the one with power, and he demanded—whether by action or word—that Spike submit to him as his childe.

Angel growled at the thought. Spike's weak heart led him to be controlled by Drusilla instead. And Angelus would not forgive that insolence.

This whole trip was supposed to be about Buffy. That's what Angel told the Watcher. That's what he told his young lover. That's what he told himself over and over. But, really, as nearly everything he'd done since Dru had made herself a childe, this was about Spike. He thought he had finally had Spike under some sort of control (if anything involving Spike could be called that) when they were both at Wolfram and Hart. It was simply out of habit that he had so much negative energy directed towards the young vampire while they were together there. But deep-down, it was exactly what he wanted. He tried everything he could to keep Spike a secret from Buffy, because he knew by this time that once she discovered her hero was 'alive,' he'd lose him forever. And he tried everything he could to keep Spike from returning to Buffy. He didn't mind that Spike would always love Buffy; he was used to that with Spike, and, anyway, hearts lie. Love didn't matter to Angel. It was the companionship, the power, he desired (as always). As long as he could keep Spike with him, he had all he needed.

To be honest, Angel was surprised that Spike stayed there in L.A. with him as long as he did. He didn't know if it was the soul that kept him there or what, but Angel was surprised. Then after the battle, he was more surprised that Spike left. After sharing that final fight... that was something that had always bonded the two vampires. Spike would still be flushed with arousal from the frantic experience of the fight, Angelus from the gloating power of winning. It was the only time when Angelus could get Spike to come to him willingly. Granted, he enjoyed it just as much when he took what he wanted from Spike, but it was a nice change of pace to feel wanted in some sense. He often only got that from the innocent girls he seduced, but the desire they felt for him tended to be short-lived and definitely unreciprocated. So when Spike left—and without even saying a word to him—his pride (and perhaps something more) stung. Angel didn't know exactly where Spike would go, but he thought it safest to head to where Buffy was first. Especially now that the Watcher seemed to be having second thoughts. If he didn't get to Buffy before she found out about Spike, his plans would all be shot to hell.

.

.

Ryk's plans today had all been shot to hell. Now the sizable shard of glass embedded in his collarbone was just the icing on the cake. Thankfully, he had moved in time to avoid a slit throat, but Spike's grip on him was tight. The M'Fashnik had to admit that this vampire was a formidable opponent. It was obvious that Spike was not at his strongest—Ryk caught the winces that slipped in when the vampire made a move that stretched his burned flesh. So if Spike could be this much of a handful when he was injured, Ryk could just imagine what he'd be like at full-strength. Yeah, he wanted him on his side. Could make a killing with Spike as back-up. Now, if only he could figure out a way to not get killed, himself, in the next few moments.

He could feel his own strong pulse steadily seeping out blood from where the glass was stuck in him. The pain was still a bit dull with the adrenalin in control, but Spike's hand was drenched now, and that meant his grip would be slick there. A whimper from the almost-snack on the floor provided the out he needed.

As Spike reacted a bit to the girl's pain, Ryk launched himself to the side. The move broke Spike's grip, as he had hoped. But he hadn't expected Spike's concentration to come back with a vengeance. Ryk's hands grasped the doorknob about the same time as Spike's hands grasped Ryk's head.

But, it was Spike's that twisted first.

.

.

First things first, Angel thought as he headed to the Watcher's home. He knew this day would come after that Andrew kid found out about Spike and reported back to Giles. He had hoped that he could get Giles to stick by him a bit longer, though. Not sure what made the old man cave at this point, but no matter. Angel would have a little 'chat' with him to see what was wrong, then take care of matters. It's not like Buffy really needed her Watcher anymore.

A familiar tingle shivered through Angel as he approached the Watcher's place. When he saw Drusilla slip out the door, he stopped. The scent of blood was strong on her. It was the Watcher's; he never forgot that glorious smell from when he tortured the man for information on awakening Acathla. His childe must have torn the old man to shreds by the strength of it wafting off of her.

Ah, well. That took care of one problem, then.

.

Something Must Break by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 25: Something Must Break

CHAPTER RATING: T (Character Death Warning continues for the next couple chapters!)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Angelus/Drusilla, Angel/Buffy

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: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: Ahh, another cliff-hanger! Enjoy!

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Giles couldn't believe he was going to follow through with this. His rational mind was screaming at him to come to his senses, while his usually-ignored intuition was telling him that Drusilla was right. What had he encouraged in his Slayer? To trust in her instinct. It was time he took that same advice.

He dressed slowly, feeling the effects of having been fucked and fed on for quite some time. But deep down he was still Ripper. Drusilla reminded him of that. And (as crazy as he knew it sounded) if something as powerful as her could see the strength in him, then he was able to do this.

Putting a pot of tea on, Giles set to work. He understood that Buffy was a lost cause for him at the moment, so he went to step two: research mode. Dru's discussion earlier brought the long-neglected details of that obscure prophecy to the forefront of his mind. Although the scroll was now lost, he remembered enough of the document in his photographic memory to reconstruct some old notes he took. He had dubbed the text the "Khoisan Prophecy" as the writing appeared to him to be an attempt at transliterating an African 'click' language. It was like Proto-!Kwi if the speakers knew Ubykh as their first language and spelled their words using runes and the Bamum alphabet. Easy peasy. Only, that was a far stretch as stretches go, and the only thing that even remotely corroborated his hypothesis was a few out-of-context notes in the Pergamum Codex. And who knew what happened to that book in the craziness that was Sunnydale.

As best as he was able to determine, the Khoisan Prophecy discussed the eternity of the Slayer lineage. His loose translation was that the Slayer line would be elevated/promised/endowed (he wasn't sure which word was meant) with a sort of power that would ensure it lasted to infinity. Drusilla's understanding of it, however, was more specific. As she said it, the eternity wasn't referring to the Slayer line but to the Slayer, herself.

Giles shivered. This, indeed, changed everything. He heard Dru's voice echo in his head, repeating all that she told him of the prophecy. Everything she said matched what he had translated, but she went a step further than him, either understanding the language enough that she could determine parts of speech better than he did or interpreting some of the words more concretely than he had even considered. How did he not see this back then? Surely he was more focused in those days on his studies and on prophecy in general.

He had to get in touch with the coven in Devon. They were his saving grace when it came to dealing with Willow in her crisis, and he knew they'd be his best hope in this one. Somehow, he had to make sure Buffy remained safe...and, dare he say it...Spike, as well. If Dru was right, he had to keep them protected. But protected from what?

.

.

After Ryk's hulking body slumped to the floor, Spike turned to Willow. She was in a pile holding her leg, whimpering and shivering with pain or fright—both sensations smelled the same to him at that moment.

His body was strumming so full with adrenaline that he didn't even know he was still in game-face as he rushed over to her. He fell to her side and gathered her in his arms tightly, clutching her like a child that had been missing.

"I'm okay," Willow said in reply to his unspoken question. Her heartbeat was racing and she knew Spike could feel it, but his face morphed back to his human one despite the obvious temptation.

He was shaking, but he didn't let go of her. If he had been just a moment longer, he could have been too late.

"You're hurt." Tara's fingers reached out to Spike, solidifying as they hovered over his tortured skin.

He loosened his grip on Willow then. "I'll get over it."

Tara smiled lopsidedly, glancing at Willow. Both of them placed their hands on Spike and began a simple healing spell to help speed things along. Physically, at least. It was clear he was not okay, but what the witches didn't know was that he was in more danger now than ever before.

.

.

Madame Polina had felt a lot of things in her unusually-long life. Some of that was the result of living in a hard-luck place like Cleveland. Some more of it was the result of that hard-luck place also being a Hellmouth. But most of it was due to her being one of the most powerful witches the modern world had ever known. Oh, she didn't flaunt her prowess. In fact, she made herself out to be a half-baked fortune teller in order to keep any genuine suspicion off of her. She'd lived long enough to know that power made her a target for abuse and control. So she hid herself in plain view and stayed anonymous to everyone but a chosen few.

Which is why she was caught off-guard by the bokor's curse. Her energies lately had been concentrated on that witch who had come for the vampire. Something was familiar about the girl, but Madame Polina couldn't seem to place it. She had mostly been drawn to what made the girl peculiar. For such a young one, the little witch was overwhelmed with power. Power that felt drawn from a well of hurt. Polina's heart ached for a moment from the sensation. She could draw from that same well, of course—root system and all that rot she and the rest of the coven always taught the youngsters who were too big for their britches. Oh yes, that one was familiar to her somehow.

So when the fits hit her, Madame Polina was unprepared to fight. She had just warned that odd demon about the attempt on his friend's life (or, unlife, as the case was) when she dropped the phone, shuddering in her settee. It was almost like a seizure, but when it stopped she was trapped inside herself, her body frozen. Even her mind had been dulled to a steady hum so that she couldn't cast a counter spell or even locate the source of interference. Her eyes glazed over, and she saw nothing. She was, effectively, entombed. Who could have captured her like this? And for what purpose? She had no known enemies. (None that were still alive, at any rate.)

She seemed to be locked inside herself waiting for an order. But the order never came. Instead, when her eyes cleared, the face of a man who looked to be her real age hovered before her. It was the infamous Papa Jean, who, surprisingly enough, she had never met. Mostly, that was because she thought him merely a legend. Cleveland had many of those, from the alligator demons in the sewers to the voudon oungans, beings that just didn't fit here in the Midwest. But Papa Jean was definitely real (though the vibes she was getting off him made her wonder if he was man or demon or god). And after he broke the curse, he explained in detail how to properly dispose of the talisman and cleanse herself of all traces of the evil. He had offered to find out who had cursed her, but only after the angry Kailiff demon threatened him with a creative disembowelment. Interesting. Somehow, she sensed that this whole production was tied to that vampire. Madame Polina just didn't understand how she got involved.

.

.

Angel had gotten to Buffy's flat too late, apparently. He could smell the faint trace of her in the air, heading towards the city center. But it was early days yet, and whether she was partying or patrolling, she'd be back by dawn. He could wait until...Dawn. Of course. The little sister who wasn't allowed to do anything. Angel knew Buffy well enough to know that old habits die hard. Her sister wouldn't have joined her for any evening activities.

He rang the doorbell once, then twice. The lights in the rooms facing the street were off, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Waiting a respectable amount of time, he rang once more. Still nothing.

Except a tingle down his spine. His nostrils flared and drew his attention to the alley next to the building. He fought a bit with his body's reaction, but eventually the slightest of smiles thinned his lips and he approached the area.

"Are you going to come to Daddy, or are you going to try to pretend that I won't notice you're there?"

For a moment there was no sound, then the clicks of thin heels echoed an approach.

Drusilla feigned a childlike look, enough that Angel was apparently convinced, judging by the lowered tension she just felt. "My Angel..."

She had been hiding out in the alley in case her sire had caught the Slayer off-guard. Dru was ready to be the Watcher's back-up plan—even if that meant she was fighting side-by-side with the Slayer. Her poor heart ached with such responsibility, and her lucid mind finally appreciated the many moments of madness she was plagued with as they provided a respite from the knowledge of how drenched in loss both her life and unlife were. But she understood destiny and fate—perhaps better than anyone—and she accepted her role in it now.

Angel held his hand out to his childe.

Dru swayed a bit as if dancing with the shadows, still approaching but slower.

To Angel, that was a tell-tale sign of the madness capturing her. His soul warred in both delight and pity at his role in that. But, he was in a perfect position right now to resolve this century-long problem.

"I see you took care of the Watcher, eh?"

Dru took his hand lightly, stroking the veins. So, he thought she had killed the old man? Good. Very good. She looked up at his face to gauge his reaction.

Angel saw the emotion battling in Dru's eyes. She didn't want to admit this. "I didn't like him much, anyway."

Dru smiled then, knowingly.

"Moving on to the Slayer now?" he continued.

She cocked her head at him. He knew she didn't seek out Slayers. What was he...?

That thought was interrupted by Angel's large hands at her throat. His sudden movement had surprised her, enough so that he had positioned her thin body against him to his advantage.

Dru heard his countenance shift, and she clutched at him, trying to pry his fingers away. He was still stronger than her, so all her effort did was allow his skin to be sliced up from her long nails.

It had been a long time since he'd had his hands on her. Gripping her again, Angel could see easily why he had turned her, and why she was his greatest conquest. Her whimpers delighted both Liam and Angelus. Oh, he was still going to do what he had planned to do to her, since he had discovered she was here in London. But perhaps he'd take his time with it now that she reminded him of why he had adored her.

Angel leaned down, inhaling the sweet smell of her sudden fear.

"She's gone," Dru whispered before he crushed her windpipe. "Gone to the States... for you."

Her sire's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. "Is that right?"

Drusilla squirmed against him, hoping that threw him a bit. It didn't.

"Oh, Dru... you've always helped Daddy with your visions, haven't you?"

He began moving them both deeper into the shadows of the alley. It just wouldn't do to have an audience for this.

.

Last Exit for the Lost by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 26: Last Exit for the Lost

CHAPTER RATING: T/M for violence (Character Death Warning continues through this chapter)

CHAPTER PAIRING: Angel/Drusilla, Drusilla & Giles, Dawn & ?

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: Dru's song is actually "The Magical Bird in the Magical Woods" by Current 93

CHAPTER NOTES: Lots of drama and angst and violence and finally a bit of a pay-off! I have a happy surprise for you in this chapter for having held on so long. Also, I can't remember if the Hyperion (in AtS) was still intact after the show. My knowledge of AtS is spotty at best, as I watched the first and last seasons, but skimmed over all the others...and it's been so long now that I just can't remember! So, if the Hyperion really is destroyed as of "Not Fade Away," let's just pretend that it's not! The Character Death Warning ends for a little while with this chapter.

.

Drusilla had to will her mind to stay clear. The madness could come later, if she ever got free.

But Angel had other plans. "Time for me to right a wrong," he said aloud to no one in particular, though maybe for the benefit of the Powers-That-Be. Obviously, they had made sure Dru happened to be in London at the exact time he was.

The younger vampire's heels kicked into Angel's shins as he held her tight, but the effort was wasted. The longer he clenched her small frame to his own, the harder it became for her to struggle. He was stalling, but only because he couldn't decide on how he wanted to end this. Snapping her neck was pretty passionless, a stake through the heart was too common; surely, their relationship, though strained as it was, required something a little more personal. Liam thought up something that Dru would enjoy, and Angelus rose to the surface in agreement.

Angel's hands tore at the bodice of Drusilla's dress, drawing blood. She cried out, reminding him that, although they were alone, they were still outside. So he moved himself, pressing her back against the rough brick of the building so that he could cover her mouth with one of his hands. His knee moved between her legs, locking them in place as it nailed her dress tight.

He could see the emotions playing across her eyes. Desire and fear roiled, each vying for dominance. His demon surged at that, nearly uncontrollable. Leaning down, he lapped at the blood that had pooled across the upper swell of her breasts.

Dru whimpered between his fingers, finding it harder and harder to stay lucid while Angel was tormenting her as he once did. She felt his fangs bury themselves in her soft flesh and the strong pull of blood. Her breast was already blossoming in bruises. So this was how he was going to do it, then? Fuck her and drain her dry? She'd have laughed at the wonderfully-perfect idea if she didn't feel such devotion to the prophecy. No, no, she couldn't let herself enjoy this. She couldn't let herself go.

But a snap and a whizzing changed everything.

Angel tore his mouth from Dru's chest to yelp at the arrow now embedded in his shoulder. He turned his head when he heard the next arrow being nocked. The shock of seeing his attacker kept him from completely dodging the projectile. It struck him in his sternum and quite deeply at such close range now. The pain was burning.

When Angel reached for the arrow, Drusilla pulled away. Clutching at her tattered dress, she ran towards the archer.

Angel relaxed slightly. He figured she had taken care of this already, but he forgot—poor Drusilla, so steeped in madness that she often just played with her food.

But when he saw another arrow being aimed at him, and the man not even flinching at Drusilla's approach, he knew something was wrong.

"I've deliberately missed twice," Giles announced in a steady, calculating voice. His free hand ushered the battered Drusilla behind him. "The third time's the charm."

.

.

"Gee, lemme guess... He's not here either," Dawn snarked. It's not like she really wanted to see Angel, but she wouldn't mind getting this over with. She wanted to see the country. And to find Spike. You know, with, like, minimal effort.

"Well, they always say third time's the charm," Buffy replied, peeking into the dusty windows of the Hyperion.

Dawn picked at a scab on her elbow. "What does that even mean, anyway?" God, this was boring. She sighed dramatically as she watched Buffy try to get some sort of response from anyone inside. This place was freakin' DEAD. "Let's just go."

Buffy was starting to pry open a window when she was suddenly knocked back by Dawn's shrill squeal.

"Omigod!"

"Hey, wow! What are you guys doing here?"

The Slayer turned around to see Dawn excitedly hugging the saggy-skinned Sunnydale demon Clem. At the sight, Buffy couldn't help the smile that rose to her face. She never thought she'd say this about the weird-looking guy, but what a sight for sore eyes!

"I thought you guys were off in England or something!" Clem continued, happily returning Dawn's hug.

"Yeah, we came to try to find Angel." Dawn shot Buffy a grumpy look.

"Ooh, yeah, uh... I try to stay away from him, ya know? Kinda... creeps me out."

Buffy shook her head. "We're really trying to find Spike."

Clem's eyes lit up at that. "You gettin' back together?" Always hopeful for good ol' Spike.

"You knew he was back?" Buffy couldn't believe everyone seemed to know except her.

"Oh, sure! I mean, if it weren't for him, L.A. would have..." He stopped, realizing. "You mean, you didn't?"

Dawn and Buffy both frowned.

"Man. That's... wow." Clem pulled at something on the hem of his shirt nervously.

"We thought Angel could tell us where he was," Dawn explained.

A second later Buffy added, "But maybe you'd know better?"

.

.

"You know," Krolik grunted as he heaved Ryk's dead body over his muscled shoulder, "it's hard to have friends with you around."

Spike rubbed his charred forehead.

"This is, what, the third one this year you've taken care of?"

The vampire sighed and looked up at the Miquot.

Krolik coughed. "You're lucky I was getting sick of him."

At that, the demon stomped out of Spike's apartment, leaving him and the witches corpse-free. Willow and Tara both hugged him tight in thanks and relief.

Spike winced slightly, a knee-jerk reaction until he realized that the witches' combined power really did do a decent job of healing some of his various burns and wounds.

In their embrace, he softened a bit.

But only for a moment, before the anger he had been harboring lately rose again to the surface.

"Bollocks!" he snapped.

The witches looked at each other, loosening their hold on him a bit.

"Big, bloody, bleedin' bollocks!"

They'd have giggled if he weren't so seriously upset.

Spike rose, then began pacing the room. He didn't mean to take this out on the girls, and, really, he wasn't; he was just taking it out around them. But something was wrong. All this shit that had been happening lately... He could handle it (sort of) when it was directed towards him. Now, though, it was affecting everyone around him, everyone who was helping him. Willow, Madame Polina, and God knows who else. (His thoughts flashed to his sweet landlady Maria for a quick, panicky moment as he realized he hadn't seen nor heard from her in at least a week.) There had better be a good excuse for all this. One that didn't include the words "prophecy" or "apocalypse" or...

.

.

"Angel," Giles grumbled. "Big, bloody, bleedin', bollocky..."

Drusilla giggled behind him, petting the mounted raven he'd had perched near his desk. The poor dead bird was now cradled in her arms. She danced around with it, naked as the day she was born. Giles had tried to get her to don one of his shirts or his robe, but she wrinkled her nose at him. "Is that how you treat a lady?" she had asked him as though she were insulted. "Err...uh...carry on then, Lady Godiva," Giles eventually replied. That wasn't a fight he wanted to start. Instead, he sat there attempting to mend her torn dress. After all these hours with Drusilla, he had a new sort of respect for Spike, to have taken care of this creature for over a century.

Now, as he was finishing the seams, his mind was turning to the eldest of the Aurelian line. He and Dru were lucky to have escaped Angel. Giles knew he was a good shot, but Angel was a master vampire—and a physically strong one at that. The Watcher made it out with his feigned courage and a few well-placed hits. He wasn't confident that the next shot would hit Angel in the heart now that the vampire seemed to figure out he was in a trap. So, Giles did the next best thing. He aimed that final arrow at the vampire's foot. His hope was that it would buy them some time. It worked, but barely. Dru remained lucid enough to carry Giles along with her as she wove a scattered path to his home (hoping somehow to throw Angel off the trail). With his new limp, Angel wasn't as fast as he ought to be. And though he trailed them uncomfortably close, they managed to cross Giles' threshold before Angel could grab one or the both of them. The elder vampire swore and tried repeatedly to "storm the castle," as it were, but eventually gave up. Dru couldn't tell Giles if Angel was gone, at least not right now while she was half-mad, so he assumed they were prisoners for the time-being. And that was fine with him, because he wanted to dig into this prophecy.

"Rook takes king," Dru sang to the bird. "Checkmate. Checkmate. Checkmate," she stammered, moving the bird down for a 'peck' with each word. She was clearly delighted, even if Giles hadn't the time or patience to translate. Twirling around the furniture, she twittered an invented song:

"I saw the slot of the sun
The final cut of the sun
Start like a hare
Over the shoddy grey walls
I saw you dimple and crease
And turn a card from the pack
By your bed
As though swords, cups, discs and wands
Might tumble into your head
And give you a glimmer of something profound
But your gods made no sound
The gods made no sound
Your gods made no sound
You were cartwheel and sommersault
But not at your ease
I was not at my ease
As through unfolding vistas
Of dullness and deadness
I saw the metal buckets
Fatigued and buckled
With nimbus of rustflowers
In sheds by the lake
I was already falling and fallen and lost
And it was not at your cost
And I was not at my ease
And it was not at your cost
By aimless pools with no surprise
I counted the flickerings of your eyes
And saw the magical bird
In the magical woods
Fly over the hills
And far away
From the sea it's you I see
By the glowing seashore it was you that I saw:
The magical bird in the magical woods"

.

It would be glorious if Dru would give him a quiet moment to think. How was Spike ever able to craft his nearly-successful plans with this nattering? It's not her fault, ya berk. Blame Angel.

And then it struck him—why hadn't he heard back from the coven yet?

.

In the Shadows by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 27: In the Shadows

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Drusilla & Giles, Buffy/Spike

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: Dru says lines from "A Sad Sadness Song" by Current 93

CHAPTER NOTES: Sorry for the delay. I was on vacation last week and had to catch up with boring real-life stuff before I could get back to fanfic. :(

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Giles had discovered quite a few life-changing things in the last 72 hours. One of which was that Drusilla was much more lucid when she was sated with Watcher blood.

To the core of his being, he was horrified by this. But on an immediate level, it was necessary—both for the vampire's own sustenance as well as the need for her to be clear of mind so that they could determine the full plan of the Khoisan Prophecy. Giles knew, having been Buffy's Watcher, that things never worked out like the textbook examples. No, the usual course of events surrounding him was the universal exception. So, always being aware of that, he tended to be flexible in how plans were hatched. Having Drusilla as part of the current one made him want to laugh at the Powers-that-Be, but, as always, he'd find a way to make it work. He had to; that's what he did.

Yeah, useless bastard.

"I've got prickles," Dru announced. She frowned at Giles from her place in his lap. "He's in the back garden."

The Watcher sighed. "Right, then." He still hadn't gotten through to the Coven, and his anxiety had been growing progressively worse as the day went on. For a quick moment, his mind shuddered.

"Ooooh!" Dru squealed. She shot up then, clapping her hands. "Yes, a spell! We'll contact them with a soft, cloudy spell!"

He hated when the vampire jumped into his mind like that. But, yes, a spell was probably the way to go, considering they couldn't leave and no one in the Coven was answering the phone.

Dru pondered while Giles began gathering ingredients. She had heard of this coven in Devon and couldn't wait to get her mind enmeshed in it. What delightful gifts they must harbor! As the Watcher placed herbs on his kitchen counter, she felt her lips twist down into a frown. There wasn't time for that game right now. No, her sweet William needed protection first.

"What are you do...?" Giles' question was cut off by a sudden kiss. Doubly-shocked, he stepped back. Dru had begun processing the ingredients without his assistance as though she had done this countless times. The message she sent him through that lip-lock confirmed it. How did he not know of her ability with magic? This changed everything. The stakes were higher, but now he truly believed he had a chance to protect Buffy.

.

.

"I'm not sure where he is, actually. From what I heard, he just took off."

Dawn looked at Clem as though her heart just got broken.

Buffy's fingers stroked the skull ring. "If I were Spike, where would I go?" she thought aloud.

"Oh!" Clem suddenly replied. "Vegas! Sin City!"

A snicker came from the youngest Summers girl. "Yeah, that sounds like a Spike-y place."

Buffy clapped her hands together as a plan was formed in her head. "Good. Clem, would you join us? I mean... can you?"

The demon grinned widely. "I'll do you one better. Come on." He headed towards an alley near the Hyperion, waving at them to follow. Dawn happily skipped after him.

"I'll take you there," Clem replied then, showing off a well-cared-for Winnebago.

"Omigod, is this yours?" Dawn bounced in excitement. It looked cool and fun and expensive. "How the heck did you afford this?"

Buffy shot her a look which made her blush. "Sorry, I mean..."

Clem brushed her embarrassment away. "Oh, no, it's legit. I got it in Mexico. Sold some extra skin for it."

Dawn was definitely sorry she asked. Ewwww!

Buffy was too, but she tried to hide it better. "You do look like you've lost weight since I last saw you."

"Yeah, the pounds just kept dropping after I swore off kittens. I never realized how fattening they were!"

The girls cringed again.

"But, hey, they pay top dollar for skin in Mexico. Great for grafts in burn units, apparently," Clem said proudly. "Was able to quit my job and everything!"

Buffy was happy for him, as odd as the reason was. "So, you wouldn't mind a little road trip then?"

Clem beamed. "Not if you don't mind my travel music."

.

.

Willow didn't think she'd tasted anything better than Maria's pasta. She ate more than could possibly fit in her tiny tummy. All that time asleep had made her ravenous.

Spike was in an uncharacteristically pleasant mood, and alcohol hadn't even been involved. His landlady Maria was alive and well, so far unaffected by whatever evil seemed to have been after all of his loved ones. Red was conscious again and apparently unharmed. This turn of events brought back his appetite, much to Maria's delight. The old lady just kept bringing out food, happy to see his skin take on a warm glow.

As Spike ate, Willow watched him curiously. Even when Buffy was dead, she hadn't spent this much time near him. There was so little she really knew of this vampire, despite everything that had occurred over the years. Like this whole eating thing. Look at how he was downing that pasta...with extra garlic? Huh? How was that even possible? He was like...savoring it. Angel never ate 'people food'. And, wait a sec... do vampires poop?

"Got sauce on my face?"

Spike's voice startled Willow from her thoughts. He was staring at her expectantly.

"Umm... what on your what?"

"Sauce. Face." She had been looking at him so intently that he couldn't help but pry. Sure, she was a daffy girl, but she was also an insanely powerful witch. And if she was looking at him like that...

.

.

Giles let out a long-held breath and cleaned his glasses. He was thankful he had kept his previous pair, even though the prescription was old. He'd have never gotten Dru away from Angel if he hadn't. Hell, he'd have never been able to leave the bloody house.

Stop nattering, Ripper spat at him.

His attempt at contacting the coven had failed, despite his best efforts. The ingredients had been mixed expertly, he had to admit. So the problem must have been him.

"I got nothing, I'm afraid," he admitted to Drusilla.

She gave him a pitying look, then patted his hand as though to say 'perhaps we should let the professional have a go now'.

Giles sighed and tried to hide his embarrassment.

Dru took over then, commanding with a fluidity he hadn't seen in quite some time. He watched as she wove the spell, making mental notes as to her technique. A few minutes into it, she appeared to reach their target. Thoughts played across her face, like she was clearly putting forth effort.

With a frown, the vampire whispered softly: "Neither coming here nor going; Neither heaven here nor hell; Neither borning here nor birthing; Neither dying here nor death." She opened her eyes then and shook her head sadly.

.

.

Angel watched the scene from the garden window. Despite the events of the past day, he was pleased that at least one part of his plan had worked. That bokor hadn't come cheap.

With the coven incapacitated, Giles wouldn't be able to warn Spike. Angel hadn't anticipated that Dru would be helping the Watcher, but he wasn't worried about that, really. Angelus had broken her so thoroughly that there was no way she'd ever be lucid enough to really assist in any sort of rescue operation (if, in fact, that was what those two were up to).

He could leave them to their parlor games. It was time to go back to the States and stake his claim.

.

Further, Nearer by MaireAilbhe

Author's 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.

.

.

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.

.

.

“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...”

.

.
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.

.

.

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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Different Stars by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 29: Different Stars

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara, Giles & Drusilla

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: Drusilla's verses are from "Oh Coal Black Smith" by Current 93.

CHAPTER NOTES: We're getting towards the end now! I have the rest of the story mapped out, and it will take about 6-7 more chapters. I also have a few one-shots planned that take place during this particular story, so those should be out relatively soon as well. Thank you for your continued following of this story! I'm so excited that you've kept with me for so long!

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Oh, she got that message. There was no mistaking it this time; Rupert Giles was trying to contact her. And "Willow". Yes, that name was familiar.

The witch. That was who Giles had asked her and the rest of the coven to help stop those few years ago. Madame Polina remembered how risky the proposition was. She had tried to talk him out of it, even. But he was steadfast, that one. And certain. So sure that what he had proposed would work. When she finally heard back that the apocalypse was diverted, she had wept in relief. Occasionally, she would think about that young witch, hoping that the Great Goddess had been guiding her. It was so easy to fall.

With the bathwater cooling, Madame Polina pulled her achy body out of the tub and dried herself off. The sound of the water swirling down the drain reminded her of the spell the coven did. Their powers all whirled together to confront the maelstrom that was a vengeful little witch. Polina had seen a lot in her 367 years, but rarely had she experienced such grief. For such a young thing to have been consumed that way... It broke her heart all over again.

Madame Polina sighed softly as she scuffled over to her desk. She was nervous now. With everything that had been happening on the Hellmouth lately, she took this latest contact as proof that all was not right. Either something was coming, or something was already here, and the name "Willow" was seared across it in deep, glowing letters.

The address book was flipped through and Giles' phone number shakily dialed. She held her breath as the phone rang...and rang. No one picked up, not even an answering machine. Perhaps he's in trouble?

That thought set Madame Polina about working on another way to contact him. She rummaged through her pantry and began mixing herbs as quickly as her thin fingers could go.

.

.

"I think I've got it."

Tara looked up from the notebook she'd been writing in. She still didn't know what it was about Spike that granted her corporealness, but while he'd allow her near, she took advantage of it. The past hour she had been scribbling down notes for a spell that she'd been contemplating. Spike was lounging next to her on the sofa, enjoying a Bloody Mary—made with real blood, pilfered from a blood bank (maybe even from some bint named Mary, he mused). Tara had frowned at that, but he just had to prove he was still the Big Bad. He was incorrigible.

"We'll get the fortune teller to help her," Spike continued.

The kind witch peered at him gently, her eyebrows crinkling in consideration. "But...would she? I mean, she barely knows us. Why would she..."

"I can be very convincing," Spike interrupted. His eyes flashed yellow for a moment, causing Tara to startle slightly...until she noticed how obscenely he was lapping at the end of the celery stalk he just pulled from his drink.

"Guys are so gross," Tara teased, rolling her eyes at him. It was nice to see Spike less broody (no, irritated; Angel was broody), but she sometimes forgot how much his twisted sexuality tended to control...err, influence...him. It had been so many years now since those days of him trying to seduce Buffy, and so much had happened to harden all of them—Scoobies included.

"Well, the way I see it, that old bat owes us." Spike stuck his fangs into the celery and sucked at the pooling liquid until the stalk's color faded.

Tara raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah, see... who was the one skewered that beastie for her, eh?" He gave her a proud smile.

"Didn't you say she paid in cash for that?"

Spike frowned for a quick second as he tried to recover. "She was grossly undercharged."

The good witch did her best to stifle a smirk.

"All right, what about the other day? Got her all un-voodoo-ed, didn't I?"

"For our benefit, yes."

Spike groaned. "You damn white hats." He moved his glass to the end table, dropping the wilted celery into it with a slick plop.

Tara couldn't keep that laugh inside. She squeezed his hand, that crooked smile settling on her soft face.

The vampire squeezed back and pulled her closer. He breathed in the sandalwood scent of her hair—still amazed that he could breathe in any scent from her—and pressed his face into the crook of her neck. If she had a heartbeat, he might have heard it speed up then.

"Why won't she tell me?" Tara whispered, breaking from the lightness of their banter as she slowly fell back into thought. "Doesn't she know I'd do anything to help her?"

"I'm sure she just doesn't want to worry you, luv. Been guilty of that myself at times."

.

.

From the guest room, Willow tried hard to meditate on roots. But the fact that she had to try meant it wasn't working.

She could hear Spike and Tara in a conversation but couldn't make out their words through the walls. Tara's emotions seemed to be hidden from her when the good witch was near him, but Willow could definitely feel the concern rolling off of Spike. She had assumed it was all about Buffy, but now she wasn't so sure. The Hellmouth not only made her nervous, but it also made her paranoid, suspect. Maybe this root system stuff was pulling the power of the Hellmouth into her, too—connecting her to its demonic energies just like being in England with the coven had connected her to the earth's energies.

Oh, it was all too much! And how do you explain that to a vampire in love or a spectral witch no longer grounded in this world?

She had to leave. Somewhere out there had to be safe. If she started looking now, maybe she'd find it.

.

.

Drusilla had been fidgety all day so far.

Giles tried his best to work on some spells for locating Willow and getting through to the coven, but it was harder and harder to concentrate when Dru was humming and touching everything he owned. She gravitated towards the rarest (and, thus, most expensive) items in his collection, and that forced him to keep one eye on her even though he really needed both eyes on his work. He tried asking her if she was getting visions, but she wouldn't answer. Instead, she just sang her gnarled little rhymes.

Right now, she was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with a pair of brass statuettes. She danced them around like they were dolls. Her voice twittered as she sang softly to herself: "And she became a corpse, a corpse all in the ground. And he became the cold grey clay and smothered her all around..." She stopped for a brief moment to stare up at the ceiling. Then the pitiful vampire began her song again.

He took a deep breath and swallowed his irritation. The poor girl really couldn't help it, could she? Damn Angelus. Giles needed to remind himself of the one at fault here. And like Ophelia, he knew her words meant more than just babble. So, he listened to her more closely, letting her go through the song once, twice, until she began a third time:

"You shall never change my maiden name, that I have kept so long. I'd rather die a maid, yes...and be buried in my grave, yes..."

"Drusilla?"

She looked up at him then, noticing the tone in his voice.

Even though he was still at his desk, Giles had turned slightly. His arms were open to her.

.

.

It took the kind of magic she hadn't used since Tara died to get her out of there, but she did it. Willow felt her way around in the dark, hoping she landed somewhere safer than she was. She had shielded her mind from outside magic as best as she could. Her initial thought was to try to find Giles, but then she tugged that one back; she was still angry at him for keeping the knowledge of Spike's existence from Buffy. No, maybe she'd go looking for Buffy instead. Buffy had trusted her so much with that final spell in Sunnydale, even when she knew how far Willow had fallen just a year earlier. Perhaps that power of belief, coupled with the strength of the Slayer, would help her reign herself in again.

.

Damaged Goods by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 30: Damaged Goods

CHAPTER RATING: M

CHAPTER PAIRING: Buffy/Spike, Dawn & Clem

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: Lines from the BtVS episode "Smashed". Lyrics from "Balloon Man" by Robyn Hitchcock.

CHAPTER NOTES: Here's a little bit of angst, since it's been a while! Also, just a reminder that this story goes AU after the last episode of Angel, so whatever happened in the Las Vegas of the Spike comic series STAYED in that Vegas; none of that storyline feeds into my story.

.

He was waiting for her when she shoved the crypt door open. He was always waiting for her, like a dog who wasn't entirely sure his master would return.

Buffy hated it.

She hated that he stayed there for her, no matter what she did to him. Why didn't he leave? Why didn't he bark at her? Bite back? Chase her away? No, he followed her around- watching out for her, protecting her. How could he be this way to her when the ones she loved couldn't?

She hated it.

The longing in his eyes as she approached. The way they worshiped her with their crisp, true blue.

"Don't look at me like that," she spat at him.

He flinched very slightly, but she caught it.

"You think you love me?"

Spike straightened. "You know I..." he began, but didn't get a chance to finish.

She hardened her eyes to him. "Show me."

The way his face stilled at her command made her grit her teeth. He began to move towards her, but she stepped back.

"No. I want to see how much you want me."

When he finally caught her meaning, he hesitated. She could tell he was trying to figure out if this was a test.

But it wasn't a test. At least, not one he could ever pass. She made sure of that with the scowl that had risen on her face.

Spike tugged his shirt off, then unzipped his pants. He slowly deposited the clothes on the cold floor of his crypt and stood there before her, naked.

She appraised him, but her features did not change. "Well, go on then. Show me what I do to you. Prove it."

Anger and hurt flitted across his skin as he reached down and began to stroke himself. If this was what it took, he'd give it to her. Love's fucking bitch, he was...and apparently always would be.

She knew he was humiliated. That had been her intention from the start. She was playing with fire hoping to get burned.

But it was taking longer than usual for him. He was watching himself, concentrating.

Then she approached, continuing the assault. "You like me because you enjoy getting beat down." The words echoed in his home the way they did in that abandoned house.

He remembered that barb. His eyes shot back up to hers.

"You're not in love with me. You're in love with pain. Isn't that right?"

The demon came forth then.

Just what she wanted. Just what she was trying to prove to herself. He was a thing, not a man. An evil, disgusting thing.

Only, he didn't stop. No, he gave her what she asked for. His hand pumped his erection hard as those burning yellow irises bore into her. She pushed him into forbidden territory now, and it drew her closer.

When she reached for him, he growled and pulled away, his gaze never breaking hers. It was when she finally placed her hand over his that the demon's seed was spilled.

...

"...and I laughed, like I always do...and I cried, like I cry for you...and balloon man blew up in my hand..."

Slowly, Buffy came out of her sleep, the music on Clem's radio having subconsciously drawn that awful memory to the surface. Dawn was slumped over in the passenger seat while Clem was cheerfully maneuvering the Vegas strip. She rubbed the wetness out of the corners of her eyes. They were here. Here, as in the place they figured Spike would be. Oh God, how was she supposed to act when they found him? Their last moments together were like something out of a movie. This was not an average, run-of-the-mill reunion. She'd been so sure of every movement she'd make if she saw him again (and she certainly had enough dreams about it since she'd lost him), but now her insides were twisted up by this painful memory. What if that's how he remembered her? Not the passion but the loss, the complete disregard for his feelings. What if all this time apart just gave him confirmation that she had not wanted him?

.

.

Angel was not having much luck in New Orleans. This sort of thing had been so easy the last time he was here that he had to admit he felt a shred of disappointment. Where were all the bayou sorcerers and priests of the dark arts who had always walked the streets and lived in the shadows of the buildings? Had the city really changed that much? The French Quarter certainly looked the same as it did the last time he saw it, minus the cars.

Walking down St. Ann Street, he remembered Marie Laveau. Such an odd but powerful one. It was before Dru's time, but she'd have had a feast with the old priestess. And he would know—he made Dru that way. If only Madame Laveau were still alive. Darla wouldn't have let him turn her, but he almost wished now that he had; he desperately needed her services. Instead, he embarrassingly settled on a visit to the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum. Yeah, it was a stretch. It was kind of campy in a way, and sure, it was touristy...but maybe that was the perfect cover for those with actual voodoo knowledge. Who better to curate and guide than practitioners? But the employees were not particularly helpful. In fact, he'd almost say they were wary of him. They didn't strike out, but the look in their eyes told him that they knew what he was. He tried to ask for their assistance or for referrals to others who could perform the kind of witchcraft he needed, but they would not divulge any such secrets.

Oh, this was turning out to be much more work than he had planned. Why couldn't things fall into place for once? His bloodline connection told him that Spike was still in existence, but it did not tell him where. He was sure the vampire had left the West Coast, but he wasn't sure where he would have ended up. A major city, definitely; Spike needed that kind of action. But beyond that, it was anyone's guess. New York, maybe? Chicago? Apparently not here in New Orleans.

He'd try some more—this city was filled with denizens of the night other than voodoo priests, so he eventually had to luck out somehow.

.

.

It was Buffy's idea to split up.

They'd been up and down the strip, hitting every casino, hotel, diner, and dive they passed. Nothing. She thought they'd have better luck in the more dangerous areas, but there was no way she was letting Dawn come with her. Just as she knew there was no way Dawn would stay put in the RV. So she suggested that Dawn and Clem try the landmarks and exciting, brightly-lit places. To her surprise, Dawn jumped at this chance. Clem would be worn out by night's end, for sure.

But by 3 a.m., Buffy had almost wished they'd just stuck together. Every few minutes her cell phone would ring, with Dawn excitedly babbling on the other end about some new place, food, or tourist she and Clem had just run into. It kinda defeated the purpose of splitting up. Especially when Buffy was trying to be stealthy. But she found that the vampires here were well-fed and slow. And, lucky for her, they also liked to gamble on their un-lives.

Buffy let an elderly vampire escape for the information that Spike (who was apparently a bit of a celebrity among the undead) had, indeed, been through Las Vegas. The key word for her, though, was through. She had to interrogate a nest or two before she decided the old vamp was probably telling her the truth.

"Omigod, why didn't you ever tell me about drag queens?" Dawn squealed once they all met up again.

"Umm... huh?"

Clem mouthed an apology behind the younger Summers girl, shrugging. He had the sticky red glaze of a candy apple on some flaps of his chin.

Dawn continued: "Like, this girl...well, I guess it was a guy, actually...omigod, she was so funny and singing this song about...umm..." She blushed. "Well, about guy things and stuff, and then everyone threw dollar bills on the stage and she totally had like bigger boobs than anyone I know!"

Buffy held her head for a second. "Again with the huh? What were you doing at a drag show?"

"That was my fault," Clem said gently. "I remembered that my cousin's roommate's sister's ex-boyfriend's uncle was a performer there. So I thought maybe he'd have some ideas for us."

Hello, welcome to my life! Buffy thought. "Did he say he passed through here?"

Dawn bounced around in response, likely in the throes of a sugar high. "Totally! I knew he came here!"

"Said he was here for a little while, but that his nephew's friend's brother offered him some work in Detroit. And that was the last they heard from him."

Hmm... Detroit? Buffy had heard of a huge demon problem there, so that did kinda make sense.

The three of them looked at each other before Dawn giggled happily. They were getting somewhere now.

.

A Means to an End by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 31: A Means to an End

CHAPTER RATING: T/M for violence and character death

CHAPTER PAIRING: Tara & Spike, Giles/Drusilla

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: Here we get a little dark again. Thanks for hanging on with me! We're almost there!

.

Tara sniffed.

Spike loosened his hold on her.

She looked up at him and sniffed again.

"What?"

Her eyes glanced at his for a second, then went far away.

The corners of his mouth dropped as he anticipated her accusation. "Okay, okay," he confessed guiltily. "Yes, I borrowed Red's shampoo. I'll get her more at the shops, I promise."

Tara shook her head, holding her fingers out to his lips. She was concentrating on something.

He looked around nervously, not sure by this point whether he should be scared or excited. Ever since the witches had found out about him, his unlife had become a rollercoaster of emotions. When his eyes settled back on hers, Tara exhaled.

"It's too quiet. Something's not right." She began to rise.

Spike's hand reached out and stilled her. "Red's just meditating, is all."

If the good witch's body language was any indication, Tara didn't accept that as the reason.

"She needs it, I think," he continued. "And good on her; I couldn't do that rubbish for long."

Tara's face hardened with seriousness. "Neither could she."

"I'd have heard if something happened or if she left. Even if we weren't looking, I'd have heard her slip out, pet."

She frowned at him gently. "Not the way she likes to leave."

.

.

"Ohhhhhhhh...," Drusilla moaned from the floor. She had been in fits all day, and Giles was at his wits' end.

I never thought I'd wish you were here, but Spike—I wish you were here!

He had offered her water, tea, wine, and blood. Dangled necklaces, trinkets, and priceless artifacts before her. Nothing. Taking an outrageous risk (at least as far as he knew; it was daytime, but he wasn't sure yet that Angel had departed the grounds), he left his home and ventured out to the shops for her. Giles returned from one of the antiques sellers with an exquisite porcelain doll, one that was about as old as Drusilla and just as costly.

The vampire didn't register the Watcher's return until he crouched down to her, offering his gift. With tears, she looked up at him. He hated that he pitied her, but it just seemed as though it couldn't be helped.

Drusilla received the doll wordlessly but with great care, her pain quieting as she ran her nails over the doll's lovely locks. Then, just as suddenly, she dashed the doll's head against the stiff rug.

Giles rocked back with shock, watching the doll's glass eyes roll off the rug and under the sofa.

What on earth...?

The moment Dru saw the empty eye sockets, she sighed and wiped her tears away.

"Miss Violet and I will carry on splendidly, isn't that right?" she asked the poppet.

"Er...yes...good." Giles stood up shakily, trying to gather his bearings. One of them had to, at least. He hoped whatever had her in a tizzy was something less than cataclysmic.

.

.

Willow must have been in a dimensional 'lay-over' or something, because after about five minutes she noticed some relatively familiar scents—like garbage, and alcohol, and...eww, was that pee? A minute or so later she heard the sounds of a bustling street, and then another minute on she got visuals. It was an old neighborhood, with buildings that looked like they were decaying but activity that definitely proved otherwise. As she walked out of the alley she materialized in, she was assailed by even richer scents—sweat and silt and blood and wood and food. Delicious, spicy food.

The witch felt in her pockets, but she had only a handful of spare change.

Hrm.

She intoned a spell to remedy that. It fizzled like a doused wick.

What the...?

Closing her eyes, she tried another, simpler, spell. Not even a crackle.

She called out to Tara in her mind, but that didn't go through either. Tara would probably be looking for her soon, though. She'd hear her lover's voice and everything would be fine again.

Only...no. Before she teleported out, Willow had placed a ward on herself so that she couldn't be found—mentally or physically.

Dammit. All she really wanted was some time to gather herself together. Now she was who-knows-where, without money and without powers. Again.

Great going, Willow.

.

.

Spike was chain-smoking in the living room. This good-guy thing was too hard to keep track of. He had tried to do right by the Scoobies and give Willow a chance. (Against his better judgement, his demon often reminded him.) She needed support and encouragement and hugs and blah blah blah. She even got bloody Glinda back, and if that wasn't a blessing from the deities, he didn't know what was. So, why the fuck were they back to panicking over what she was up to again? He really needed some ultra-violence tonight, all Clockwork Orange-style.

In the guest room, Tara was trying to follow the magic trail Willow left. She had first attempted to chat with her telepathically, but the message met a magicked wall. It was almost like the mental equivalent of a vampire de-invite spell. This was not happening. No. The magic was definitely a teleportation spell. One that took a LOT of power. Power that she would have siphoned from the Hellmouth. And, certainly, Willow had to know that unless she teleported herself to another Hellmouth, she'd never get back the same way. The only answer Tara could come up with, then, was that Willow had meant to leave them, leave her.

When Spike heard the good witch's sobbing, he stubbed out his cigarette and rushed to her side. She solidified against him, holding tight for minutes, hours—they couldn't tell. They stayed that way until a loud thump landed against the apartment door. Spike growled at the interruption, but Tara's tearfully hopeful eyes begged him to check, in case it was Willow, locked-out.

It wasn't.

Gar stood at the threshold, a crumpled and bloodied body slumped over his shoulder. A hunter with a trophy catch.

Spike's demon rose at the familiar fragrance. This was his prey. "She's not dead."

"Wasn't for me to kill," Gar replied plainly, dropping the bokor's body between them.

"And Papa Jean?"

Gar stepped over the body and into Spike's apartment. He needed a shot of something after this. The bitch had really given him a run for his money. "You were right that he was harboring her, but it wasn't him who ordered it."

Spike stared at the woman, following the lines of blood trickling down her skin. She wouldn't last much longer. His nostrils flared, wanting to remember this scent. "Who then?"

The Kailiff took the last swig from Spike's bottle of Jack Daniels. He stooped down and hoisted the bokor up so that she was facing Spike. "Tell him, witch."

The bokor moaned. Gar gripped her shoulder hard enough that something cracked. "Zanj lan!" she gasped, fading.

Spike had no idea what that meant, so his eyes darted to Gar's.

"The angel," Gar replied, sure that the vampire would know what to do with that answer.

And he did. As soon as the bokor took her final breath, Spike dove in, angrily drinking down her dead blood. Angel. She was working for him, targeting God-only-knows who else. Witches, he surmised. Perhaps she even had something to do with Willow's disappearance.

Tara hovered in the shadows of the hallway, watching the scene. Part of her knew she should be horrified, but another part of her thought that this was what happened when you messed with the dark arts. Spike really hadn't done anything wrong; the sorceress was already dead. Would they be able to keep Willow from suffering a similar fate? That, she didn't know.

.

Keep Finding Me by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 32: Keep Finding Me

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Dawn & Spike, Tara & Spike

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: I think it's so weird how many stories I'm seeing lately that are set in Cleveland. Kinda makes me wish I picked a more 'original' place to set mine... but I really am a Clevelander, so that's my excuse! I love this dirty, rusty, roughed-up city! :D

.

Madame Polina's phone had been ringing off the hook all the night. It seemed as though each one of her sisters in the Devon coven had called her separately to warn her about the mysterious spell they had all been under. Only she had already known, because she had been under it too. And it had been a curse, not a spell. And she was finally trying to sleep. And, dammit, there's a time difference between Devon and Cleveland! During the first few calls, she hadn't been awake enough to inquire about the secondary issue that was now her primary one: Rupert Giles. But by the fifth call, she had expressed her concern. By the tenth call, it had been confirmed to her that he could not be reached by telephone. Assurances had been made, however, that a convoy would be sent to check on him in-person, and contact would be attempted magically as well. Anything for their lone brother. All mention of the witch Willow had been forgotten in the sleep-addled commotion.

.

.

Okay, salad. I can do salad.

Buffy stood in the RV's galley staring at the collection of vegetables she picked up from the little side-of-the-road stand they passed somewhere in the Midwest. Dawn could live off of the junk food that Clem loved, but not Buffy. Ugh. Those heart-attack burgers they each had the other night were it for her. Just thinking about them was enough to make her go vegan.

They were in Kansas now, close to Missouri. Clem was incredible with the whole driving thing. It was like he barely needed a rest. A few stops to fill the gas tank up (she so owed him for that; she'd make Giles wire him the Council's money once they ended up in an actual place), but really that was it. And he definitely needed to teach her some tricks or two, because he was so smooth on those pedals that she was able to remain standing without any assistance from the counters.

Dawn had finally tired of singing and navigating. She was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor near the sofa, exactly between the driver's seats and the galley. Spread out around her were bits and pieces of Spike's memory chest. Buffy refused to leave it behind when they had packed for this trip, and Dawn was happy now that she'd been so stubborn. She loved that photo of Spike from the '40s—the one with that "Beauchard" person. It was weird to see him with black hair, but it still looked good. Especially with the way it curled a bit on top, crumpling in the breeze. And she could totally start crushing on him again with the sexy, careless way he had that cigarette dangling between his lips. There was a look on both of the men's faces that hid something—maybe a crime or even fear, though it was covered up kinda well, whatever it was. And their clothes! People just looked so much nicer back then. She glanced at Buffy in the worn-out shorts and tank top she was wearing, then at Clem who must not have realized he had Cheetos crushed along the sleeve of his t-shirt. Oh, and now he's picking his nose. Eww. Spike and that guy had pressed trousers on and simple button-down shirts with the collars wide open, sleeves rolled up to their biceps. She couldn't tell if they were at work or out enjoying themselves, but they looked content. That was almost foreign to her coming from Spike. The only times she ever saw even an inkling of that look was when he was helping her with homework. She scowled at Buffy for a moment (even though her sister was too busy trying not to chop off her fingers to notice). Why couldn't Buffy have treated Spike better all those years? It was so obvious that he genuinely loved her. Buffy always countered that she'd never understand. Well, for once, her older sister was right.

Sighing, she shifted so that she was on her stomach, propped up by her elbows, her feet gently tapping each other in the air behind her. They still had a ways to go, so she'd daydream. "Algiers" (wherever that was!) in 1942...it must have been so fun!

.

.

"I feel like I'm back in Algeria, trying to get one up on the fucking Nazis with the French buggering the Arabs to hell and the Americans dropping in to be the bleeding white hats," Spike growled.

Tara was staying out of his way. He was on the warpath now, having learned about Angel's involvement in the recent craziness that was his unlife. The good witch wasn't sure if there was anything she could do, but she wanted to try; if it would get her mind off of Willow's abandonment, she was all for it.

"Why don't we...try Buffy again?"

Spike knocked a nearly full bottle of vodka over at the suggestion.

"It's all about her, innit?" he yelled to no one in particular.

Tara's eyes began to tear up.

"He's always got to get his big, dirty mitts in and bollix it all to hell. First Dru, then Buffy. Can't just leave well enough alone, seein' as they didn't want anything to do with him to begin with. Oh no! Not Angelus Almighty!"

He vamped out and roared, shoving his chair aside.

Tara's shoulders slumped and she let out a soft sob. The hurt Spike was feeling seemed to attach itself to her own loss that she was trying to bear. It was too much.

When Spike caught sight of her defeated form, he shuddered to a stop. "Oh, pet."

He fell to his knees before her and wrapped his arms about her legs, pressing his face into her soft stomach. "Don't' cry, luv. I didn't mean that." He didn't know that she understood; her tears were for their mutual situation, but she was too emotional to voice it. "I'm just a bad, bad man. Don't listen to me."

Her hands went to his head, lightly holding his face there. Even in death, they both ached over the women they loved.

Once Tara began slumping more, Spike gathered her in his arms and carried her to his bed. She didn't protest. Instead, she clutched him tighter.

The good witch wanted to fill his dreaming mind with visions of happier times, but she just didn't have the energy in her to conjure that amount of magic. Instead, she nestled herself close, providing him with a soft body, if not a warm one.

He hugged her tight as if she were his own, and they sniffled against each other.

"God, look at me. Once upon a time I was feared. Now I'm just this."

Tara shook her head on his shoulder. "You're not just anything. You're a person. You are somebody. I can't be the only one who noticed that."

Spike gave a sad chuckle.

She placed her hand on his chest, sighing. "And obviously Angel thinks you're somebody. Otherwise, why would he have invested so much effort into all of this?"

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to give that bastard any consideration whatsoever. Moving to Cleveland was a way for him to separate himself from that life and that century-old relationship.

"I wonder how much time I've got yet?" Spike asked aloud. That was supposed to be a silent rhetorical question.

Tara lifted her head to look at him. "We don't know that he even has a clue where you are."

The frown that marred the vampire's chiseled face hardened slightly. "Oh, he's got his ways."

.

.

Angel sighed into his beer. He didn't know how the hell he was going to find Spike now. The demonic climate down in New Orleans threw him for a loop. He definitely had expected things to go easily. His plans always did; it was Spike who ran into glitches (and by 'glitches,' he generally meant Dru). The simple fact that he was sitting alone in this old bar drinking anything other than blood was proof of how pathetic he felt at the moment.

His intentions had been to find Buffy first, but now that she was on Spike's trail, he had to figure out a new route. Ideally, he wanted to intercept her. But this gnawing problem of Spike's whereabouts meant that he had effectively lost both of them.

He was about to order another drink when he smelled something oddly familiar. Outwardly, it was the tang of fresh blood. But beneath that was something else. Something that could only be...

.

.

Willow dabbed at her nose with her sleeve. God, not this again. She thought she was through with the whole bloody nose crap already. This was like Sunnydale all over. Her few steps out of the alley brought her closer to those old buildings she thought she saw. It hadn't been her imagination. In fact, the cobblestone building she was now approaching was like something out of her high school American history books. Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop? Now her bloody nose was making her very nervous. Had she teleported herself to the past? Oh God, oh God, oh God...

Her steps were tentative, wobbly. How was she going to get out of this mess now? She saw "Back to the Future" on TV once; were these people going to react oddly (or violently?) to her most-likely-unusual appearance? She'd puke right now if she could. Only, she had nothing in her stomach. She was starving. You're so stupid, Willow. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If you ever get back, you are begging Tara for help to control this stupid addiction. Yeah, that's right, it's an addiction, you idiot. Argh! Now I'm arguing with myself!

Gathering herself together, she crossed the street. The door was open to the blacksmith shop and it sounded like there was a nice amount of people inside. Is that normal? And then the scent that billowed out was less of whatever she imagined a blacksmith's place to smell like and more...well...alcoholic. Maybe they'd give her some food and water. She could offer to clean the shop or something. Oh no, what if they can tell I'm a witch? What if they burn witches at the stake? Oh God, oh God, oh God...

She was too consumed in panic to notice the hulking figure that was quickly exiting the building.

"Willow?" the voice asked, strong hands grasping her shoulders to keep their bodies from colliding.

When she looked up, she didn't know whether to scream or cheer. "Angel?" He was wearing modern clothes, which meant that she probably didn't end up in the past. The relief from that surged through her.

His face softened, apparently happy to see her as well, and her body couldn't help its reaction. She threw herself at him, hugging him tight, ignoring the voice in her head that was trying to remind her that she was still super-totally-definitely mad at him. This big lug was going to fix everything. (She hoped.)

...

Angel couldn't believe it. Just when he had thought he was forsaken, the Powers-That-Be sent him a sign! Willow! Sweet little Willow. Powerful little Willow. She was hugging him now, and he was so overjoyed at his luck that he broke from his tradition and hugged her back equally hard. This little cherub was going to fix everything, he just knew it. Now, how to ask for her help without giving away the whole plan?

...

Willow couldn't believe it. Angel was the last person (err, thing?) she thought could help her. But here he was, looking not-so-poor and not-so-starving and apparently was still quite soul-having. This could work. Yeah, so she was still mad at him over Spike, but maybe he could get her out of there. Get her back. Get her some help. He had to still feel bad about killing her fish, right? He could do her this favor as part of his redemption or whatever.

.

Heart and Soul by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 33: Heart and Soul

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Dawn & Clem, Spike & Tara, 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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: So sorry for the delay. School is back in session, so time is a luxury to me now. But, we're almost to the end now! Hang on, cuz the next couple chapters will be a bumpy ride!

.

They rode in companionable silence for a few hours, each one afraid that any conversation might reveal too many secrets to the other.

After the awkward reunion outside the bar, Willow's stomach growled so loudly through her small frame that Angel couldn't help but notice her hunger. When she revealed to him that she had no food or money, he treated her to a very early breakfast at the Café Du Monde, where he watched her eat more beignets than he thought possible.

As her stomach filled, Willow blabbed her way through the situation. Angel tried hard not to let her see his disappointment upon learning that her powers were tapped out down there. And then he tried hard not to let her see his excitement upon learning that she had been staying with Spike. He couldn't let her go now.

Before resorting to kidnapping, he came up with a likely story. He was on his way to New York City to bring down Wolfram & Hart's base office there. He no longer had access to their corporate jet (for obvious reasons), but he managed to swipe one of those great cars with the necro-tempered glass. So, he was driving there. And, out of the goodness of his heart, he could make a little detour to drop Willow off in Cleveland. Hell, maybe Spike would want to help him with his Wolfram & Hart take-over?

Willow bought it.

He had been prepared to weave even more threads to form an elaborate tale, but apparently she was still the naive little girl he hoped she'd be. Good, because he had more planning and strategizing that he needed to do. But, only when he was sure Willow was not going to get powdered sugar all over the expensive leather upholstery in his car did Angel even consider opening the door for her.

.

.

"Wow. Are you sure this isn't a Hellmouth?"

Dawn and Buffy peered out of the RV windows as Clem drove down the wrong street. They had made it to Detroit finally but were having a heck of a time trying to find that very-far-removed friend of Clem.

"Uhhh... you guys might want to make sure all the windows are locked. And the doors," the saggy-skinned demon replied, skirting Dawn's question. The look on Buffy's face told him that she knew what Dawn had been referring to: the day she came back to them, when the Hellions had ravaged Sunnydale.

The Slayer spoke up then. "I should patrol. While you guys are still looking."

Dawn and Clem shot her an are-you-serious? glance.

"I mean, it sure looks like these poor people need it." She tried to soften what she wanted to say. What she really meant was: this is too much like Sunnydale, too much of a reminder of loss—of him, of her sense of self, purpose.

When Dawn didn't reply to her, she added: "I need it." I need to feel in control of something—anything—again.

The younger Summers girl frowned, but went over to her duffle bag and pulled out Mr. Pointy. "You're lucky I rescued this for you." It was all she'd say to her sister's request.

Buffy held the stake in her hands as though it were a priceless artifact. It probably was.

This was not on Clem's list of possible activities they'd try in Detroit. Not at all. He cringed but relented, slowing down so that she could hop out.

Not until they were each certain that cell phones were in place and working did Dawn and Clem let Buffy go.

.

.

Spike wished he could let Tara go. Not that he didn't want to be around her—not that at all. It's just that he wished she had the freedom to remain corporeal wherever she wanted to be. They still had no idea why she only materialized when he was near her. He definitely felt bad about that when she was around Willow. It took so much effort for her to gain any sense of touch with the other witch, and his soul ached for them like it ached when he thought of his absent Buffy. What was he supposed to do, stay in the room with them so they could make love? Hell, he'd do it if Glinda asked, and he was sure it wouldn't be a horrible chore, but there was something called dignity. And privacy. And respect. He loved the good witch enough to want to give her those.

Which is why he cast his eyes down, away from the mirror right now. She had been crying all day over Willow, and it broke his unbeating heart. He didn't know what to do. When he asked her what might help, she replied that she wanted to be warm again. So he thought and thought and, being room temperature himself, he came up with one idea: a hot bath. The only problem—she wouldn't be able to feel it unless she was corporeal, and she was only corporeal when he was near her. But, he was a gentleman under all the swagger, and she took him up on the offer.

So, there they were now—Spike sitting on the bathroom tile with his back to the side of the tub, and Tara immersed to her chin in steaming hot water and bubbles.

"Do you think she's safe, wherever she is?" the good witch asked softly.

Spike didn't know if she meant Willow or Buffy, so he answered for both. "She can hold her own, luv. Don't you worry about that."

She reached a warm, soapy hand out to his, gripping it tight. He returned the squeeze, running his thumb over her knuckles. This poor, poor miracle. He knew he'd do anything to protect her.

.

.

Drusilla had been in the bath for what felt like hours. Giles was thankful he had used the facilities before she had this idea, otherwise his bladder might have burst. She was carrying on again, caught in some sort of vision that he couldn't translate. Was it something about Angel? Or the prophecy? Or just another argument she'd had with Miss Violet? She fussed and fussed, not even wanting the blood he offered her straight from the tap. Instead, she pouted that Spike always drew her a bath when she was unhinged. He was discovering that he had a lot to live up to.

So, he drew the bath, then he had to wash her hair very meticulously, rolling it up into curls while it was damp so that the shape would set.

When the doorbell rang, he nearly sighed with relief. Even if it was bad news, at least it was a moment for him to go back to his own life.

"Rupert!" the duet of voices sang out. It was Gertrude and Alva from the coven in Devon. They took in his slightly disheveled appearance and embraced him together, happy that they had made it in time. He did not miss the looks of relief that passed over the witches' faces when they found him alive and well.

"Oh, thank goodness you're all right! We've been trying to phone you," Gertrude continued as Alva peered at him more closely.

"Me? I've been trying to reach you, actually."

"What happened?" all three of them asked in unison.

Giles deferred to them, and they shared a tale that he wouldn't have believed if he hadn't spent so much time on a Hellmouth.

"A voodoo curse?" he asked, as if they were stretching the truth.

"We were sure it affected you too," Gertrude replied.

Alva butted in. "Polina was sure. Or, at least, sure something had happened to you. Insisted that we come to find you."

Giles was about to say something, but the creak of the bathroom door stopped him.

"Oh, you have company..." Gertrude's apologetic words died as Drusilla approached, naked and glistening. The color on the witches' faces matched that of the Watcher.

"Why, are these for me?" the vampire asked with delight.

.

Far Gone and Out by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 34: Far Gone And Out

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Angel & Willow?, Giles/Drusilla

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: This chapter gets going with the action again, so you might want to re-read the last one first since it's been a few weeks from my last update. Next chapter is the explosive finale!

.

Even after all these years, Willow was still learning things about Angel. Her latest discovery was that he didn't listen to the radio when he was driving. They were in Cincinnati now, and that whole 24-hour trip was done almost wordlessly. A long part of it involved Willow being in a sleepy food coma, but the other part was just...awkward.

She remembered that Angel wasn't much of a conversationalist, but this was weird. Willow didn't like the quiet. Once she was awake, she had tried her best to reign in all the things she wanted to know, all the things she really wanted to say. Being alone in a car with him was probably not the best place to hash out all that.

But this silence was too much. It broke down her reserve and allowed the words to spill out on their own.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Her soft voice belied the anger behind the question.

Angel had dreaded this one, but he already formulated his answer. It took him a moment, though, to determine the tone he'd take.

The delay in his answer made Willow think she hadn't been clear. She was always thinking and speaking in fragments. "A-about Spike."

An apologetic sigh came from the vampire. "I wanted to," he lied. "But... Giles thought it best not to say anything." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. To his relief, he saw her tense body slump a bit in defeat.

"Giles..." The name was uttered from a new level of pain. Of course Giles would want this news to be silenced. She grit her teeth.

"And when he told me she was in Italy, dating again... I just couldn't ruin that for her, you know?" He could tell Willow was looking right at him now. Time to kick it up a notch. "Not after..." His breath hitched. "I told her all those years ago that I wanted her to have a life I couldn't give her. So I had to keep that promise." He paused for effect. "No matter how much..." He turned his head gently to show how conflicted he was.

The darkness in her scowled and spat "do you believe this shit?" while the goodness was impressed. Had Angel finally understood redemption and nobility after all those years away from them in Los Angeles? Willow tried to read his aura, but she still felt tapped out. So, she went with goodness. That's what Tara kept trying to remind her, right? Always pick goodness. Trust in goodness and you'll never go astray.

"Even if she..." Willow almost couldn't bring herself to say it. "...has a boyfriend now... She still has to know. He sacrificed himself for us... for her..." She felt her heart breaking at all the different ways this could go now. She had made Spike so hopeful that they could find Buffy. That Buffy would be waiting for him. "Please help me look for her. I don't care what stupid Giles thinks. She has to know. Please..."

Angel saw her then, all fragile and teary-eyed.

It took everything he had to keep Angelus in check.

.

.

She didn't know how Clem and Dawn found her, but she was thankful for their tenacity. They arrived on the scene in no more than five minutes, even though she had no idea where she was or what shape she was in. Dawn's insistence on cell phones with GPS had definitely paid off.

Buffy had been huddling in an alley after the attack, not so much hiding as hurt. The pain was so intense that she could barely stand, and with how faint she felt, she could guess that she'd lost quite a bit of blood.

All she had wanted was a good fight. And some clues as to where Spike was. She got both. But, at what cost?

She had cleared a vamp nest in an old warehouse, not realizing that some Vahrall demons had hired the half-breeds. Buffy dodged the demons that rushed at her through the settling dust, but in the commotion she hadn't noticed the smaller one from behind. His talons sliced into the soft flesh of her side, hooking in and twisting before she shoved Mr. Pointy into his eye and his dying body fell away from her. She managed to trip one of the demons onto an upended chair, and he skewered himself on the dull leg. Another took the strange artifact the vampires had been protecting and scurried off. The final Vahrall rushed her once more, and she danced with him as only a Slayer could. Buffy didn't know how much longer she could last like this, but she knew she didn't want to die here. So she pressed the attack harder and when she had the demon mortally wounded, she risked a question. She hoped that his state of disgrace would help her case. It did. In return for a warrior's death, he told her that he knew of Spike. The vampire was in Cleveland. He was the Master of the Hellmouth.

When Clem got her into the RV, Dawn bandaged her up as best as possible. Buffy wanted to tell her sister how proud she was of her, such deft hands, such calm under pressure. But to open her mouth meant she risked Dawn finding out that the injuries were grave. She couldn't do that to the girl. No, they had to press on. And fast. She didn't know if her Slayer healing could fix this. And if she wasn't going to make it, then she at least wanted to make sure that it was in Spike's arms she'd die.

.

.

Giles thought he had died about eight deaths. There was no way that scene had unfolded before him. How could he ask for the coven's help now?

Gertrude had ushered herself and Alva out as soon as the shock wore off, clearly embarrassed. Alva shot him the most disgusted look he'd ever been given, saying under her breath that it was clear now why he hadn't answered his phone. Dru, on the other hand, pouted when she saw their quick retreat—her face that of a child whose favorite toy had been taken away.

But the timing of the witches' departure was fortunate. For, not even a few minutes later, the vampire clutched her side, gasping.

Giles wanted to ask "what now?" but something in her actions this time told him that this wasn't mere dramatics.

"Drusilla?" He reached for her before she fell to the floor.

"Hurry. Hurry," she whispered, her eyes glassine and pleading.

The Watcher had no idea what she meant or what was happening. He picked her up as carefully as he could and carried her to his bed. Was she sick? Having another vision? He tried to peel back her hands to see if she had an injury on her side, but she wouldn't let him.

"Must be protected. Please. Protect..." Over and over, Dru mumbled this.

So Giles cradled her small form, rocking her. He'd protect her, although against what he had no idea. As he tried to comfort the vampire, he concentrated his thoughts on Polina, the coven sister who had been worried about him. Polina was one of the most powerful in the coven as well as the most connected. The fact that she lived on a Hellmouth was not forgotten by him. Perhaps she knew what was going on. Perhaps she could find Willow.

.

Atrocity Exhibition by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
CHAPTER 35: Atrocity Exhibition

CHAPTER RATING: T/M (for violence, language, and Character Death Warning!)

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

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: The fragments of songs Dru sings come from the following Current 93 songs: "At the Blue Gates of Death," "To Blackened Earth," and "Mary Waits in Silence".

CHAPTER NOTES: Ahhhh... here we are now! This chapter is a lot longer than my usual work. It will be switching points-of-view quite a bit as the action moves and becomes more frantic; that was not accidental. Nor was the ending. (I won't torture you, though; there will follow an Epilogue.) There's a British comedy reference, so Google Rik Mayall and Benny Hill if you don't know who they are.

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Okay, so maybe this would turn out to be one of the dumbest ideas he'd ever had. But right now, Spike was pretty much working with nothing. Surely, this couldn't hurt.

He and Tara were waiting at the bus stop for the 326 to head down Detroit Avenue to Madame Polina's place. Spike had the good witch gathered close to him, hoping to keep her at least a bit drier from the rain that had begun to fall. They were both soaked, but she still huddled against him. He found some comfort from that, despite all the bad luck they'd had recently. Please, let the fortune teller help us.

Willow was the freshest thing on their collective minds, but from deep in his heart a shiver rose—the familiar feeling he got when the Slayer was around. And not just any slayer. Buffy.

.

.

The Slayer had spent the past twenty minutes or so in the RV's bathroom, heaving. She hadn't eaten anything since well before her doomed fight, but the pain in her side was so overwhelming that she was nauseous. Dawn changed the bandages for her when they were in Toledo and again when they passed by Sandusky. The bleeding had slowed by the time they got to Avon, but it hadn't stopped. Considering her rapid Slayer healing, this worried her.

Putting the lid down on the toilet, she gripped the small sink counter to sit for a moment. Please still love me, she mentally begged Spike. The tears she had held inside made slick trails over her cheeks then. All this commotion to reach him, and she might not even make it!

She whimpered with the pain, both physical and emotional. Why hadn't she realized how she felt years ago? So much heartache could have been avoided. Would they have destroyed The First quicker (and with less casualties) if she had just accepted what she was feeling? What would her life—all their lives—be like now if she hadn't been so...

Angel. Everything about her heart boiled down to him. Sitting there in that tiny little room, she was struck by the realization. All her failed relationships after him...they were due to her unskilled coping mechanism. He shattered her heart and her understanding of love. Of course she wouldn't be able to make something work after how he "taught" her!

Buffy let out an anguished cry. She could kill him. Maybe she couldn't before, back when she should have, back when it would have counted. But now, with the full awareness of how much he had manipulated her and her life (no, again, all of their lives)...

The thin door shook with a light knock. "Buffy? We're off the highway now. Clem says we're in Lakewood. Kinda like being back in California, huh?" When Buffy said nothing, Dawn continued. "He's gonna take surface streets now. So we can start looking."

Buffy ran her fingers over the tiny window, peering out. Rain was falling now, and she smiled a thin, bitter smile at the shivering couple waiting for a bus, hoping beyond hope for one last chance...

.

.

"Boy, this place hasn't changed much."

Willow frowned at Angel's comment as they exited I-77 in downtown Cleveland. The vampire took the turn like the typical tourist, too fast and too sharp. The water that had puddled against the curb splashed high and managed to drench a homeless man who had been sitting on the grassy berm, ruining his "will work for food" sign.

She was about to say something to him about that, but he continued.

"So, where to?" Angel had to use his practiced, nonchalant voice now. He was filled with a sense of relief and excitement upon getting to see Spike again. But first things first—making sure he intercepted Buffy. This whole thing would be shot to hell (no pun intended) if she got to Spike first.

"West."

"Where west?"

Willow bit her lip. "Umm...I'm kinda not sure."

The vampire turned to her.

"I...didn't really pay attention." She blushed.

His demon rose a bit at the flush of blood (and out of impatient agitation), but he swallowed it down. "How do you expect to get back, then?"

The little witch hesitated. She could tell he was irritated by how controlled his facial movements were. Something inside her itched from this. A lot.

"If you could just drive down one of the main roads, I'd recognize it," Willow offered. She hoped that would be true. "Here, try this one. Superior Avenue. See, Superior; that's probably the best choice!"

.

.

Giles was awoken by an unfamiliar voice.

"We don't all have Watcher's Council money to pay for our ingredients, Rupert. This is getting costly!"

He blinked his eyes and found himself curled in his bed, still holding Drusilla. She was unmoving and her eyes were closed, apparently having cried herself to sleep. He stroked her hair gently, carefully. Poor girl.

Just as he was about to nestle himself back down against her, the voice shouted out at him again.

"Fix your damn phone!"

.

.

"Fuck!"

Spike craned his neck to look down the street. "Where's the fucking bus?"

He felt the witch's hand rest gently on his sternum. "It's only been five minutes. This is Cleveland, you know, not New York."

A sigh escaped his lips, and he patted his pocket for a cigarette. "Yeah, well, they should be more considerate. I mean, we could freeze to death out here."

Spike flicked the soggy cigarette to the puddle they were standing in, huffy.

Tara couldn't help but let out a flat laugh at his unintentional quip. "You know, the Scoobies never gave you credit for how funny you are." That crooked smile decorated her face. "Though, maybe that's cuz you're kinda more Rik Mayall than Benny Hill," she thought aloud, trying to justify their past reaction to him.

Spike rolled his eyes, then punched some numbers into his cell phone. It rang a few times before a gruff voice yelled on the other end. Spike yelled back "get your ass over here; I need you."

Tara looked up at him. She guessed by the tone that he was talking to Gar.

"Bugger that. Do it later. I need you now."

He broke away and started pacing. "For fuck's sake... you. can. re-. heat. it!"

The witch held her head.

"Arrrrrrrrrgh!" Spike growled as he ended the call, frustrated. Boy, did he miss the DeSoto.

"Right. Up for a little walk, pet?"

.

.

"Here," Buffy said, surprising the drivers. They hadn't heard her come out of the bathroom, and now her dry voice sounded much more strained. "Stop here."

She pointed to an abandoned factory building just a bit east of W. 98th Street. Something had fluttered inside her like a few coaxing fingers of the Hellmouth.

Clem wasn't too sure. After his warning in Detroit went unheeded and the Slayer got injured, he was definitely not comfortable about letting her walk into a possible trap here on the Hellmouth. "Hey, umm... maybe we can stop at that gas station up the road... where it's well-lit. You know, for some directions. To...uh..."

Buffy shook her head as she held tight to the arm of the sofa. "No. It's here. Stop."

Dawn looked at the saggy-skinned demon and begged him to do as Buffy wished, even if she only said it with her eyes. She could tell that Buffy was worse than she'd let on. Dawn tried not to panic and instead wanted to make things easier for her sister. Even if no one else did, Dawn had definitely learned something from the past, from Sunnydale.

So, Clem reluctantly pulled the RV to the curb.

"You should stay here where it's safe. I'll call you."

"No way," Dawn replied, reaching her hand out to Buffy. "This time, we stay together."

Buffy wanted to argue. She didn't want to have to worry about anyone but herself, not with the shape she was in. But, she had also begun to see the woman that Dawn was starting to become. Loyal, brave, and resourceful. If this was going to be the end, Buffy wanted to proudly watch her sister carry on the fight.

"All right, but Clem—I want you to stay here and...protect the fort."

He looked at her nervously.

"She means keep this beast running in case we need to haul ass!" Dawn charged, giddy with excitement as the prospect of being Buffy's right-hand-man.

So, Buffy and Dawn made their way into the ruins—though not before Clem used his unique facial defense tactic to scare off some thugs who had looked to be getting ready to make a drug deal. When the saggy-skinned demon didn't sense any more humans at the site, he wished them luck and took up his place in the metal watchtower otherwise known as his old RV. Gathering some Diet Pepsi and a bag of Doritos, he settled into the driver's seat again for what could be a long night. Cell phones were all charged, and his sat there next to him patiently.

The silence gave him time to think. He didn't know much about Slayer health, but even he could tell that she was quite unwell. This journey was a long one, especially now with the battered shape she was in. He didn't want to be a killjoy, but if wishes really did come true, Spike would have been back in their lives already. Finding him on a Hellmouth was like finding a flea in a basket of Persians.

Clem leaned back, trying to keep crumbs out of his skin flaps. Those crunchy corn chips were as painful as they were nacho-cheesy. Stuffing his face, he didn't notice the sharp black sports car pulling off on the other side of the road.

.

.

"I think it's farther west than this," Willow said nervously. She didn't know why Angel had parked on the side of the road here. Next to them was an Arab grocery and on the other side of the street, bordered by decrepit row houses, was a vacant factory building.

Angel kept his eyes on the crumbling building. "I need to check this out. I have a feeling that what I'm..." He corrected himself quickly: "that there's trouble. I've got to help."

Isn't this how horror movies begin? Willow felt a thickness in her stomach. The twinges of the Hellmouth's addictive power were not helping matters. She reluctantly followed behind him as he skulked towards the factory. Her attention was caught for a moment by the warm light coming out of the oddly-placed RV they passed by. The inhabitant was really enjoying his Doritos, if the bag in his face was any indication. Lucky him. She wiggled her fingers and felt a teeny bit of the crackle of magic. Ooh! Lucky her, too—maybe she'd be able to tap the Hellmouth finally for help.

.

.

"Birth, earth, and dawn," the vampire whispered from beneath the tattered, century-old lace overlay of her gown. It had risen over her, cloaking her like a web. She was curled there out of the way of the Watcher, who had been working on the phone line. Tearing out the phone back when Angel had called him created more damage than he anticipated. He was nearly at the point of hiring an actual repairman, but Dru's delicate nature right now made him think otherwise.

He felt awful for having scolded her minutes ago, but this repair couldn't wait; her game could.

So now she pouted and sang herself uncomfortable little songs.

"He waits in the corner, watching

He waits in the quarter..."

Giles swore under his breath when the patch he had attempted didn't work. He looked over at the vampire and frowned.

She had gone back to her own inner world. For a short while when they both woke, she was lucid. An attempt was made to put into words what had been ailing her recently, but by the time she thought up what to say, her mind had fluttered, and the madness caught hold. Giles noticed that happening more and more, and its cause concerned him.

What he didn't notice right now were the tears that trickled down Drusilla's porcelain face.

"When you fall then

So shall I

As you stand in ruins

Ripped of light

Ripped of stars

Made of dust

And everything changes..."

.

.

"Is this what it was like when you guys went back to the old high school after that Mayor stuff?"

Dawn stepped carefully over some dead rats.

"Nah. More like when we went back to the... oh." The factory. Spike's factory.

The younger Summers girl's eyes shot up, then around, misinterpreting the Slayer's interrupted response. "What is it?"

Buffy's mind came back to the present. "Huh? No, there's nothing... Wait." She stilled, gesturing to her sister to remain silent.

She thought she felt something. Something strangely familiar. A tingle she hadn't gotten in a long time. And then there was a voice that she couldn't possibly forget.

.

.

"Are you sure this is where we should be?" Willow asked Angel. She was getting more and more uncomfortable the further they went into the abandoned structure. This was too much like that old factory she and Xander had been trapped in. (Yeah, and remember how well that turned out.) And something about Angel's aura had changed. She didn't know when that happened—and she still wasn't as good at seeing them as Tara was—but now that some of her magic was returning, she noticed. Was this a trap?

"Where are we...?"

Angel reached back and put a hand over her mouth. The action caught her breath and she stiffened. He noticed that and softened his demeanor, gesturing that he merely meant for her to be quiet. When she relaxed slightly, he motioned to a corner. There he stood still and waited, watching.

.

.

"You doin' alright, pet?"

Spike found himself having to slow down a bit to fall into step with the good witch.

Tara nodded next to him. For so long now she hadn't needed to use muscles; she just floated and appeared wherever she needed to. But the more time she spent near him, the more corporeal she stayed. Trade-offs were trade-offs, though; she missed being able to feel things on the plane of existence, so she certainly wasn't complaining. Still, the good witch felt sorry for being a burden like this on Spike—they were in a hurry, and she was making him lag.

"I'm afraid it's a bit farther yet. But if the bloody bus ever shows up, we'll catch it, yeah?"

Tara nodded again, and Spike pulled her to him with a reassuring squeeze.

.

.

Buffy's pulse sped up. There's no way she just heard what she did.

Dawn paid attention to Buffy's body language and neared her.

The Slayer had a hand on her side, hoping to temper the pain a bit. She inched forward, following the trail that the voice had traveled.

It took a few minutes, but the two women eventually found their way down a dark corridor. Moonlight filtered in through the cracked windowpanes and stripped roof, but it was barely enough. Dawn wanted to use her cell phone as a flashlight, but Buffy shook her head. The darkness needed to protect them in case this was a trick.

But as they approached the target area, Willow gasped in recognition of the figures. At the frightened sound, Dawn reached for Mr. Pointy until the witch showed herself.

"Buffy! Dawnie!"

Ignoring Angel's earlier warning, Willow dashed from their corner hiding place when she saw her friends.

"No way!" Dawn cried, meeting the witch in an embrace. "How the heck did you get here, of all places?"

Willow moved to Buffy, hugging her tight enough to elicit a cringe from the Slayer. "Oh, you wouldn't believe it..."

Buffy stiffened then and instantly lost all awareness of what surrounded her but the cause of the spidery feeling at the back of her neck. "Angel."

Dawn looked confused at Buffy's answer and the way she stood, her eyes almost accusatory. Or, maybe it was just the way the moonlight played on her features.

The sound of footsteps echoed before the vampire made his way out of the shadows, a smile on his face. "Buffy."

Slowly, Buffy's stance changed. In place of the defensive, injured girl, she became The Slayer—all muscle and instinct and calculation. "You cold-hearted, mother-fucking bastard..."

Dawn and Willow could have given a collective gulp. "He...rescued me in New Orleans, Buffy. Came up here to..." Willow was cut off by the sight of Buffy hurling herself at the big lug.

Angel should have expected this reaction, but he was not quick enough. Buffy's fist connected with his face, cracking something. "Buffy, wait..." he muttered, trying to grasp her hands to stop the attack early.

But she was having none of it. "Don't you dare, Angel." She threw another punch, this time catching his forehead.

He stumbled back a couple steps, but managed to steady himself. Buffy was favoring one side, so he considered using that to his advantage in the hopes that he could get her to stop and listen to him for a moment.

If Buffy hadn't been so consumed with rage, she'd have noticed he sized her up. Perhaps not like prey, but with his strength that was a moot point. He shoved her with the heel of his hand. She twisted momentarily in an attempt to dodge the touch but doing so only re-opened her unhealed wound.

The pained whimper she made sent Dawn to Buffy's side, only Angel was already moving towards a back-up shove. His hand caught Dawn's head and connected solidly. The momentum forced her skull to thump against the concrete wall, and she slid to the floor.

Their reactions sparked simultaneously. "Dawnie!" "I didn't mean..." "Oh God!"

Angel moved to check on the youngest, but Willow's fingers crackled with power.

"Congelāte!" the witch commanded, her pupils darkening her eyes.

Only, something went wrong. Instead of freezing Angel in place so that he couldn't cause any more harm, the spell made Willow motionless. She couldn't even move her lips to speak. Instead, she stood stock-still, her eyes forced to watch the tragic scene before her.

.

.

As the blond couple passed the West Blvd. rapid station, something stirred within each of them. Spike twitched, his senses on high-alert. Tara felt the odd tear of planar fabric from a spell having been done. They looked at each other, then Spike took the good witch's hand in his and followed his nose.

They ended up by an old RV. From the sounds coming out of it, someone inside was asleep. But that's not what caught Spike's attention. The heady whiff of blood (and something else, something too familiar to be considered) made him rush the condemned building, apathetic to the consequences.

What they found changed the stakes of the game.

It was the Slayer's blood, his Slayer. How she got there, he didn't know, he didn't care, he didn't wait around to learn. Finding Angel crouching over her in this broken state brought forth his demon so quickly that all anyone else could see was a blur of activity as Spike rushed his grand-sire.

Buffy was bleeding heavily now, and she knew she had to be hallucinating. She was waiting for Angel to give her the final death blow, but instead she saw wispy visions of her savior, Spike. And then...Tara? Oh God, oh God, no, not yet, I'm not ready...

"Please, I can't go. Not until I find Spike. Just let me tell him I love him. Just let me hold him for a moment. Then...then you can take me with you." Tears were streaming down the Slayer's face.

Tara reached for her, slowly realizing what Buffy thought was happening. "No, Buffy, we're here to help." When their hands touched, both of the women looked at each other with wide eyes. How was that happening?

Behind the good witch, Angel and Spike were trading blows. It had gotten violent now, with various factory relics being used as weapons. Spike was so involved that he didn't even share one verbal barb.

Blood covered Tara's hands as she tried to assess the situation. Buffy was right to think that she was her angelic guide; the witch could see that the Slayer didn't have much time left if she remained like this. The injury was so deep that Tara needed ingredients to cast the kind of healing spell required. She looked behind her and noticed both Dawn and Willow, each trapped by their current conditions as well as the vampire duel; she couldn't reach them if she wanted to. So, without having many options, Tara tried to channel as much of the Hellmouth's energy she could handle to help Buffy, hoping that Spike could hold his own.

The power struggle between the two vampires was starting to work in Angel's favor now. Spike had come in hard and fast at the beginning, but not hard enough to defeat an opponent like Angel. The older vampire wouldn't admit this to anyone, but he had just gotten what he wanted. His heart broke a bit over Buffy's condition, but he hadn't created it, and with how bad it was, she wouldn't have made it even if he hadn't come along. So, if he could just keep up the fight with Spike long enough, he'd have the ending he wanted. Just like the old days. The fighting, and the fighting, and the fighting...with the resting, and the feeding, and the healing and the making up.

But, it was getting out of control. Like wild animals, they were tearing each other apart. Even as an underdog, Spike fought to win. He'd die like this if he had to. The overwhelming scent of blood and violence caused Angelus to rise to the surface. Angel was not strong enough to defeat that. So, the demons fought like never before, for their highest prizes, with every fiber of their being.

Tara couldn't watch them. Instead, she pressed her hand to Buffy's side, trying desperately to seal the wound or at least slow the blood loss. She wouldn't let her die. She couldn't. Ignoring what was happening behind her, she put all of her energy into trying to save Buffy.

She didn't notice Dawn stirring. Or rising, shakily. Or swallowing her fear and approaching the vampires. Or reaching out, her face in extreme concentration and purpose, her touch tearing the exhibition apart, screaming green light opening a rift. There. Within.

The terrified cry Willow released was only heard in her mind as she watched Dawn's beautiful hair become covered in an explosion of dust.

.

.

From across the pond, Drusilla clutched at her heart, falling to the floor. As if to remind herself, she gasped:

"And something is finished

And something is born

In the place where words cease

In the moment when

Actions no longer matter..."

She had to stop there while she cried softly, sending a little prayer to the Heaven she'd never see. In the bed beside her, the Watcher slept on.

.

Epilogue: Home Again by MaireAilbhe

Author's Notes:
EPILOGUE: Home Again

CHAPTER RATING: T

CHAPTER PAIRING: Giles/Drusilla, Buffy/?

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!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: I've left some threads still dangling because I will be doing a sequel to this story. Time to up the rating! I want to thank all of you for following this story all these months. I hope it was an enjoyable trip! Special thanks to ginar369, cavemenftw, fatefox, PeaceHeather, pfeifferpack, spuffy luvr, and sweetprincipale, whose comments, messages, and discussions helped inspire me to take some risks with these characters.

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He could taste the other vampire's ashes from the gasp of breath he took at that last moment. That acrid flavor, coupled with adrenaline and the blows he took to his face and torso, forced him on his hands and knees. He coughed up blood as if he were drowning on it—which might not be too far from the truth. The haze in the building was disorienting, but he made out both Dawn and Willow standing to either side of him. They looked to be in shock.

He was definitely battered, but not nearly broken enough to forget that the scent of the Slayer's blood was what drew him there in the first place. It overwhelmed him now, and his eyes, still in their demon form, spotted her slumped against the opposite wall in a pool of it.

"I killed him," Dawn's hoarse voice broke the silence. "I...didn't mean to...I just..." Her body shuddered, but stayed rooted in one place. That is, until she took in the full tableau before her, and her eyes settled on Tara.

The vampire did the same as he gathered himself together. The good witch paused, not sure what to do until she watched the young girl crumple to the floor, fainting. When Tara took her leave of the dying Slayer, that's when he pounced.

.

.

Giles woke with a start at the ring-ring of the phone. The sound was so jarring, having not heard it in a while, that he fumbled with the receiver. "Yes, hello," he replied breathlessly.

"Well, it's about time!" the deeply American voice on the other end scolded. "We could be in the middle of another apocalypse!"

Giles grumbled. "Then I imagine you'd be quite silly to spend precious time trying to ring me across the pond."

He heard a sigh in response.

His fingers massaged his forehead. "I'm sorry, Polina. It's been...challenging...here as of late."

By that, he meant Drusilla. But, he noticed now that she was missing from the bed.

What he didn't realize was that she was still collapsed on the floor. Only, instead of being a blubbering mess, she was calm and collected. A sense of lucidity had washed over her a few minutes ago, reminding her of a long-forgotten time. A time before Angelus.

She understood now that it wasn't loss she was feeling. It was power. The power that came from being the eldest of the Aurelian line.

.

.

Everything was blurry for her right now, and his eyes were nearly bruised shut. That didn't matter. They sensed each other from the start. Neither knew what the other's reaction would be this time, but surrounded by remnants and reminders of death, neither let their worries stop them.

"Am I dead?" Buffy asked as he moved close to her, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't a mirage.

"No, I am," Spike replied with his usual snark.

She let out a painful laugh, and he clutched her desperately, burying his face in her neck, her hair. Every ounce of energy she had left, she put into returning the embrace—until their mouths met, and they were tasting the metallic tang of blood from each others' battle wounds.

"If I had known..."

Spike tried to shush her, knowing what she was about to say. "They lied to us both, luv." He ran his torn hands over her hair and skin, memorizing her touch again.

"I couldn't bear it. I can't bear it. Not one more moment away from you." Her kisses were more frantic now.

He gripped her shoulders, maneuvering her gently so that he could inspect her injury. The bandages were soaked through, allowing the blood to stain her top. "Gotta get you outta here, pet."

With Tara attending Dawn and Willow (who was still in some sort of stasis), Spike was on his own. But this was nothing new. He knew how to care for his women. Buffy would make it, even if he had to move Heaven, Earth, and Bloody Hell. Isn't that what he told her back in Sunnydale?

She called him her Champion. This time, he wouldn't stop proving it to her.

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