| In The Midnight Light by Holly |
| Chapter #12 - Part XII |
| A/N: Giles and Xander in this chapter are a little more stereotypical in this chapter than I like writing, but considering that it follows Jenny’s death in Season 2, I felt it was appropriate. Just warning you: teh!cliché! Previously: Having confessed their true feelings to each other, Spike claimed Buffy and she accepted. Meanwhile, the Scoobies are researching Acathla to preempt Angelus’s attempt to destroy the world. Spike didn’t like the way the old man was looking at him, though honestly, he couldn’t say he was surprised. Not with his arms around his mate’s waist and his mouth irrevocably drawn to her throat every few seconds. And to her credit, Buffy didn’t seem to mind. If she even noticed her Watcher’s disapproving glare, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she rested against him, her back pressed to his chest, and spoke when addressed as though she hadn’t just broken every rule in the Slayer Handbook. It wasn’t like Spike could help himself. For the first time in a century, the demon was entirely at peace. Perhaps they could have been more discreet, but except for the occasional death glare, Spike didn’t care. Buffy’s back was pressed to his chest, her fingers laced through his where his hand rested at her belly, and the contact was so soothing that he was fighting off a purr. He’d heard that vampires became very amorous in the immediate period following a claim, though that understanding in no way prepared him for the wealth of what he felt. Every brush of her flesh against his made him tremble. He couldn’t stop touching her if he tried. “So,” Buffy said, “lemme get this straight. We’re talking a sword-in-the-stone thing, here.” “There’s a chance the translation is faulty,” Giles replied, though his tone told Spike that he didn’t believe it. “But yes—in its simplest form, we are dealing with a realized fairytale. If Angel succeeds in pulling the sword from Acathla’s chest—” “The whole world does a loopty-loop into Hell.” She nodded. “I think we got that part covered.” “The legend is allegedly written on Acathla’s sword in Aramaic,” he continued. Then paused. “Though Acathla’s legacy is about as renowned as the story of Arthur and the true sword-in-the-stone.” Spike nodded thoughtfully. “For a time in the ’80s, Angelus tried to get me interested in history. Never saw the appeal.” “So you didn’t know your peoples’ sword-in-the-stone story?” Buffy teased. “My poor, deprived boyfriend. This explains so much.” He smirked and nipped at her throat. “Quiet, you.” “The ’80s?” Xander murmured, frowning. “I thought Angel’d been all…Soul Boy for at least a century now.” His eyes narrowed and shifted to Buffy. “Is this another thing you’re just now telling us?” “The 1880s, I believe,” Giles corrected, smothering a cough. “When you live for centuries, you have to be more specific.” He paused and his expression hardened. “Though I suppose that’s something that Buffy will eventually know firsthand. Isn’t that right, William?” A very still beat settled through the library. “Giles—” Spike growled and tightened his arms around his mate, his mouth brushing a kiss over his mark possessively. “That’s not up for discussion, Watcher,” he said. “We’re discussin’ the apocalypse, remember? Somehow, I think that’s slightly more important than your slayer’s bedmate.” He felt Buffy’s flush as vibrantly as he would his own, but he couldn’t help the streak of pride that raced through him when she didn’t berate his vulgarity. Giles’s jaw hardened, and though he resented it, there was something to be respected in the hate that colored the old man’s eyes. It took a lot for a human to hate that much; he’d seen it a time or two, but never from one as stuffy and proper as Buffy’s Watcher. Then again, Spike had been around long enough to know that there was more than met the eye about everyone. “Guys,” said the soft-spoken redhead. The chit who’d had the bloody brilliant idea of reensouling Angelus in the first place. “We really…ummm…with the plan? I know that everyone’s all wigged because of…well…” She glanced to the blonde couple tellingly, and cast her eyes away again just as quickly. “B-but, really…pressing matters. I-I think berating people on personal…stuff…can really wait until after world saveage. I’d much rather be alive and interventiony than not-so-alive.” The vampire exhaled slowly and squeezed Buffy to him with another possessive grunt. While that afternoon had done wonders to quell his fears that the Slayer would run back into the Great Ponce’s open, overbearing arms the second he gasped her name in penance, there was a still a very real, very vocal part of him that couldn’t help but dread the next few days. Buffy was Spike’s girl—no questions there, though he didn’t think that she had a handle on how much power Angel had had over her in the before-time. Prior to popping her cherry and twisting their world on its axis. How her stomach would clench and her heart would pound when he turned his remorse-drenched soulful eyes to her and reached for her hand. It would never happen, she’d promised him. Never. And she’d spent the afternoon loving him with her mouth and body, telling him that he was her new everything. Allowing him to sup from her throat as he possessed her completely, and claimed her as his own. Spike knew she belonged to him. He knew she was his. He knew that she loved him; God, he felt it with her every move. Every glance. Every everything, and it had nothing to do with the claim. Buffy hid nothing from him. She’d been so hurt so recently, and yet she offered herself to him completely. No worries. No second-thoughts. She loved him. There was nothing in the world quite like that knowledge. For the first time in a century, he held something precious in his hands. Something pure. Something more than what he was. Buffy’s love was everything he’d never thought to touch, and any threat to it—even those he imagined—made the demon roar. Adding stress to his mate’s life now was not in the least beneficial. She didn’t need an impending verbal crucifixion weighing on her shoulders as she went in to save the world and confront the bloke who had ripped away her innocence. The Watcher was still looking at him as though he’d singly masterminded the Holocaust, and Spike felt his patience running thin. For as much as the rational part of his brain told him to suffer through it—that Buffy was worth a world of animosity—he increasingly felt like the proverbial cornered animal. It was only a matter of time before he lashed out. “Very well,” Giles said finally, nodding to Willow in agreement. “You’re right, of course. Angel takes priority. All else can wait until the apocalypse is off-course.” Spike couldn’t help himself at that. He was too irritated to give a bleeding fuck about appearances, now. “The fact that I jus’ said the exact same thing doesn’ mean rot to you wankers, does it?” “Not really, no.” “You bloody hypocrite.” Buffy covered his hand supportively and squeezed. “Don’t worry about him,” she said loudly, earning a scalding glare from her Watcher that likely bothered her more than she let on. “Really…let’s just get this over with. The more time we spend here, the less time you and I have for patrol. I’m really all for stopping Angelus before the ritual, and the more time we spend here, the less I see that happening.” Cordelia sighed stridently and rolled her eyes. “Oh, would you guys give it a rest?! We’ve been here for twenty minutes and all you people have done is repeat what the last person said. Angel. Ritual. Big demon. Apocalypse?” She turned to Giles. “I’m guessing the removal of the sword begins the badness?” “Whoa,” Xander said. The Watcher looked at her for a dazed minute, then flushed and nodded. “If I remember correctly, the ritual discusses a sacrifice. The blood that is supposed to initiate Acathla’s awakening.” “Angelus needs a blood sacrifice?” Buffy sighed and elbowed Spike in the ribs. “What is it with you people and blood sacrifices?” “Comes with the territory, pet. ‘F you don’ know by now, I think you’re in the wrong profession.” “Especially if you’re going to be so liberal in the application of the word ‘people,’” Giles added disapprovingly. He turned back to Cordelia before either of them could respond. “I believe the ritual is deliberately misleading in the definition of ‘blood sacrifice.’ If we’re lucky, Angel will be prone to believe that a ceremonial killing is involved.” “Lucky?” Buffy spat incredulously. “Lucky as in…he will be wrong, and the world will not be destroyed.” “Lucky as in someone’s gonna get killed ‘cause Angelus doesn’t believe in Cliff’s Notes?” “There’s a chance to prevent him from killing at all.” Giles paused, frowning, and cast a pointed glare in Spike’s direction. “And as it is, I don’t see where you have room to talk.” Buffy stiffened. “Stop it,” she said quietly. “I don’t—” “No, Giles. Stop it.” The room suddenly fell deathly still. “I know this is hard for you. I know you don’t approve. I know that you likely will never approve. However, newsflash, my life. My life, my Calling—as in, not yours. Thank you. The End.” A storm besieged Giles’s eyes. “Yes, well,” he replied in a low tone, removing his glasses. “I’d be more prone to agree with you if your recent decisions concerning your life and Calling hadn’t resulted in the careless desouling of one of history’s most infamous vampires. Your choices tell me that you don’t care about the blood he’s spilt so much as you do about your own happiness, so don’t lecture me on my willingness to sacrifice one life for the benefit of the whole.” There were several degrees to fury; Spike knew this from experience. And while he was hardly the most tempered example in history’s pages, it generally took a lot for his wrath to reach its peak. In a simple matter of seconds, Giles had surpassed every degree, and was aiming for a new record. “That’s enough!” Spike snarled, his face shifting. “You—” “Spike—stop.” The resolve in her voice didn’t betray how hard she was shaking, and just like that, he found himself overwhelmed with her determination. She was a pillar of force—a tower of fortitude that had him thoroughly floored. A century of disconnect from humans, and he’d somehow forgotten how strong they were. How much they could give when it was necessary, and how deeply they could hurt. “Giles,” she continued, her voice low and dangerous. It was a tone Spike had never heard her take before, even with her enemies, and the power she displayed with mere words was enough to make the heavens tremble. “This isn’t up for discussion. Not now. Not ever. I can’t help it if you have a problem with it. Spike is…well, we’re together. And we’re gonna stay together. He’s gonna help me save the world.” “And then run back to Morticia?” Xander barked. “Once the competition’s gone, the insane-girlfriend thing—” Spike rolled his eyes. “Knock it off, White Bread. I left her.” “Because of Angel.” “Because she’s a cold-hearted, unfeelin’ bitch who used me for a century.” “Yes…and you just figured that out when she started knocking boots with Angel?” A snarl tore at his throat. The next thing he knew, he had relinquished his hold on his mate and was dangerously close to storming up to the boy and giving him the scare he so richly deserved. And perhaps he would have, had Buffy not seized his wrist sharply and tugged him back to her side. He felt the sting of her jealousy, and it surprised him so much that he nearly fell over. Not for all the reading he’d done did he ever expect to feel so much through their connection. He couldn’t read her thoughts, but he could definitely feel her feelings. In time, he knew, she would develop walls to block him from sensing her moods—sensing everything—as it was the way of other vampires. Feeling her envy of a woman he wouldn’t touch again for all the blood in the world wasn’t the heady experience he’d expected. Rather, it left him feeling hollow and crestfallen. He loved Buffy too much to let her believe that he would ever want anything but what he had with her right now. He wanted to banish her jealousy. Right now. This second. Prove to her—to everyone—that what he had with her was worth more than all the time the world could have offered him with his maker. “What happened is none of your sodding business,” he said coldly. “I left Dru for me.” He paused and squeezed Buffy’s hand. “But your slayer gave me strength.” “Must be all that blood she’s donating.” “Okay, that’s it.” The surge of rage that tore through him was foreign for both its strength and the face behind it. The next thing Spike knew, Buffy was across the room, decking her friend in the eye with such force that he flew—quite literally—across the check-out counter and crashed haphazardly against the wall. “Is it going to take the world ending for you guys to shut the hell up?” she screamed, ignoring the roomful of stunned looks. “Spike and I are together. We’re mated. Hell, we’re in love. It’s not my problem if you can’t accept that. You know what my problem is? The world ending. Anyone here want to see the world end?” Xander slowly peeked over the countertop but didn’t rise fully to his feet. No one else moved or spoke. They all just stared. Spike held back a chuckle. He might be new to this ‘claimed’ thing, but he knew that attacking one’s mate, be it verbally or physically, was dangerous business. Especially when dealing with a newly mated couple—those who hadn’t developed the experience to control their baser emotions. Her friends were in for it if they didn’t watch themselves. “Yeah,” she continued with a short nod. “Didn’t think so. You can hate me all you want, but keep it to yourself. And hey! After we’ve stopped the apocalypse, you guys can all go back to pretending like my life should be run by committee. I don’t need any lectures. I don’t need any interventions. I don’t need anything but a little help in keeping the world from not being sucked into Hell. If anyone has a problem with that…” She pointed demonstratively. “There’s the door.” The library fell silent amidst shock and wonder, and Spike was certain that he’d never seen her look so glorious. Her eyes were on fire. Her chest was heaving. Her expression was fueled with angry determination. It would crash down on her later; he knew that as well as he knew anything. The lack of support from her Watcher—the bloke that was practically her surrogate father—would be crippling once the rage was gone. Once she fell from her high. After this was over, Spike reckoned it might be wise to step aside for a while and let her piece her relationships back together—though as a mate, he wasn’t sure if that were possible. His first impulse was to comfort her, followed closely by his need to repay those that had caused her pain. And even if he did melt into the background for a while—didn’t accompany her when she went out with her chums and did the things that girls did when they were her age—he knew simply from standing with her that things would never be the same. Buffy had asked him to tie them together, and he had. Their destinies were the same now, and nothing could change that. She’d accepted him. She’d accepted his claim, and now she belonged to him. He would simply have to guard his temper, lest he made things worse. “Okay,” Buffy said slowly. She reached for his hand, but didn’t look at him, and he was at her side in a heartbeat. Her fingers curled through his and squeezed; he was encompassed in warmth. “Willow…start putting the stuff together. Whatever you need to reensoul Angel. Spike and I are going to go patrol.” She turned to Giles. “And you…I need you to tell me how to stop Acathla. If we can’t get to Angelus in time and he starts the ritual, I need to know how to stop it.” A beat. “We’ll be back in two hours. Have some answers ready.” Buffy turned on her heel without missing a beat and led him out of the library. And as they stepped out beneath the night sky, after the shadows of disapproval ceased their chase, she stopped and turned to kiss him. Telling him without words that she was okay. That they had survived the first hurdle of this new thing together. That was all he needed. Spike moaned and melted into her, and that was all he needed. Words could wait. He had her hand in his, her mouth teasing his mouth. He was at her side—where he belonged—and words could wait. She honestly didn’t know when he’d become so fucking obsessed with ending the world. Darla had never suspected that she would become one to pine for the good ole days. Four hundred years, and she had welcomed each new passing century as enthusiastically as the next. Time was a wonderful, boundless thing that could not be rationalized nor controlled. She was, after all, a proponent of chaos, and time was in chaos’s corner. She adored watching nations rise and fall—she had followed church collapses, had defiled priests, and introduced the profane into every realm of the known Sacred. The past century had given her independence, even where independence was not wanted. She had learned to live without Angelus—and until just a few years earlier, without the Master. And yet, despite her love of independence, she had missed Angelus. She’d missed his creativity, his wit, his brutality—oh God, she’d missed his brutality. The face of the monster she’d loved so much, watching as he slaughtered children in front of their parents, just to bathe in their pain. Watching as he made people bleed just to remind them of their own filthy mortality. She’d missed him; there was no denying that. And now she had him back. She had him back, but he wasn’t the same. Angelus had never before shown a lasting interest in ending the world. True, he had always been more ambitious than any other vampire she’d known—Master included—but he had never thought to obliterate the whole when it was so much more fun to destroy in segments. He liked torment. He liked pain. He wanted his enemies to fear him and his allies to fear him more. Ending the world, while a fun thought, simply wasn’t Angelus. Not the Angelus she knew. He was over-compensating. And it wasn’t that Darla couldn’t understand how confining a soul could be. Hell, watching him had been painful enough. Making kissy-face with the Slayer—what a fucking abomination. But God, it wasn’t as though he had anything to prove. Not to her. All she wanted was a dead slayer and maybe a night on the town. It wasn’t too much to ask. But he wasn’t listening to her. A century trapped within a soul, and Angelus stopped listening to her. He wanted the world to end—he was set on it. Dru thought it was brilliant, of course. She clapped and sang and told her daddy how much she was looking forward to dancing with the devil. She twirled around with her dollies and whispered to the stars. Fucking halfwit would have done anything her precious sire asked of her. Even drenched in soul, she had wanted him. Tormented Spike to death, but then, Darla had always found that part funny. And as tragic as it was, there was nothing funny about the world ending. Nothing funny at all. Darla heaved a sigh and eyed the dormant statue wearily. Angelus was going to try for Armageddon, and there was little she could do about it. Any attempt to stop Angelus would be suicidal. He’d kill her if she tried to thwart him—and even with her advanced age working in her favor, he was stronger than her—stronger than any vampire she’d known. As it was, even if she managed to dust him before he dusted her, Darla wasn’t fool enough to believe she could escape the mansion unscathed. Not while it crawled with cronies that were loyal to Angelus’s cause. There was little she could do. The end of the world was coming. Angelus was going to destroy them all with his ego. And all she could do was watch. TBC |