With All My Heart
Chapter One
This was her favorite stretch of sand. Not far from her little house and still relatively private.
Only two others had been spotted. An elderly couple that appeared entirely engrossed in each other. They always held hands and they often stopped to gift one another with kisses.
As it should be.
Their obvious affection didn’t disturb the former Slayer. Quite the opposite, in fact. Their warm smiles and friendly but non-intrusive greeting as they passed each other on the sand warmed her otherwise frigid heart. Gave her something to look forward to each evening after dinner. A reason to smile in a world that had seemed hell-bent on ripping every last smile from her soul.
Dragging her toes through the fine sand, she was meandering her way home to the evening news and the one drink she allowed herself. A splash of bourbon in a squat glass with no ice or water to cut the flavor. Nothing to eradicate the bite as it slid down her throat.
Jack Daniels.
His favorite. Somehow it never tasted quite as good to her now as it had coming second-hand from his tongue. But it was close.
For a year after the fall of the Hellmouth she had consumed horrendous amounts of the stuff. Falling down drunk had been the only way she could make it through the nocturnal hours. Endless nights haunted by Spike. Every word. Every expression. Every mistake. Every kiss. Every time he loved her. In Technicolor, no less. She had always wondered at that term when she had seen it in the movie credits. Now she understood.
Technicolor.
A luxuriant panorama of sights and sounds, tastes and textures that were so intensely real at times that she woke herself with the force of her regretful sobs
At least she had made her peace with him. She did have that. The final nights before that final horrific battle had been spent in the basement with him. Each night she came to him and each night he was waiting patiently, both knowing without words that their time together would soon be coming to an end.
Her friends had seen it as alienation on her part. They were vocal in their resentment of his presence in her life and kept at her constantly to cast him out of the fold, to put him down like the filthy demon he was. Planning and plotting together to destroy him in spite of her demands that they leave him alone. They couldn’t—no; they WOULDN’T accept that she needed him. That without him, that last sliver of the Buffy they all professed to love would wither and die, leaving nothing but the eviscerated shell of the Slayer.
They accepted it now. How could they not? The proof of her need for him walked among them with haunted eyes and haggard features; a testament to the sleepless nights that were endured since he had gone from her life forever. Since she had once again done her duty by sacrificing someone she loved to save a world that had remained blissfully clueless and completely uncaring, the most clueless and uncaring of which were those closest to her. The very ones that now lauded him as the Champion he was.
That, more than anything, had set her on her solitary path. She couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy that spilled from their deceitful mouths. To her face, they commiserated with her, sympathizing with her over her loss. Her faint hopes that they had finally come to understand the magnitude of Spike’s sacrifice and what he had come to mean to her were dashed when she had stumbled inadvertently onto a late night conversation between the five of them.
Giles, Willow, Xander, Andrew, and Dawn. Each of them with the perfect solution to ‘fix’ her. Willow’s opinion carried the most weight. Strip her of those pesky memories with a handy dandy forgetting spell.
The mere mention of the use of magical means to rid her of what they had considered an unhealthy obsession had sent her flying into the night with little more than the clothes on her back. She’d had just enough on her credit card to pay for a flight from London to Boston, and from there it was a broken and disillusioned young woman that hitch-hiked from Boston to Daytona Beach.
Knowing that they would use every means at their disposal to find her, she began making the rounds of the demon bars in search of information. Quite by chance she had run into Clem, losing badly at a game of kitten poker as far from the Hellmouth as a demon could get. After spending a few hours catching up and crying over their shared loss, he took her to a warlock that owed him a favor. One cloaking spell later, she bid her floppy-skinned savior goodbye and headed further south.
She had ended up in the Keys. It was one of the easiest places on earth to lose one’s self. No one cared where you came from, no one asked questions. Jobs were easy to come by and they didn’t quibble if you wanted to work on a cash only basis. When she tired of one spot she simply moved on to a different islet.
A different life. A different beginning. A different lie.
This place had satisfied her the longest so far. She wasn’t happy. She had never really been happy--the promise of it swept away in an apocalyptic cloud of dust. But at times she was almost content with the life she had created for herself. No Watcher. No friends. The only expectations she had to live up to were her own.
She did miss Dawn. As much as she had hoped that being away from the Hellmouth would bring them closer together, Dawn had changed so much in that last year that Buffy felt she hardly knew her sister anymore. It was her betrayal of Spike’s memory that had hurt the most.
“Beautiful night, ain’t it?”
She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized that she was no longer alone. Her head shot up and she pinned the interloper with a glacial stare.
“It was,” she bit out, making no attempt to mask her hostility.
“I was expecting a warmer welcome, ya know?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Whistler? You’re stinking up my beach.”
The emissary for the Powers That Be shook his head with a lopsided smile. “Your manners ain’t improved much over the years, kid.”
“Can I help it if every time I see you, you smell like a pile of garbage? And why are you here, anyway?”
She turned away dismissively and resumed the sandy trek back to her cottage. Whistler rushed to fall in beside her.
“I have a message for you, Chosen One,” he puffed, still managing to sound pompous as he stumbled in the soft sand.
Her answering laugh was anything but amused. “Schyeah! Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m not the Chosen One anymore. I’m not even one of the Chosen Few. I quit. This killing machine for the PTB closed down when the Hellmouth imploded.”
“Ah, ah, ah!” The demon took great pleasure in wagging his finger in her face. “You quit the Council. This whole Chosen One gig? You don’t quit. You rarely get vacations, come to think of it. The cloaking spell was a slick move. Kept you off our radar for a long time, but they’ve found you now and you’re needed. Like, yesterday.”
She had one bare foot on the steps leading up to her cottage when he reached out and grabbed her arm. The next thing he knew he was sailing through the air and landing flat on his back in the sand. He craned his head around to glare up at the very pissed off former Slayer.
“I see you still got it, sweetheart,” he groused as he hauled himself back to his feet and jerkily set his clothes to rights. He bent and scooped his hat off the ground and jammed it on his head, giving her the evil eye.
“Keep your hands to yourself or you’ll get more of the same,” Buffy spat. She threw her hands up in frustration. “God! Don’t you Higher Beings get it? I. Am. Done. I gave at the office. And gave and gave and gave some more! I have nothing left. You’ve sucked it all out of me.”
Whistler got a determined look on his face and opened his mouth to speak. She had him by the throat and pressed up against her porch railing before he could utter a sound.
“And so help me, if you even breathe the word PROPHECY, I’m gonna get me that hat I promised myself years ago!”
“Okay, ya got me! There might be…one of those things you won’t let me mention. But that isn’t my part of this job. That goes to someone else. But, I do have some information for you that might just change your mind about all this.” She wasn’t pounding him yet, so he decided to rush ahead with his spiel.
“Your little disappearing act had what was left of the Watcher’s Council shittin’ kittens. Sure they got all these little potentials running around and the rogue Slayer in Cleveland, but they were really counting on you to handle the training aspect of things. Might have been a cushy retirement, sister. You shouldn’t be so quick to fly off the handle and run off in a snit.”
Buffy’s hand tightened around his neck. “Rupert Giles is the Council, now. As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed and nothing ever will. If your guys are so all-knowing and powerful they would have seen what my wonderful friends were planning to do to me. The Powers took him from me to save the world and I’ve accepted that. But there was no way I was going to hang around and let those that claimed to care about me take the memories that are all I have left.”
The emissary’s eyes were suddenly shifty and he stopped squirming to get free.
“What?” she demanded, squeezing threateningly. “I’m giving you five more minutes to spit it out and then I’m going inside. Without you, I might add.”
“With you all the sudden being MIA, the Council had to do something. There are three key factors that you need to know about. The Council, headed by Rupert Giles. An evil law firm called Wolfram and Hart, supposedly presided over by your old honey, Angel. Then we have The Immortal, who is basically a link between the two. Something big is going down in the near future. I know, I know!” he blurted out at her scornful look. “There is always something big going down. But this is huge. Wolfram and Hart is in the thick of it and the Council has tapped The Immortal for information. Normally he charges a substantial fee, but this time he didn’t ask for cash.”
Buffy released him, wiping her hand on the back of her ragged cut-offs with a grimace of distaste. “You might as well come up here and sit down.” She grudgingly waved him to the empty chair as she curled up in her own. “Something tells me I’m not going to like hearing the rest of this so I might as well be comfortable.”
Relieved to have some distance between them, Whistler settled back with a heartfelt sigh.
“So. The Immortal. Didn’t want his usual fee. He wanted to meet a Slayer. THE Slayer. As in Buffy Summers. Seems he’s had a yen for you since he found out you got horizontal with both of the Aurelius boys. He always had a thing for their women.” His attempt at humor fell horribly flat. Buffy just stared at him coldly until he cleared his throat to continue.
“Moving right along. So the Council; they got no Slayer, right? No Slayer, no deal with Mr. Immortal. The little guy, Andrew, saves their collective bacon by coming up with this ingenious plot to replicate the Slayer through magical and medical means and send her to Roma.”
Buffy shot to her feet. “They CLONED me?”
“Well…kinda. Sorta. In a way. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing, don’t ya think?”
She stopped her pacing to whirl on him. “Someone actually agreed to be surgically altered to look like me?”
“Agreed? Honey, she volunteered. Kim Banks was one of the Council secretaries. She’s followed your entire career. If there was a Buffy Summers fan club, this chick would be the flippin’ president, ya know? She knows everything there is to know about you, and now thanks to your little witchy friend, she has all your memories.”
“SHE WHAT?”
“Yeah, well your witch friend has always had a skewed idea about how best to help in a situation. Very nice work though. Very authentic, except for the...you know...lack of slayer strength an' all." Whistler offered another ill-fated grin as Buffy jumped to her feet, menacing him with her furious face.
“Surely you don’t condone what they’ve done?”
“In no way, shape, or form. Which is why I’ve been sent to you.”
Buffy ran an agitated hand through her hair and went back to her pacing. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised that they would do this. Some strange woman is walking around with my face and my memories. This is…” She stilled, her eyes filled with pain as she gazed out over the moonlit water. “It’s like being raped,” she whispered.
Whistler sighed. He got up and approached her warily. She was more hurt than angry now, but he’d seen first hand how volatile her emotions were. Contenting himself with standing beside her at the porch rail, he offered her his support and sympathy.
“You know he would have stopped, don’t you?”
She flinched. “Why am I not surprised that you know about that? And yes, we made our peace a long time ago. Besides, all the things they’ve done to me in the name of love are far worse than Spike ever did at his most evil.”
“If it’s any consolation, it didn’t go quite as they’d planned.”
A snort of derisive laughter greeted that statement. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? This is Willow we’re talking about, remember? So, what happened? Did their Dream Buffy turn into a toad or something?”
He scratched the back of his neck and looked uncomfortable. “Turns out Miss Kim Banks wasn’t all she led everyone to believe. She’s been known to dabble in magic herself. Nowhere near Rosenburg’s caliber, but enough to manipulate her into passing on any memories that she retained from her sojourn into your little melon before you…died.”
Buffy picked up on what he was inferring with that last sentence. “So she has none of my memories after that point?” Thank God. The imposter had no memories of Spike and the travesty that had been the beginning of their relationship. No inkling of the evolution of her feelings for him that had taken place during the days before the battle with The First Evil. Those memories were still hers alone.
“Her morals turned out to be sort of iffy, too. She…” He sucked in a deep breath and released it with a soft woosh. “Actually she…uh…kinda slept with all of them.”
“Huh?”
Her jaw dropped and she goggled at the demon. Did she hear him right?
“Yeah. Except your sister. She was totally against all this by the way. That should make you happy. She’s away at school now. Paris. Something about fashion.”
While she was glad to hear any information on Dawn, she was still having problems wrapping her head around his earlier revelation.
“She…” Buffy swallowed a lump of nausea. “Oh my God. She had sex…” another heavy swallow, “with all of them?”
Whistler nodded. “Giles is still having a little trouble dealing with it.”
At that, Buffy rushed to the railing and leaned over, gratefully giving up her battle with the gorge that her mental images brought forth. She hung there, choking and coughing as she brought up what little amount of food she had eaten that day.
"Please tell me it wasn't all at once!" she managed to gasp out between retches.
“No! Oh, no. But she did play them off against each other. Since she did her little mind-mojo on them they’re all convinced that she really is Buffy Summers.”
"So she fucked my surrogate father, my surrogate sister, and my surrogate brother. What?
They just jumped into bed because they thought it was all peachy keen to get a clue what it was like to fuck me?”
He pursed his lips at her crudity, suspecting it was stress that brought it out, and rocked back on his heels. “Andrew, too.”
“God, that's just...just...I'm gonna be sick again." And she was back over the railing.
Considerately allowing her a few minutes to get herself under control, he pressed a surprisingly clean handkerchief into her hand. “Better mop up, doll. It gets worse before it gets better.”
Chapter Two
Pressing the cloth to her mouth, Buffy threw open her front door and ran for the tiny kitchenette, intent on gulping huge glasses of cold water to wash the pukey taste from her mouth.
Whistler knew he was just begging for an ass-kicking, but he followed her inside anyway. An ornate brass hat stand stood just inside the door and he casually flicked his hat towards it, grinning when he hooked it on his first try. He turned to find Buffy glaring at him.
For the first time, he took a really good look at her. “Jeez, Slayer. What death camp did you escape from?”
She stood in the doorway, her thin arms folded across her almost non-existent breasts. Her haunted eyes were far too big in her hollow-cheeked face, and he was fairly certain that he would be able to count every rib under the baggy black t-shirt she wore.
“What the hell are you doin’? Trying to commit suicide as slowly and painfully as possible?”
Buffy’s eyes shot sparks of rage at his criticism. “My life ended the day your so-called Powers sacrificed their Champion,” she practically spat the last word, “to close the Hellmouth. Now, fuck the hell off. You want curves? Go fuck Buffy Two. My friends didn’t miss out on the action, so why shouldn’t my enemies get a taste of her?”
The demon smirked at her. “Ever see ‘Dogma’, sweetheart? I lack the equipment.”
She gaped. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He reached for his belt. “You want proof? No problem…”
“NO! A world of no. Ewwww!”
The expression on her face was priceless. He couldn’t help but laugh at her while he made himself comfortable on the tiny sofa. The frost in her eyes went a long way towards sobering him, however.
“What’s with the glacial glare? I know he went and burned himself up to save the world and all, but now that he's back, you might cut the poor guy a break and at least talk to him."
Buffy felt the trembling start at the pit of her stomach and spread like wildfire to her extremities. She struggled for control, but all she heard was that one word echoing in the void of her mind.
Back.
Whistler continued, completely oblivious to her distress.
“It’s not like you’re the only one who’s honked off at him right now. The Powers are sick to death of this eternal pissing contest between those two souled vamps over this whole Shanshu deal. Although it was pretty funny that they fought over Mountain Dew. Had me in stitches for weeks, I tell ya.” He collapsed against the cushions, laughing about it all over again.
”Whistler?” Buffy’s voice was dead calm. “Clarify something for me? I know Angel is one of the souled vamps, but who is the other?”
His laughter tapered off and he gave her a look that said she was completely crazed. “Well who do you think it is? Sure ain’t Drusilla. Shanshu calls for a male vamp with a soul, sweet cheeks. How many of those do you know?”
The shivers under her skin intensified as she stalked slowly towards him, her green eyes glittering in the dim light. "S-so you're saying another vamp went and got his soul, right?
B-because Spike is gone. I saw it. Before I ran out of that cavern, I watched him start to burn. H-he was t-turning to ashes right in front of m-me, dammit!” She had to force the last words out through teeth that chattered together from the force of her shaking.
“Oh, crapola,” Whistler breathed as he finally comprehended her anguish. “You didn’t know.” He held up both hands in a gesture of supplication. “Slayer, your vamp has been back from the grave since about three weeks after his Shake and Bake routine on the Hellmouth. He showed up in LA. Fell out of that amulet right there in front of Angel and company.”
Buffy turned away from him and slowly slid to the floor. She buried her face in her hands, the sobs that spilled from her sounding like the cries of a small, wounded animal.
At a loss, he tried to find the words that might bring her a small measure of solace.
“He was a ghost at first. Completely non-corporeal. And even when he wasn’t anymore, he couldn’t leave LA.”
“Did he…did he try to find me?”
While her words were little more than a whisper, the desperation in her voice wasn’t lost on Whistler.
“Slayer, as far as he knows…he DID find you,” he said, hoping she would catch his hint. When her face crumpled and she covered her mouth and turned away, he knew that she had. The girl was smarter than she let on.
“The Clone. He thinks…” She gasped, the sound torn harshly from her dry throat. “Oh. God, no. He didn’t…He’s not…”
“Boinking her?” Whistler made a rude sound. “Nah, but thanks to her, he thinks you’ve moved on to bigger and better things with The Immortal. Kinda pissy about it, ya know? I mean, all those years of you telling him he couldn’t love you because demons can’t love and now you’re with good ol’ Morty. Plus, he’s got Angel telling him that you weren’t a bit broken up over the whole dusting himself to close the Hellmouth thing, and constantly going on about some nonsense with your cookies being done and how you don’t need him in your life. Gotta admit, a vamp gets tired of the everlasting competition, sweetie. He’s pretty bummed about the whole thing.”
After nearly a year of feeling nothing but numb, she was overwhelmed by a deluge of emotions that was soon eclipsed by a righteous, burning rage that drove her to her feet.
"He’s bummed? What about me?” she demanded indignantly. “All this time, I thought he was gone. I’ve done nothing but mourn his sorry ass! How could that idiot even think that I could ever be with any soulless demon other than him? I went through hell rejecting my feelings for him and then, when I admit what my heart knew all along, he goes and burns up. ‘No you don’t, but thanks for sayin’ it.’” She mimicked sarcastically. “So now he’s back and because he’s not smart enough to figure out that the skanky ho in Rome isn’t me, and Angel is being a jealous dickhead, he doesn't even try to fight for me?”
She threw her hands up in the air and stomped over to rip open the closet door and rummaged through its depths, muttering all the while. “Where the fuck is my damned axe? I'll show that ass just who is in love with who!"
"Whoa, princess! Might be a good idea if you knew where he’s at, wouldn’t it? And what was that stuff you were saying about not being the Chosen One anymore?”
He shouldn’t have been surprised when the axe embedded itself in the wall just inches from his head. Warning—watch smart-assed mouth around morbidly pissed Slayer. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned back to find himself suddenly nose to nose with her, those hazel eyes blazing with an unholy fire. The feral smile that curved her generous mouth sent chills down his spine. He swallowed convulsively.
“What’s the matter, Whistler? You got what you wanted. Now, I’m gonna get what I want. Information. Lots and lots of it. I suggest you develop a sudden case of diarrhea of the mouth, my smelly friend.” Her fingers sank into the lapels of his jacket. “You lie to me, even one little lie by omission, and I’ll show you the true meaning of pain.”
Jerking away, Whistler tried to repress the shudder of fear brought on by her words. She might only weigh ninety pounds soaking wet, but she was one scary chick when you got her riled.
He caved. Sang like a bird. Spilled his guts completely. The Powers were gonna be highly irate, but they were just gonna to have to deal with it. And next time they needed this crazy woman, they could do their own talking!
“So, in three days time, your vamps are gonna be in Rome. Supposedly on business for the evil law firm, but you and I both know why they’re really going there. Might be a good opportunity for you and blondie to make with the smoochies and straighten things out, yeah?”
“What are you, my pimp? Not that you don’t dress the part…”
He ignored her quip. “All we gotta do now is get you to your Watcher, and…”
The tiny fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his nose. Howling in pain, the demon slapped his hands over the offended appendage and squinted at her, tears of agony spurting from his eyes. “What the hell did you do that for?” he whined.
Buffy didn’t attempt to hide her shiver of disgust. “Giles? Like I could look him in the eye after what has happened! No, I’m not going to England. I’m going straight to Rome. And you’re gonna help me get there.”
“Screw this!” Whistler said as he cradled his nose gingerly. He cast a baleful eye towards the ceiling. “Send down the next sucker, ‘cause I’m done!”
There was a blinding flash of light and Whistler was gone.
Giving vent to a short scream of frustration, Buffy stomped her foot a few times for good measure. Stupid PTB and their smelly, warty emissaries! She flung herself down on the couch and clenched her hands in her hair. Every curse word she had ever heard fell from her lips.
“It’s your own fault, honey. You were very rude to that poor man. I taught you better than that, Buffy Anne.”
Buffy froze. That voice. Soft and achingly familiar as it chided her gently for her behavior. Slowly, she lifted her head to look at the figure sitting calmly next to her.
It was her. She looked just as she had before she got sick. Before the tumor had started its insidious growth. The same softly curled hair and large, doe-like eyes. Her eyebrows were drawn together in displeasure and she shook her head in that way she always had. The way that said she just didn’t know what to do with her daughter.
“Mommy?” Her voice was weak with shock as she stretched out a cautious hand. Pure, unadulterated joy exploded within her as she came in contact with the smooth, warm skin of her mother’s arm. “I thought you were in heaven,” she said faintly. “I looked for you, but I never could find you there.”
Joyce smiled patiently. “Buffy, sweetie, you were never in heaven.”
“But, I was, mom. I had to be! Everything felt so perfect and wonderful to me that it had to be heaven,” Buffy insisted.
Her mother busied herself with tucking back stray strands of golden hair, her fingers lingering in its softness. “No. It wasn’t time. You weren’t supposed to die, so the Powers bound you with the energy from the portal and sent you into a holding area. They were the ones that planted the idea in Willow’s mind to bring you back.”
Buffy was speechless. No heaven. Then why had she felt so lost when she came back? Though she hadn’t spoken aloud, Joyce squeezed her fingers reassuringly.
“The energy in that portal was like a drug for you. Coming back so suddenly was hard on you. All the anger and confused feelings you had? Think of them as detox.”
“You saw?” Something in her heart rolled over and cried out in shame. “You saw…everything?”
Joyce nodded sadly. “It was so typical of you, Buffy. I blame Giles for a lot of it. You took everything he told you about vampires as the gospel truth, even when your heart told you otherwise. I know you felt you had redeemed yourself during the time you spent together before everything came falling down, but can you really blame Spike for not believing you?”
Tears slid down Buffy’s cheeks and dropped from her quivering chin to leave wet spots on her shirt. “I didn’t…I thought there would be time. That after telling him h-how I felt, I would have a chance to p-prove it,” she stammered.
“Why do you think they demanded a Champion, honey? A Champion is someone who is brave and pure of heart…and soul. They’ll sacrifice everything for the one they love. Like Spike did for you.”
“Pure of heart? Mom, this is Spike we’re talking about. Vampire. Killing machine for over a hundred years. How could he be pure of heart? His heart doesn’t even beat.”
A flash of anger tightened Joyce’s face. “I never in my life wanted to slap you so much as I do now, Buffy. Do you know who you sound like? You just opened your mouth and all that patented Rupert Giles bullshit came pouring out. He still controls the way you think and it sickens me. Listen with your heart for once. Pay attention to what it has been trying to tell you for so long. If you think for one minute that I’m going to allow you to destroy this last chance that you’re being blessed with…well, you can think again, missy!”
Taken aback by her mother’s vehemence, Buffy flinched the slightest bit when Joyce reached out and laid one soft hand over her heart. A burning sensation emanated from that spot, encompassing her whole body in liquid heat. Her head fell back as a dizzying kaleidoscope of memories and emotions washed over her.
That first meeting in the alley outside the Bronze. Her sixteen year old self asking Spike, “What happens Saturday?” and his reply, all strut and bravado, “I kill you.”
Parent/ Teacher Night. Crashing through the windows. “What can I say, I couldn’t wait.” The fight in the hallway. Lying on the floor and staring up at him. Shock and amazement when he paused in the midst of his killing blow to stare back at her with a dawning realization in his amber eyes before Joyce felled him with the axe.
Their truce to take down Angelus. “I want to save the world.”
His drunken return to Sunnydale and subsequent kidnapping of her friends to help him get Drusilla back. Standing with Angel as Spike bereted their behavior. “You’re not friends. You’ll never be friends.” Her guilty realization that everything he said was true and Angel driving that point home when he left months later.
The Gem of Amara fiasco. “What did it take to pry apart the Slayer’s dimpled knees?” A sharp stab of shame that he had overheard her conversation with Parker and hurt that he had used it against her.
The Initiative. “Spike had a little trip to the vet and now he doesn’t chase the other puppies anymore.” Hiding her sympathy for his plight behind a veil of scornful bitchiness.
Willow’s botched ‘will be done’ spell. The vague sense of disappointment when she had to tell Riley that her engagement to Spike was just a little joke.
Forcing him to show her how he fought and defeated the two Slayers. Yet another confrontation in an alley. Seeing herself shove him to the ground and hearing her contemptuous voice once more. “You’re beneath me.” And in spite of how badly her words must have hurt him, he had still offered quiet support that same night when he had found her crying over her mother on the back porch.
His disastrous attempt to confess his burgeoning feelings for her, following her back to her house afterwards. “Like it or not, I’m in your life. You can’t just shut me out.” The incredible devastation on his face when he realized that his invitation into her home had been revoked.
Glory. So certain that he would spill his guts to the Hellgod that she had gone after him with the sole purpose of killing him. Finding him broken and bloody in his crypt while posing as that damned robot. “’Cause Buffy…the other, not so pleasant Buffy…anything happened to Dawn, it’d destroy her. I couldn’t live, her bein’ in that much pain. Let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did.” Her kiss of gratitude and the stunned amazement it evoked.
That last night before her leap from the tower. “I know you’ll never love me. I know that I’m a monster. But you treat me like a man. And that’s…” He hadn’t known then. She hadn’t realized it until that point; how much she really had grown to care for him. And later, when she jumped instead of Dawn, his face looking up at her as she stood on the stairs had been the last thing she remembered.
Coming back from the dead. “How long was I gone?” The look in his eyes as he sat in front of her and held her battered hands in his. “Hundred- forty seven days yesterday. Uh…hundred forty-eight today. ‘Cept today doesn’t count, does it?”
The night he revealed that his chip no longer reacted when he hit her. “I’m supposed to be treading on the dark side. What’s your excuse?” Fighting and fucking hard and fast while a house tumbled down around them. Waking up the next morning, more harsh words that flayed. “Nothing’s changed. It was a mistake.” His snort of disbelief as he saw right through her ruse. “Bollocks. It was a bloody revelation.”
On and on it went, her hurting him, using him, because she refused to admit her feelings for him. And him allowing her to because he loved her. Telling him it was over. Spike and Anya drowning their sorrows together. The fallout. The bathroom. “Ask me again why I could never love you.” His horror and revulsion at his actions, fleeing from her house, from Sunnydale.
A long, hot summer spent in mourning. For Tara. For Willow. And for Spike. Not knowing if she would ever see him again. Not knowing how she would react if she did. And then finding him in the basement of the new high school. Spike—but not Spike. His crazed ramblings. The soul he fought for and won. For her. “Can we rest, now? Buffy, can we rest?”
Fighting to bring him back, to tear him from the clutches of the First Evil and its deadly trigger. Knowing instinctively that she needed him in her life and their ruthless determination to keep him out of it. “’Cause I’m not ready for you to not be here.” Fighting with her friends. Fighting with Giles. Endless, endless fighting. Giles’ betrayal. The contempt for his underhanded actions thick in her voice, “I think you’ve taught me everything I need to know.”
Cast from her home by her friends and her sister. Wandering lost and alone but knowing that he would find her, somehow. And he did. The only one that accepted her as she was and asked for nothing more. His heartfelt speech as he knelt in front of her, making her strong, making her whole once more. “You’re the One, Buffy.” His arms around her all night. Keeping watch. Keeping her safe.
The images came faster now. Tears streamed down Buffy’s face as she cried out in pain. Joyce’s hand faltered for a moment then determinedly pressed harder.
Going down into the Hellmouth. The first. The Turok-han. The scythe. Blood. Pain. Dead Potentials. Spike. The amulet. The blinding flash. Beams of light destroying the hoards of Turok-han. And Spike. “My soul. It’s really there. It kind of stings.” Lacing her fingers with his. The flames that didn’t burn. Her confession. His denial. Finally forcing herself to leave him. To run. Up and out. Onto the bus as Sunnydale began to cave into itself.
Standing at the edge of the crater that used to be Sunnydale, unable to grasp the fact that he was really gone this time. Gone for good. Those first few weeks spent in a haze of alcoholic oblivion. Yet another betrayal at the hands of her loved ones. Her flight from them. The past months here in Florida. Coming to terms with his loss. Rebuilding her life only to have it shattered once more. Because Spike was back.
The warmth subsided as Joyce removed her hand at last. Her expression was hopeful as she stroked Buffy’s wet cheeks gently. “Did you see it, baby?”
Eyes wide, gasping harshly, Buffy nodded. Sliding down, drained and kitten-weak, she nestled her head in her mother’s lap “With all my heart, Mom. With all my heart.”
Chapter Three
After what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few minutes, Joyce gently nudged Buffy’s thin shoulder. Her foray into the past had been exhausting, but necessary. Helping her sit up, she ran a motherly hand over the tangled mane of blonde hair.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Buffy wiped her cheeks and pushed her hair back with a shuddering sigh. “Little shaky, but otherwise fine. That was pretty intense.” She cast a wary eye at her mother. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Isn’t there always? You said it yourself, darling. There’s always a prophecy,” Joyce commiserated with a rueful smile.
“Well, hit me, Mom,” she sighed resignedly.
“Look on the bright side, honey. It will be easier to understand. Coming straight from the source, you don’t have to worry about translating some obscure language from another dimension.”
A snort of laughter escaped her. Releasing her mom’s hands, she stood up and began to pace once more. Joyce took that as her cue and began.
The vampire given soul shall be untouched by its true grace, lost in the bitterness of torment. Deemed unworthy and unable to reach the light. The warrior of darkness shall find himself moorless, unable to embrace fully his darkness as he struggles along the path towards salvation. He shall find love and be consumed by the light, finding a stronger purpose and joining with love once he has crossed back from the threshold of destruction.
The warrior of the darkness shall find the one of truth, and she shall lead him into light and destiny. Should the leader falter in the guidance and the dark one be lost along the path, both shall perish from the burdens of struggles to come. Only the joining of heart, mind, and body shall create of them beings forever strong.
She of the light, the one who has fought longest and with double sacrifice in furtherance of grace, shall stand together with her heart after his return. They will join together and shall build her army by degrees. Their union shall make of them forever, and together they shall wield the power that will unlock the Key.
When Joyce finished she looked at Buffy expectantly.
"And that’s supposed to be easy to understand?" Buffy buried her face in her hands. “I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it.”
Joyce’s jaw dropped. “Did you listen to a word I said?”
“Yes, mother.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Look, do you have it in writing? Excuse me, but I got a little spoiled having the others to worry about the interpretation stuff.”
The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. Joyce decided to let it drop for now and produced a piece of parchment from midair.
Buffy was suitably impressed. “Cool trick, mom. Go you!”
“Thank you, sweetie. Now, this first part…”
They painstakingly went over the whole thing line by line. When they finished, Buffy was torn between elation and fear.
“I don’t want Spike to know about this until after I’ve seen him. I don’t want him to think that this is the only reason I want to be with him.”
Joyce sighed. “He already knows about it, Buffy. He just didn’t get the right translation, if you know what I mean.”
“Splainey, mom?” She didn’t like where this was going at all.
“There are three copies of this prophecy floating around. This one is the original and a perfect translation. Angel obtained a copy from Wolfram and Hart. As you can guess, the line about the soulless vampire was omitted completely. Of course he showed it to Spike, so he’s convinced that it means you and Angel are the ones who are meant to be together.”
The last shreds of any romantic illusions of her first love died a painful death beneath the weight of her impotent rage.
“Let me guess. The Immortal has the third copy and-- of course-- according to it I’m destined to be with him. Right?”
“’Fraid so.”
“God! What is it with these damned vampires? I have one that’s completely delusional, one that’s a flat out liar, and the one I love-- the one who I am actually destined to spend eternity with-- hasn't got a freaking clue and isn't out there fighting for me because he thinks he’s unworthy? Oh, I am SO gonna to kick his ass all the way to..."
“BUFFY!”
She had the grace to blush. “Well, I am…” she grumbled, crossing her arms in front of her in a huff.
Joyce rolled her eyes in a mannerism eerily similar to her daughter. “Fine. You’ll kick his…ass… when you see him. But first, we have to get you to Rome.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Your cloaking spell is still in effect, so you could fly out tomorrow without fear of anyone knowing of your arrival. You’ll have all day tomorrow to pack. Perhaps do some shopping?”
She cast an eye at her daughter’s outfit of ragged cut-offs that were at least three sizes too big and a black t-shirt that was strangely familiar. Buffy caught her glance and smiled sadly.
“We all packed a bag and put it on the bus in case we’d be running to LA. I-I kept all his things. I cried for hours the first time I had to wash it. Pathetic, I know.”
“Well, just a few more days and you’ll have the real thing again, won’t you?” Joyce said bracingly, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug. “I must say, being resurrected certainly hasn’t inspired Spike to change his wardrobe at all, so you should have plenty of the same to choose from!"
Buffy grinned. “If I don’t kill him first, that is.”
With one last squeeze, Joyce tried to step back. “Time for me to go, sweetie,” she said sadly.
A sudden wave of panic swept over her and Buffy clung tightly to her mother’s hands. “I’ll never see you again, will I?” she asked, her voice tight with suppressed tears.
Joyce allowed herself one last lingering caress of her daughter’s soft cheek. “No, but I’ll be watching, so don’t screw this up!” she teased.
“I won’t. I promise.”
She was gone as quietly as she had come. Buffy wiped her eyes and looked around the tiny house. There was so much to do before she could leave, but right now she needed sleep. Now that her mother was gone, she felt consumed by exhaustion. She dropped down on the couch and dragged an afghan over her, smiling when she realized it was one that her mother had crocheted. She snuggled into it and drifted off to dream.
~@~@~@~
For some reason it seemed that everyone in Rome was trying to feed her. Buffy snorted in indignation as yet another sidewalk vendor tried to force some sort of food into her hands. Got the memo, people! Buffy is too skinny, let’s all fatten her up! Any other time, their kindness would have warmed her heart, but right now she was far too nervous to really appreciate it.
She checked the slip of paper one more time. It was worn ragged and limp from her sweaty palms, but still legible enough to reassure her that this was indeed the address that she sought. Cramming it in the pocket of her jeans, she hefted her shoulder bag and yanked the door open to step into the air conditioned comfort within.
Ooo, fancy. She marveled at the luxurious décor and strolled casually past the receptionist. The woman barely flicked her with a glance as she filed her nails, chomped on a mouthful of chewing gum, and talked on two phones at once. Talented.
Once in the elevator and on her way upwards, Buffy checked her appearance in the mirrored walls. She was wearing low-slung jeans and a tiny black tee with a vampire bat embroidered in glittering red thread. The picture of the perfect American tourist from the top of her white-blonde head to the soles of her Reebox.
God. She was too thin. What if he didn’t like her being so bony? She blew a clump of hair out of her eyes in frustration. Oh well, not like she could just pack on a quick twenty pounds now. Spike would just have to deal.
The doors swept open to reveal another swanky reception area. It didn’t look like this one was going to be as accommodating as the one downstairs, either. She fixed Buffy with a sharp eye and rattled off a string of Italian gibberish, her eyebrows lifted in a disdainful arch. Buffy wished that her Italian was a bit more advanced than the Olive Garden variety she was familiar with. Damn! What to do now?
Struck by a sudden inspiration, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and leaned against the high counter. If only she had a mouthful of bubble gum so that she could blow a huge bubble in this old hag’s face.
“Hi! Boy, you sure talk fast! My name’s Annie Winters. I’m from California. That’s in the U S of A. Ya got a bathroom around here, ‘cause I’m about to bust! Yeah, bathroomay-vous?”
The expression on the woman’s face was priceless. She visibly cringed away when Buffy leaned over the counter and waved her skinny hand towards a short hallway to the right. With a grin and an overly bright “thanks!” Buffy pushed away from the counter and bounced off down the hall.
Locking the door securely behind her, she wasted no time in locating the air vent high up on the wall. It was an easy chore to clamor up on the sink and rip the slatted metal away. She swiped away a decade’s worth of cobwebs with a shiver of disgust and boosted herself up and into the duct-work.
Ahhh, memories, she giggled. Some of her finest moments had happened while creeping across the ceiling. Trust Spike to always have her resorting to strategizing in the ceiling ducts.
She crept carefully along, wishing she had thought to bring a flashlight. She had no idea where Immortal Morty’s office was, so she was counting on good old fashioned slayer senses to help her out, waiting for that familiar, tingly feeling on the nape of her neck that screamed ‘vampire’.
Damn! These Italian’s were a horny bunch. That was the third couple she had passed that were humping and moaning on a desk. Buffy snickered and moved on.
Ugh! Almost to the end of the line and not so much as a twitch from the neck region. So help me, God, if he isn’t here I’m gonna hurt him when I do finally find him, she thought. Inconsiderate asshole!
Wait! Wait….there! Sliding cautiously up to the last vent, she pressed her face to it and inhaled deeply. Yesssssss! The hairs on the back of her neck were practically standing on end and the tinglies were so bad they itched. Well, that might be the foot of dust that was clinging to her, but still…Vampires!
It was easy for her to differentiate between the scents of the two vampires that she had known in the biblical—or not so much with the biblical—sense. She had an excellent view of Angel, and the vamp standing next to him must be the Immortal dude. Hmmph. Didn’t look like much. Quite effectively dismissing those two for the time being, she searched desperately for the last remaining player.
There. Over by the heavily tinted windows. His back was to her and she begged him silently to turn around, wanting, needing to see his face. He stubbornly faced the glass, staring down at the traffic below as he flagrantly ignored the others. Buffy’s eyes wandered greedily over his form, warmed by the familiarity of bleached hair and black leather.
She could tell just by looking at his back and the tense set of his shoulders that he was pissed. She’d recognize that pouty posturing anywhere. Angel might be the king of broodiness, but no one pouted quite like Spike. Suppressing a smile, Buffy settled back to watch the show.
The Immortal was speaking, “will be here shortly and I’m sure you’ll see that she has made her choice. It was prophesized, after all.” Even his voice was pompous. His proprietary tone made Buffy want to punch him in the nose.
“I’d really like to see your translation of the prophecy, because I have the original and it reads nothing like mine,” Angel said as he cast a smirk in Spike’s direction.
You big, fat liar! Buffy seethed. Honestly, if she didn’t know any better, she’d swear Angelus was on the rampage. How juvenile could he get?
They continued their polite exchange of insults. Please! Who cared if Darla and Drusilla slept with the skeezt slimeball? Angel kept asking for his translation and Morty--as she had decided to call him—continued to dance evasively around the subject. Buffy knew he was just killing time. Waiting for her imposter to show up so he could prove to these lesser beings that the Slayer was HIS destiny. Thoroughly bored by their strutting and caveman cock-waving, Buffy concentrated on the true object of her affections.
She couldn’t help but notice the way his broad shoulders had slumped just the tiniest bit at the first mention of the prophecy. “You bonehead,” she muttered affectionately. He really was into the whole wallowing in the self-pity gig. He finally left his place at the window and threw himself down in a nearby chair, pout still firmly in place.
Buffy wanted to cry. He looked so tired and dejected and completely without hope. How dare he give up so easily? Especially to these two assclowns?
The intercom on Morty’s desk crackled. Buffy recognized the voice as that of the old witch at the reception desk and stifled a snicker. Wonder if she’s caught on that the annoying Annie Winters hadn’t come back from the bathroom yet?
“Signorina Buffy Summers, Signore Immortale.”
Morty struck a pretentious pose behind his desk, Angel folded his arms over his chest and smiled complacently, and Spike tensed even more if that were possible. All of them stared at the door as it began to swing inward.
Buffy held her breath as she waited to get her first look at the abomination that had been perpetrated by her nearest and dearest. When her clone swept into the room, her squeak of horrified indignation was thankfully muffled by the fist she’d had the foresight to cram in her mouth.
What the hell? Was everyone blind? Oh sure, on the surface she was a near perfect match, but once those details were taken in and dismissed, the little differences became glaringly obvious. And the not so little ones, Buffy thought smugly. Her ass is SO much bigger than mine!
Obviously the transformation was enough to fool some. Morty oozed his oily way across the room to meet her, taking her hands in his and leading her to his chair. Angel was preening and smirking, and Spike…
Oh. Holy. Shit.
To be continued
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