Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and adult content)
Distribution: Sure. Just tell me where.
Timeline: Season 5 of BtVS: AU after Triangle. Season 2 of AtS: AU after Reunion.
Summary: Wolfram and Hart, host of the greatest evil acknowledged on Earth, attempts to restructure the Order of Aurelius, one vampire at a time. A soul hampers one, a chip harbors another, and a Slayer stands between them. The pawns are in place; it is simply a matter of who will move first.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25]

[26] [27] [28] [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] [42] [43] [44] [45] [46] [47] [48] [49] [50] [Epilogue]

Angel dreamed.

A vast array of images, shapes, and colors blurred into one distorted picture of fragmented reality. Tastes of things he could almost see, the feel of what he could nearly reach. And all through it, she was there. There to laugh and mock. There to remind him of what he wanted, even if it was not within his hindsight. There as a consistency in his inconsistent world. It was a place he could not fathom—a place he needed to be but dreaded beyond all compare. A place within his psyche that he feared more than any truth he had ever thought to explore.

And she was there. Coaxing him, coddling him, whispering little nasties boding to how good it would feel if he gave in.

He wanted to give in. He wanted to so badly.

But he wouldn’t, because he was just. And that was the way things were.

Angel dreamed.

Buffy dreamed.

There was nothing distinct or particularly memorable about what she saw; no lingering difference between every other monstrous thing that had haunted her nightly excursions. Dreams could never be taken lightly—always poised, dissected, and translated to interpret a possible coming of apocalyptic proportion.

She saw monsters, blood, and fangs. She saw herself turning a second time only to find another endless hallway. She saw a great grandfather clock that amounted its hours with ethereal chimes and a ticking that would never end. She saw her sister—a sister? She didn’t have one of those. Wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t right.

Dawn. Not real. She wasn’t real. She never had been.

Only she was. And she was the Key. She was human. She was real. She was the Key. She was what stood between now and eternity. Her survival, her protection, was what the world—what the universe—depended on for continued existence. She was real. She was her sister. She was Dawn.

The ticking would not end.

Beating the clock. That was what life had amounted to. Beating the clock. Racing endless hallways, knowing despite how fast she ran, she would always be too late. There was no absolution that could change that. There was nothing.

The ticking would not end.

Buffy dreamed.

William the Bloody dreamed.

Spike dreamed.

Aspirations. That was all his existence had amounted to. Aspirations of what he wanted, what he craved, what he saw with every blink, what he yearned for with every breath he didn’t breathe. Wanting, desiring, craving the enemy. The vision of what would always be just out of his reach.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not for him. No substitution for technology could change that. He felt it with every drive. With every surge that empowered his body. The thrill, the taste of what he was. What he always had been, in some regard or another, what always would be. The monster. A thing that craved—anticipated—church collapses like no creature before him. He had killed. He wished he still could. He had torn the still-beating heart of many a virgin. He had stalked the shadows until the dark shriveled its cowardice. For over a century, he had torn the world apart, and enjoyed every minute of it.

And here he was. Negating his own nature. Everything he had always believed himself to be. A Slayer of Slayers. A vampire of his own creation. Of his coveted reputation. A demon. A monster. A creature of the night.

He was a being of evil, and yet with every minute he suffered, he wanted her. Saw her. Bloody well needed her.

Needed the Slayer.

Perversion in the worst form of the word.

Knowing that despite he would never have what he wanted. Because of what he was. Because of what she was.

Because it was wrong.

But that didn’t mean the dreams would stop. It didn’t mean he would ever reach what he desired. It didn’t mean he would reach his much-needed rest.

Because of her.

The Slayer.

Buffy.

Spike dreamed.

It had begun a week ago: the changes. Changes small enough to at first escape notice before slowly compiling in severity and disclosure. Little things with catastrophic results.
Of course, that assumption wasn’t entirely fair. The changes had likely been occurring for months and had remained small enough to escape notice. They weren’t small anymore. Oh no. With a character makeover of such magnitude on the drawing lines of reasonability, the smallest indiscretions could not escape unreported. He claimed that he was fine, that they were driving him up the wall, and that he in no way required outside support.

He was wrong. He knew it. They knew it. But there was nothing that could be done. No truth that he was willing to adhere. The baby steps were over, the warning phase had passed. Their time for intervention called to a deadly halt because of insecurities. He knew it was coming but didn’t care. Couldn’t make himself care. In a random bout of digression, he pictured them seated uncomfortably in the Hyperion lobby, flipping through books that did more to pass the time than an actual time machine would allow. Waiting for him. Waiting for an update. Waiting until he broke so that they might stop him from traveling further down the pathway he was teetering on the edge of exploring.

It was slow. It was tedious. And it was accomplishing nothing but mount tension to already uncomfortable levels.

What was worse: the city of Los Angeles slept.

The city slept when he could not. The city turned its back on its priorities when he could not. The city allowed evil to fester and brew when he could not. The city looked the other way and he could not.

If he allowed himself to act like the city, the city would suffer. And despite all its shortcomings, no measure of apathy could merit such punishment.

And he could not let that happen. Which, in effect, was likely what sent him smashing through the top story window of the Law Offices of Wolfram and Hart, directly linked to his one sure-tie with the ultimate package: Lindsey McDonald.

Surprise was not a reaction that was running in leaps and bounds. Overall, besides a brief lapse of generalized wonder, his overly dramatic entrance was all for not. But that was beside the point. Angel saw his query and moved, not interested in the squabbling of those around him. In two seconds flat, he had Lindsey by the scruff of the collar and was an instant away from flashing his incisors. “Dru and Darla,” he hissed. “Where are they?”

There were many men who would have pissed themselves in a similar situation, but Lindsey was not one of them. Despite everything that had given him motivation in the past, he didn’t even bat an eyelash.

And for the moment there was nothing that Angel found more irritating.

Intervention. A calm voice reverberated from behind, and the vampire quickly corrected himself. No, in such situations, civilized conversation was nothing he could endorse. And yet, he didn’t turn. He held Lindsey still. Tight, firm, and uncompromising. Such was a man pushed to the edge. It was time these lawyers learned firsthand with whom they were dealing.

“Angel,” the man behind greeted, shifting. The vampire knew without looking that he had extended a hand in a mock semblance of camaraderie. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Holland Manners.”

Angel’s mouth quirked a bit. “I’d be careful who you offer that hand to, Mr. Manners. You might lose it.” He broke out into a purely sadistic smile—and though it lasted only a fracture of second, it achieved purpose. The being in his grasp final shivered a beat of palpable fear. Granted it was only a beat, but it was enough. “Isn’t that right, Lindsey?”

Blazing. To his credit, the lawyer snatched the line and pulled his captor in with him. “There are worst things to lose, aren’t there?”

That was it. Angel shoved him to the wall and pivoted sharply to address the other. Despite his near-painful distaste for Lindsey McDonald, his senses would not allow him to squander an opportunity for answers based on foolishness. There was nothing to be gotten by a man smitten. And Lindsey was most definitely smitten. His desire for Darla was all but written across his forehead in big block letters. He wouldn’t be giving anything up, especially for the sake of an ill-gotten grudge.

Chances were, his superior wouldn’t betray anything, either. But he had to try. By God, he had to try. “So,” the vampire drawled appraisingly. “You’re the one pulling the strings around here?”

Holland Manners, upon first glance, was hardly a man that struck fear into anyone’s heart. He stood promptly, business-like, with a small smile that looked to be nearly implanted on his mouth. The pleasantness that reeked from his tone spread similarly through every thread he wore, and he appeared very much the proud father of his recuperating protégé. The look on his face was agreeably disarming, and Angel did not share his sentiment. “A few of them,” the man conceded. “I am Division Head of Special Projects.”

There was not one part of that sentence that he liked. “Special projects like Darla?”

The smile on Manners’s face remained candor; the sort of taste that betrayed itself as chocolate laced with poison. Had he been anything but human, he would have found his head ripped off his shoulders. He was already treading dangerously close to the proverbial border as it was. “Oh, Darla’s just a tool,” he explained good-naturedly. “Means to an end. You’re the project.”

For a minute thereafter, it seemed that he intended to put that promise to good use. The office doors opened and the trained personnel that dealt with unwanted vampiric visitors piled inward—complete with rifles that housed stakes as makeshift bayonets. Angel didn’t move, didn’t flinch—betrayed nothing that would suggest concern. His gaze remained resolutely trained on the self-proclaimed Division Head of Special Projects, daring the other man to blink. “I can crush the life out of you before they even lift a finger,” the vampire informed him gently.

Holland simply continued to smile. “Oh, I’m sure you can. But you won’t.”

“Won’t I?”

“You don’t kill humans.”

Angel’s eyes blazed. “You don’t qualify. You set things in motion, play your little games up here in your glass and chrome tower, and people die. Innocent people die.”

Manners’s gaze twinkled in turn, and he leaned forward a fracture of an inch. “And yet, I just can’t seem to care.” Another blinding smile. The vampire remained expressionless. “But you do. And while you’re making threats, wasting time, smashing windows, your girls are out painting the town red, red, red.”

“Where?” Not that he truly expected an answer, but it never hurt to ask.

“Well, that would be telling. In any case, you might want to hurry.” Holland’s voice changed just a note, at last allowing the first notes of threat to whisper through. It was near imperceptible, but there nonetheless. “So many lives in the balance, waiting for their champion to save them.”

Angel glanced inquisitively to one of the bayonets. “Mhmm. As if you’re just gonna let me walk out of here, huh?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Holland informed him conversationally. “You misunderstand us, Angel. We don’t want you dead. Yet. If we did, you wouldn’t be standing here.” He pivoted jovially to the security team. “Would you please escort our guest out of the building?” There was unnecessary emphasis on guest. Manners turned back to the vampire. “I would walk you out myself, but I’m running a little late for a wine tasting at my home.

“And,” he added after he had turned to leave, acting out a poorly executed afterthought. “Just so we’re clear on the matter, you’re not invited.”

With as little as Holland seemed to care about the intruder’s maintenance, Lindsey McDonald was all the more anxious. He followed the team down the halls, made inane commentary to sustain the elevator ride, and was all but skipping when the familiar flicker of red and blue greeted them on the street. Angel wanted to rip his spleen out, and was either very fortunate or cheated to be detained.

“I’ll send you a bill for the window and the shirt,” the lawyer offered cheekily, briefly gesturing to the torn fabric that draped half-shredded across his chest.

Angel didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you do that,” he agreed, not reacting as he was manhandled and cuffed. “And after I stop Darla and Dru, I might come back and pay you in person.”

“Yeah,” Lindsey returned, “go do your little champion thing and then come back and see me…if you make bail.” He turned to the men in uniform, spirits rising with every beat. “Give him a nice holding cell, officers. With a window. Southern exposure preferred.” He didn’t even look to see if his whimsical request was heard, much less registered. “The firm might not want you dead…but I’m cool with it.”

And that was it. A matter of time now. Time and cunning. More time wasted while lives tangled in a tantalizing view of what could be as opposed to what was. Darla and Drusilla, ripping everyone that crossed their path apart. There was no telling what would be done by the time all was said and done. Drusilla’s black imagination. Darla’s requited bloodlust. Too much balancing the scales. Wolfram and Hart had all the pieces. And now his true family was out there—dancing through the town. Doing something he could not, despite the calling of his inner demon. They were networking him slowly. Patching into something darker than either could even begin to imagine.

If they kept asking for Angelus, he feared they might get him.

Time and cunning. Right now playing by man’s laws. Man’s laws in their perfect society where the big uglies did not exist.

There was a familiar presence nearby. Kate Lockley was beside him.

In a patrol car.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

Time wasting. Darla and Drusilla engaging Los Angeles as their personal playground. Wolfram and Hart. Always back to Wolfram and Hart.

Fucking perfect.

The atmosphere in Lindsey’s office had changed very little in the course of ten minutes. Despite his notable schedule, Holland had yet to vacate the building and tend to the aforementioned personal matters. He waited the same candied patience that he had begun to expect from all the advisees under his wing until sending them off into the big bad world. Not irritated at tardiness, but not encouraging. The man could make anything seem like a burden. It was his prestige and reputation—incomparable to anything else.

It was sort of impossible to get bigger and badder than Wolfram and Hart.

Holland glanced up expectantly as Lindsey stopped in the doorway, knowing better than to enter uninvited, even if it was his office.

“And how is our friend?”

“The police won’t keep him long.”

Manners smiled. “Long enough, let’s hope. Ms. Yuell was kind enough to inform me that the mage arrived ten minutes ago.”

Lindsey’s brows perked. He took that as enough motivation to enter completely. “Did he?”

“Mages are impeccably punctual.” He spoke as though he considered it universal knowledge. One never knew with Holland.

“Will he require our presence during the ritual?”

“No, no. Our guest has means that have no concern of our digression.” The elder pivoted sharply, hands displayed in a prim criss-cross behind him. “Are you excited, Lindsey? Surely you can appreciate the leap we are about to take.”

McDonald’s lips quirked. He was halfway tempted to ask his superior not to call him Shirley, but somehow assumed that his humor would be wasted. “Yes sir,” he retorted instead. “The Order of Aurelius will serve as a very powerful asset.”

“Only Angelus does not make the Order complete.” That came from the doorway, where Lilah Morgan’s shadow haunted the light in a measure of admittedly intimidating authority. For a woman so on the outs with her status, she portrayed more confidence than even she knew at times. “According to our files, the youngest member of the Order is still alive…well, not alive, I suppose, if you’re a purist for terminology.”

Holland smiled agreeably. “Lilah. So kind of you to join us.”

She did not even bother to nod in acknowledgement—an oddity for someone always on the prowl for advancement. It was nearly criminal to allow a superior such as Holland to go unnoted, and she was likely one of the few who could get away with it. “William the Bloody, circa 1880, sired by Drusilla and ‘raised’, so to speak, by our man himself.”

“Ah, yes. William the Bloody.” The elder was still smiling promptly. “Goes by another name now, does he not?”

“Adapted a nickname a brief time following his siring,” Lilah verified. “Took a while to catch, but I managed to dig it out of our more ambiguous files. He’s called himself Spike for over a century now. According to his most recent activities—with the added assistance of a few government files that fell into our possession—have centered around his hunting and killing his kind in our neighboring Hellmouth.”

“Sunnydale,” Lindsey supplied, even as it remained wholly unnecessary.

“Last year, a chip was planted in the subject’s head by a since-allegedly disbanded group of special-ops called the Initiative,” Lilah continued, not reacting to the interruption with even a blink. It was widespread knowledge that Sunnydale was the reputed home of the Big Bads. “There have been rumors to support a restoration of said committee in South America, but nothing concrete has reached our intelligence. The subject, known to the Initiative as Hostile Seventeen, works as a sort of demonic neutralizer.”

“Meaning?”

Lindsey received a dirty look for his ignorance.

“He can’t attack humans, or harm them in any way without receiving an intense neurological shock.” She paused for effect. “His handicap has rendered him a more or less participant in the Hellmouth’s struggle against their various local scares.”

“What is the less, might I ask?” Holland Manners never asked a question. His modus operandi centered on the polite demand.

“As you can imagine, the demon community hasn’t responded well to the subject’s change of alliance, though his actions can be mostly attributed to monetary compensation.” She stopped again, signifying the end in her own voiceless accord. “William the Bloody would be a powerful benefit to the firm, given what I found in my reading. Aside completing the remaining and, more importantly, most acknowledged members of the Order, he has also killed two Slayers in his time, exhibiting cunning and strength. Recruiting him would give us an unspeakable advantage.”

At that, Lindsey stepped forward. Even though the question sounded insidious on his tongue, he felt the need to ask. “Recruit him to do what? Throw rocks at our adversaries?”

“Wolfram and Hart has the means required to cure the subject of unwanted side-effects.” Lilah smirked, and unlike Holland, it wasn’t pleasant. Nor did she pretend it was. “I believe you knew that. Besides, our two boys aren’t exactly known for getting along. Should Angelus’s contract with the firm stand on shaky ground, it would be handy to have someone of such persuasion at our disposal.”

Holland smiled once more, though he now seemed genuinely pleased. That wasn’t something many could say. “Very good, Lilah,” he commended. “Perhaps after Angelus and Darla have become reacquainted, we can send a team to Sunnydale and collect our commodity.”

Ah, a loophole. Lindsey loved loopholes, especially when the readily available solution waved in his favor. “If I may,” he intervened sharply. “I believe that it might be more beneficial in the department of influence if someone he is familiar—even comfortable—with is the one to extend the invitation. According to my reading, he was involved with Drusilla for well over a century. Perhaps she would serve as the greatest means of persuasion.”

“Excellent observation,” Manners commented. “Yes. I believe we should do that immediately.”

“And Darla should go with her.”

A still beat rang through the office.

“Drusilla is a loose cannon,” he explained. “If this project is as important as Lilah is insinuating, its success will depend on its players. Drusilla will search for fun, but Darla will be sure that the job is accomplished.”

He didn’t think it would be appropriate to add that he wanted Darla as far from Angelus as possible, if only briefly.

Had Holland noticed his digression—which he had to, as the personal aspirations of the Wolfram and Hart team were not kept secret—he did not make mention of it. Lindsey’s infatuation with Darla was practically commonplace, and the last thing he needed was the reemergence of her old flame in the full sense of the term.

Personal interest went consequentially ignored.

“All very well,” the elder said cordially. “Yes. As soon as all is settled, we will send Darla and Drusilla to Sunnydale to collect the last member of the Order. I do wish it could be sooner, but Angelus’s addition to the fold will require a period of adjustment. After we have Spike in our possession, we will see him into neurological surgery to remove his…dilemma.”

Lilah shifted uneasily. “What about the Slayer?”

“Ms. Summers?”

“According to our research, the subject has been working alongside the Slayer for the length of his condition.”

“Voluntarily?” Lindsey asked. Knowing Angel’s previous disposition where Buffy Summers was concerned, it would positively kill him if another someone—another undead someone—had managed to wheedle his way into her heart. It was a long shot, but those were known on the occasion to receive the coveted slam-dunk.

“No. I believe I mentioned that he works in turn for money,” Lilah replied. “But you forget this particular Slayer has a likeness for forming bonds with vampires, our residential soulboy acting as a case in point.”

Holland’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Yes, this does deserve some consideration. Ms. Summers is the longest surviving Slayer in history, am I right?”

“The third,” Lilah corrected.

“Splendid. This might well work to our benefit. If things with the mage do not proceed as well as hoped, we can resort to more…primal means to extracting Angel’s soul.”

Lindsey fought off the temptation to roll his eyes. “What are you going to do?” he muttered irately. “Lock them naked in a room and play Barry White until they can’t help but screw? Angel might not be a model for self-restraint, but I would think that a vampire of his reputation would have the means to ignore some of life’s more frivolous temptations.”

Holland was not amused. “I do not appreciate that sort of humor.”

“Good idea, though,” Lilah added with a smirk.

“Oh, come on. Angel knows his limitations. He wouldn’t dare.”

“I do not anticipate requiring the…shall we say, services of the Slayer in this matter. The mage is highly skilled in such forms of retraction.” Manners’s smile returned easily, all negative melodrama aside. “Darla and Drusilla will collect the Slayer on their trip.”

“Are you expecting her to just…” Lindsey gestured emphatically, “go along because our girls ask nicely?”

Lilah snickered.

“Don’t be silly. I would never presume to ask the girls to play by the rules.” Holland’s leer intensified. “And certainly a Slayer that has survived this long would not be taken of her own will. Oh no. I foresee a great amount of force in obtaining what we want. And as you know, such endeavors have never troubled our firm.”

Lindsey glanced down. There wasn’t much that troubled the firm at all, the murder of innocent children notwithstanding. The familiar growth of distaste that had birthed the year before took a drastic leap forward. “Of course.”

“Now then,” Holland concluded with a chipper note. “We best be off. Wouldn’t want to leave our guests waiting.”

“No,” he agreed. “We wouldn’t want that.”

There were many things he was finding himself not to want.

Not that it mattered, of course. The project was everything. Morality be damned.

The pieces were set, and it was time to move.

Checkmate.

An hour ago, no one would have seen this coming.

They hadn’t made a move thus far—had done nothing but circle the expanse cellar several times, sprouting threats that weren’t so empty. Working the crowd like the sick prerequisite to the grand finale. While the two vampires had done nothing more than compliment the ivory of Lilah Morgan’s skin and address Holland in his infinite malpractice of offering them a massacre, there was no doubt behind their intention. They were looking for a party, and by gum, they had found one.

Darla had stopped in front of Lindsey and was regarding him with an air of curiosity. Of everyone present, he was the most indifferent. He stood solemnly, watching her through hooded eyes. It was most definitely not an exercise of ego. He had resigned himself to his fate the minute they waltzed through the door. No, it was something more. Something unseen and yet comforting at the same time.

Despite appearance, the blonde vampiress knew this. She caught his calm exterior out of the corner of her eye and discarded whatever she had said to Holland—something about being able to sense the fear clouding the atmosphere. And now she was approaching, body language hung with curiosity. Not offended, merely ponderous. Examining him as though he was the second coming.

“But not from you,” she told him. “Do you know what I’m getting from you, Lindsey?” She leaned inward, incisors extended and made as though she would like nothing more than to take a big chunk out of his throat. But she didn’t. “Nothing. Why aren’t you afraid?”

How was he supposed to answer that when he didn’t know, himself? There was nothing to tell her that she couldn’t estimate for her own conclusion. Only that looking at her now, even as she bore her true face, he couldn’t think of anywhere that he would rather be. That likely made him either another sap-heart fool in love or out of his mind, but he wasn’t too concerned with any moniker the others might give him. The others wouldn’t be around too much longer, as it was.

“I don’t know.”

Darla’s brows perked. “You could die here,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “Chances are you will.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care.”

“I care,” he corrected her. But that wasn’t entirely true. “I guess I just don’t mind.”

There was a laugh from behind. Holland, smiling still to his credit, even it was weaker than anyone in his presence had ever seen, spread his hands diplomatically. “No one is going to die here.” That seemed highly unlikely. “This is just a friendly get-together amongst colleagues. We’re all on the same…” He drifted off when he became aware of the other—Drusilla—dancing behind him, peaking out from either angle of his perspective. “…side.”

The blonde vampire made as though nothing concerning negotiation had been mentioned, wistfully glancing around the chamber with a sigh. “I love this room. Dru, honey, in our new digs…” She pivoted sharply to join her companion, wrapping one arm around her grandchilde-made-sire and another around Holland. “We have to get a people cellar.”

However, it seemed the other vampire wasn’t listening. Her eyes had drifted, adapting the same blaze she spurned every time another vision of what had been or what would be attacked her hindsight. “Something has changed,” she said, tearing herself away. Her arms crossed over her chest and she began to sway rhythmically to a song that no one could hear. “He’s calling. Ohh…Daddy’s home.”

And while no one save her companion knew exactly how to read Drusilla’s transgression, everyone seemingly understood what she said.

Because Angel had crowded the doorway.

Darla did not miss a beat. She pivoted swiftly and flashed her former a smirk, extending the call of candor invitation. If she noticed the void on his face, she did not make mention of it. Angel had never been one for the active expressions—but he was emptier than ever. Hollow. As though the man that claimed to harbor his body was gone, and the demon had departed with him.

“Angelus. Here for the tasting?”

“Look what we have for you,” Drusilla said in offering. She received no reaction, and her spirits fell on cue. “It’s not Daddy. It’s never Daddy.” She flashed her canines maliciously, a cold hiss ringing through the air. “It’s the Angel-beast.”

Then something changed. A smile born from nowhere, spreading across the dark vampire’s face. A smile that would never know life were Angel in vicinity. A smile where there should be no smile.

“Precious,” he drawled, stepping inside. “That is where you’re wrong.”

A still beat. Lindsey didn’t know exactly how to react. He hadn’t foreseen greeting Angelus’s return with a smirk or a pat on the back, but at the moment, he wouldn’t have traded anything for the front-row seat he had in viewing the expression on Holland’s face.

Complete and utter disbelief.

“Angelus!” the other man hurried to greet. “I’m so glad the mage reached you in time. You see, Wolfram and Hart orchestrated your—”

“You’ve only started talking and I’m bored already,” Angelus informed him stoutly. His eyes, however, had not abandoned Darla’s. She was standing motionless, absolutely dumbfound. It had to be shocking, of course. Over a century had passed without seeing him at all. And now, once more, déjà vu in the most extreme. “What was that you said about a tasting, darling?” he asked with a grin. The vampire was not one to savor a reaction that bordered anything but sorrow and outrage, but the look his maker was bearing was beyond priceless. As though reason had been reintroduced—more of herself than she ever bargained letting anyone see. “I gotta tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.”

Darla continued to stare.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

“Of course,” she said, turning to Holland disinterestedly. “Poor dear’s been living on pig’s blood for far too long. I believe the least you can do is offer him a decent meal.”

Drusilla was bounding up and down gleefully. “Daddy!”

But Angelus didn’t reply. His human features melted to the more demonic persuasion, and he grinned at the old man’s horror before lowering his mouth to his ear. “Make a wish,” he whispered.

Then bit down.

And drank.

Chapter Two

Inside A Deep Ravine

It was late, she was bored, and the demon population wasn’t exactly working on the up to remedy any preset predicament. Naturally, though, that was to be expected. A line of tedium was nothing that locals attempted to correct. Not until the pace picked up once more and everything settled into the norm of activity.

Slowness generally merited a bad, and it had been slow.

Very slow.

Granted, Buffy rationalized as she made her third uneventful sweep of Restfield Cemetery, only two days had passed since the trauma that was the big troll. Silence in any regard was to be considered suspicious, but in truth, all might have amounted more to the spring of unnatural causes. There had been nothing more from Glory, her mother seemed to be doing well, and Dawn, despite the noted badness that ensued wherever she went, had managed to keep out of trouble for forty-eight hours.

Logically, such grounds could only mean the impending apocalypse, but she tried to keep her thoughts positive.

Which was most certainly of the impossible when there wasn’t a demon in sight whose death would merit a nice little detour from the grim reality that was her life. One little demon. That was all she wanted for tonight.

Well, what she really wanted was to go home, soak, and open her eyes to the boyfriend that left when life became too real, but that wasn’t happening. And if she was honest, it wasn’t entirely what she sought. No. The place Riley had in her heart was vacant, yes, but not unmanageable. It hurt that it didn’t hurt more than it did, and then it just hurt all over. As though her non-indifference-but-close was enough to merit his leaving. As though every nasty thing he said that indicated he wasn’t enough for her was true.

She had known that, of course. On some level buried under heaps and heaps of denial, she had known that.

But he was Joe Normal. He was what she was supposed to want.

Sometimes, like now, life sucked beyond the telling of it.

And there were no demons to take it out on.

Buffy sighed heavily. There was no point in wasting a perfectly good chick-flick night wandering aimlessly around the cemeteries. If badness wasn’t going to come to her, she might as well go to badness. There hadn’t been a decent chick-flick to roll out of Hollywood in recent memory, and she had already seen all the others. Another point to support why life as of the current was not working in her favor.

If Riley were here, they could spar. Or make love. Of course, neither one of those activities were entirely relaxing. Fighting Riley had always aggravated her because she couldn’t unleash her everything and just be…her. The Slayer. She was always afraid she was going to hurt him. Or break him. And the other…their bedroom life the past year had gone seriously downhill. To his credit, he had started their physical relationship as a very attentive lover, but time progressed and the newness of their association waned. And he became Joe Normal on a whole new plateau.

His plateau, of course. She never asked him to rectify her dissatisfaction. Too afraid it would damage his precarious male ego. Thus, Buffy had learned the art of something she had never suspected to need in any regard. It wasn’t as though there was a how-to course, and she certainly couldn’t ask her mother.

“Mom…how do you fake an orgasm?”

There was no way that conversation could lead anywhere of the good. And either way, she had apparently been convincing. Mimicking the scream that seemed identical to the one that had caused the Gentlemen’s heads to explode.

And Riley never knew the difference. He didn’t notice the conversion from the real to the phony, and she never made reference to it. Toward the end, she had even succumbed to lying to him as to not damage him more than she was already. And it did hurt. It hurt when it didn’t hurt enough and it hurt that she was not giving him what he needed. Because she knew that he loved her. Despite everything else, he loved her. And she had pushed him away because she didn’t—she couldn’t—feel the same.

It wasn’t because he wasn’t Angel, regardless of his own conviction. God, if that wasn’t the king of all revelations. Angel wasn’t what she wanted anymore. From the few times that they had conversed since he abandoned her for Los Angeles, he had turned into someone she didn’t know. Naturally, there was a part of her that would always love him. He had been her first, and no girl overcame her first great love. It wasn’t possible. But she wasn’t fool enough to believe that he was The One anymore. And she had long ago conceded the fantasy where he came to his belated senses and rescued her from the woes of Slayerhood.

That would never happen. She knew it now. She had known it for a while.

But Angel wasn’t the reason that she couldn’t give Riley what he wanted. And that was what bothered her. On the surface, Riley had been everything she should reach for. Want. He wasn’t. And he never had been.

Whistler had been right all along. In the end, it was only her. And she reckoned that was the way it would be forever. After all, what could a girl whose death was always licking her heels offer anyone? A few good rolls in the sack, if that. A hearty kiss farewell before—boom—massive deadness.

There were times that being the Slayer caught up with her. To know what it meant was one thing; to truly understand was an entirely different matter.

A surprisingly cool breeze flitted through the cemetery and Buffy shivered, arms crossing self-consciously. The night hummed around her, bringing all its creatures to life.

To life, but not within proximity.

That was when she heard the unmistakable signs of struggle sounding reasonably near. And the Slayer’s spirits heightened. Perhaps the evening’s hunt wouldn’t be a total waste.

The scene upon arrival was not as encouraging as she had hoped. Spike was beating the tar out of some newly risen fledgling, and apparently having a marvelous time doing so. The grin on his face was ear-to-ear, the same she recognized out of unruly satisfaction.

“Great,” she pouted. “The first vampire I’ve come across all night and he’s spoken for.”

The sound of her voice startled the platinum Cockney right out of his enjoyment, and he whirled wide-eyed in greeting. It was odd seeing the cocky vampire suddenly flabbergasted at the simple additive of her presence. “Buffy—”

Not good. Stopping to talk to your mortal enemy during a fight was not a good. “Spike! You’re—”

Too late. Baby Vamp seized initiative and slammed him into the side of the nearest mausoleum, elbowing his nose and projecting his head into the stone with a bone-breaking crack. That was all the excuse she needed—though most certainly not for Spike’s welfare. The stake she kept harbored up her sleeve slid easily into grasp, and Buffy hurled herself enthusiastically into the line of fire.

“Oi, Slayer!” the Cockney called begrudgingly, checking his nose for blood. “You’re not playin’ with the full stack! I saw him firs’!”

“Sorry, Bleach Boy,” she retorted, words stressed between winds of exertion. “Finders…keepers…”

There was a disgruntled mumble through the strains and pains of mediocre battle-skills. She actually had to tone it down a bit to stretch this one out. From earlier observation, it was evident that there would be no more fighting after this vamp bit the dust. Bah. The woes of slow nights.

It didn’t last nearly as long as she would have liked. All too soon, Buffy was staring at a fading cloud of dust, sighing to herself and replacing her stake where she kept it handy. As an afterthought, she turned to Spike. The way he was looking at her these days could fall under the file of disconcerting, but she didn’t allow herself to give it much thought. The peroxide pest was always up to something or other. If she knew him half as well as she thought she did, she would be foiling some supremely retarded plan come the next two weeks or so.

But that wasn’t it. His eyes shone with something more than general and mutual distaste. As though there was something there that hadn’t existed before. Thinking about it didn’t do much for her complex, but it was mildly bothersome. An ocean of blue that birthed an endless reflection of awe intertwined with old irritation.

There was power there. Power and something more.

Nights like this, she hated the chip. Not that she would ever admit it. While killing him remained on her list of things to threat to do without doing, it was the furthest thing from any form of intention. But she did wish they could go at it the way they used to. Despite his notable flaws, he was the most worthy adversary she had ever faced. She was so tired of fights she knew she could win.

It wasn’t a matter of winning fights with Spike. Oh no. More dodging the bullet with every intention of coming closer to death at next rendezvous. He could have killed her a thousand times over but hadn’t. She the same. And she never allowed herself to consider why.

It was worth too many wiggins for additional thought.

“Bloody perfect,” he muttered with seething irritation, dusting himself off appropriately. “Y’know how long it took me to find a fresh one?”

“Hey, you’re lucky I came along.”

“To what? Distract me?”

“No…” Buffy frowned, jutting her lip out with endless indecision. “Okay, okay. So he was a baby vamp. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a Spike-dustiness ending to this story in the loom.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Even ‘f that were the case, since when are you one to care, Slayer?”

“Since the days of my boredom have reduced me to contemplating ending your sorry existence if patrol doesn’t pick up.”

“That loses its swagger the more you say it. You do know that, right?”

She sighed wantonly as they fell into a freakishly comfortable side-by-side stroll through the cemetery. It was similarly on her list of things not to do, but she really wasn’t in the mood to be wall-put-uppy Buffy tonight. Chances of Spike slithering through being in name only, she figured her digression was forgivable. “Yeah, yeah. Well, I gotta say it. You know. To keep you in line.”

“Right.” She didn’t have to look at him to see his brows quirk, and it egged at her senses that she knew him so well. “’Cause it works like a bleedin’ charm. Cor, Slayer, you must really be bored.”

“God, you have no idea. The vamps are a no-go and have been on the side of avoidy for a couple nights.” She flexed her shoulders instinctively. “That’s forever in Buffy-years. I’ve reduced myself to watching Jackie Chan films and pretending it’s me kicking ass.”

“After only two days?” Spike shook his head again, reaching for his cigarettes with a chuckle. “That is sad.”

“Excuse me. I believe your television schedule revolves around Passions and Passions reruns wherever you can catch them. Don’t lecture me on sad.”

“Well, seein’ as you’re so close to losin’ your marbles, I gotta say, ‘m glad it was you who killed ole Henry back there.” When she appraised him with a curious look, he shrugged, lighter finding the end of his fag with a glowing hum and an appreciative intake of nicotine. “Hank. Harm told me ‘bout ‘im. Got sired by some of her old lackeys. The ones you din’t off in the Rescue-The-Bit, Take Thirty-Five show down ‘couple weeks back.”

Rescuing Dawn from Harmony. That had been before Riley left.

Grumble.

As if he sensed her digression, Spike stopped suddenly and pivoted to face her. “Look,” he said, “there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to tell you. Timin’ never seemed right, an’ honestly, I don’ rightly know what there is to say. Only that I gotta get it out there so you get me, right?”

The vampire had serious-face. This was never good. “Yeah, okay,” she said slowly, feeling suddenly very self-conscious. “What’s the what?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “’S about what ‘appened last week…with Captain Cardboard an’ the vamp brothel. I jus’—”

Immediately, Buffy held up a hand and stepped back, an entirely too ill at ease look overwhelming her features. “I really, really don’t wanna talk about this.”

He made a move to reach for her at her withdrawal and she bristled. A sigh resounded through the air in turn, and he retracted his touch to his own platinum strands. “Look, I don’ wanna rub the salt in anythin’ or what all. Tha’s not what I ‘ave to say. ‘S jus’…you need to hear this.”

“I don’t need to hear anything from you, Spike. Ever.”

There. That was a bit more like herself. Being nice to the Bleached Wonder always led to badness, especially if doors were left open along the way. Who knew when he would seize initiative and leap into her bubble? Spike preferred to make himself comfortable wherever it was inconvenient for others, and she was a specialty in such case.

He was exceptionally talented at rubbing her the wrong way.

Especially nights like tonight.

“Yes you bloody do,” he insisted, making another play for her wrist and whirling her around to face him. For a beat, she wondered how or why she allowed him to get so close. Her body itched with the need for another fight and she wondered if her Slayer senses would be satisfied if she popped him in the nose. Somehow she doubted it, but it was nearly worth the experimentation. Had he not looked to be the epitome of seriousness, she would have put the hypothesis to test. “An’ the sooner you accept that, the happier the lot of us’ll be.” He observed her wearily, head cocked as those eyes she was so not noticing burned through the layers of her self-consciousness. Why? Why was he suddenly looking at her like that? “Buffy, I din’t take you there that night to hurt you, no matter how it mighta seemed.”

At that, she rolled her eyes. Since when did Spike care about hurting her? Wasn’t that his life’s mission? His prerogative? It was in her general acceptance, thus she hadn’t given it much thought. Hearing him mention it like that was nearly laugh-worthy. As though she had spent her nights cursing his name for ruining her—cough— perfect relationship. “Right. Because hurting the Slayer is nowhere near Spike’s lot in life. Or unlife. Please. I’m so not worrying with this now. Goodnight.”

“Not hurtin’ the Slayer, you daft bint. You.” She knew he hadn’t meant to say it like that by the telling widening of his eyes and therefore ignored it. There would be no revelations of the potential apocalypse-bringing sort tonight. “’F I wanted to hurt you, you’d feel it. I don’ work that way, an’ you know it.”

He had a point there. Spike hadn’t resorted to striking so personally in a long while. The day in the sun when he suggested that she wasn’t worth a second go, and that remark was more to get back at her Drusilla-jibe of two night’s earlier, she reckoned. When the platinum vampire wanted to hurt, he hurt in the all-out sense. He spoke big words, of course. A recent evening rendezvous to the Bronze rang as proof enough of that, but anything more was too Angelus for either brazen level of comfort.

Time to go home.

“Right. I get it.” She turned to leave again.

“You do not. You’re jus’—”

Buffy paused again with an aggravated sigh. “Look, what happened, when I said I didn’t wanna talk about it, I meant as in the really. You’re not exactly my ideal chatting partner, thus when I do open up, it definitely won’t be to you. But…” She stopped shortly, holding up a hand. “What happened…it was…I’m glad I found out. Even if it did hurt, I needed to know. And yeah, I guess that’s…it was important, despite your motive.”

“My motive was to show, luv. Nothin’ more. Din’t figure you’d want your boy—”

“Again with the not chatty. You’ve said your piece and I’m going home. This is me dropping the subject. Okay?”

He sulked a bit in manifest disappointment. “Callin’ quits already? Come on, Slayer. ‘m sure if we put our heads together an’ tag-team this bloody two-bit town, we can find some action worth lookin’ in on.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah. Because my stealthy self couldn’t pick up one tail, and this is sort’ve my calling. But two of us, especially a notably loudmouthed bleached chip-head—right. We’ll be rolling in the vamps. Stakes all around.”

“You’re a bloody riot.”

“I do stand-up on the weekends.”

“Better stick to your…” Spike trailed with a frown and threw a pointed, nearly accusing glance at the darkened sky. “…night job.”

She snickered. “Not that I have a choice.”

“Come on. The night’s young…’f you’re a vamp or one who hunts vamps…which you are.” Her gaze sharpened at him skeptically, but he ignored her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” His eyes danced and he twitched slightly with unkempt excitement. “There’s nothin’ you can do at home that you can’t do out with me.”

There was no way not to mask the initial thoughts that sprung to mind, bearing the thought that Xander and Anya were the people she spent most days with now that Riley was gone. The ex-vengeance demon was especially keen at pointing out the variety of ways that she wanted the Slayer gone so that she might engage in sexcapades with her ever-attentive boyfriend. Thus the image came unbidden, and her cheeks flushed rouge in turn. When she hazarded a glance up and caught the smirk born proud on his lips, she knew begrudgingly that she had been caught in her digression. It was infuriating how easily he read her. There was no one else that had such a talent.

Buffy the Ambiguity. Buffy the Ambiguity to all save one William the Bloody.

Caught in wordless, heated embarrassment, the Slayer resorted to her last form of defense. She tossed him a dirty glance and made to brush passed him. In truth, it would have been more productive to forfeit one hearty swing and punch his eye out, but the notion never transpired. It wasn’t as though he was being purposefully annoying as was his custom. He had made a harmless suggestion; she was the one who tainted it.

Just another testament to how breaking up was a bad thing. Here she was chatting up Spike after she very deliberately told him that she would not, and hitting him had never occurred to her.

“Oh, don’ gimme that look,” Spike protested with a snicker. “’S your perverted li’l mind that thought up whatever delicious dirty you’re tryin’ so hard to banish from hindsight.”

Better to feign ignorance, even if it was ultimately superfluous. “How did—”

His eyes narrowed and she shut up right quick. “Saw your face. That was enough. An’ I suspect there’s more to it where that came from.” A sharp chuckle tickled the air when she turned even redder. “There, there, Slayer. We’ve all got our various…squicks.”

“Get bent.”

She pushed passed him furiously and started marching for home. It was to little avail. Spike fought to her side and kept up rather nicely, hands buried in the pockets of his billowing duster. His lips attentively tended to the cigarette and she was somewhat disconcerted to how accepting she had become to the otherwise intrusive scent. Smokers were nasty. Smokers were not to be associated with…ever. And yet, around Spike it was nearly expected. As though he wasn’t entirely there if he wasn’t puffing away at something.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, and just as she was starting to debate the better odds and ends of staking him for good, his voice interrupted her musings. “Are you sure…’bout the rest an’ everythin’? It got really nasty there at the end.”

The Slayer felt a breath catch her in throat and went frigid. “We’re talking about Riley again?”

“I jus’…’f I’da known—”

“It hurt. He ran away from us. From our problems.” Buffy emitted a weary sigh and directed herself thoughtlessly to a headstone. They hadn’t even made it out of the cemetery. Of course not. Once more, it occurred to her that spilling her innermost thoughts and insecurities to the man previously dedicated to her demise was not of the good, but for tonight, she was tired of playing by the rules. She was tired of so much. It was late and he was here. He was Spike, yes, and he was the proudly proclaimed bane of her existence, but some random voice within her psyche whispered that he would listen, and furthermore, that he would understand. Talking to Xander was a no because he had been there at the end and seen everything that transpired. He had given her the inspirational last speech about saving the one good thing in her life. He would put on his sympathetic face, but he didn’t truly feel sorry for her.

Willow was similarly a no. When Oz walked out on her, it had ruined her completely. It had ruined her on an Angel-leaving level. Even Buffy couldn’t remember grieving the loss of her one true love as much as the Witch had the departure of her first and only boyfriend. For that, she couldn’t talk to her friend. Not for the changes the separating them: because Oz had meant more than Riley. Willow had loved Oz.

Buffy had not loved Riley. And she saw that now.

Spike was not exactly a yes, but he wasn’t a no, either. He was here and that was good enough. And if he breathed a word to anyone, she could always shove something nice, wooden, and pointy through his chest.

Not that she would or anything. The hinted promise of things she would never do was the only thing that could have persuaded her to continue. And she needed to talk. She needed it out there, even if it was her mortal enemy who was listening. “Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes I feel like…my problems. Like something’s wrong with—”

“Don’ even finish that sentence.” The sound of his voice surprised her, as though, despite her acceptance, she had forgotten he was beside her. For a second, it appeared that he was resisting the urge to reassure her with a touch. He resisted well, were that the case. “It wasn’ you that made him go out for suck jobs.”

“No, but I pushed him away. I’ve been so focused on Mom and Dawn and—”

“The things you shoulda been focused on?” he suggested softly. She didn’t reply. “Buffy, your mum jus’ had a bloody serious operation. ‘F you weren’ there to be his snuggle-bunny, it was his fault for—”

“That’s what I thought. Apparently no one else did. People seem to forget that I have every day slayage and Mom-taking-care-of and Dawn-sitting to tend to. All at once, mind you! Oh no, everyone’s big on the ‘it’s Buffy’s fault’ train.”

“Everyone is wrong,” Spike said gently.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do.” It was hard to contest a man who sounded so wholly certain, even if that man was a viciously notorious vampire with a mean streak that challenged the Nile in length and the expanse of North America in width. Not to mention the total lack of patience. There was probably a list somewhere that alphabetically categorized every nasty thing the Scourge of Europe had done or thought about doing, but while standing in his presence, such indiscriminate little nasties were so easy to forget. Despite what she said, or how she claimed to understand. “’S funny how li’l details slip your mind, Summers.” Gee, wasn’t I just thinking the same thing? “Like how I know Slayers on a whole pretty damn well.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then again, on other days, remembering what he was constituted as just another task on the get-ready list. Right there between brush your teeth and floss. “Yeah. Need to know your enemy, right?”

It grew unpredictably quiet—blunt and nearly creepy, dismissing the entire archetypically selected scenery. Sometimes the intensity of his eyes was simply too much. Buffy never liked to credit Spike with surplus power, but there was no denying what he had at his disposal. At his wake. At his readily awaiting-thy-orders, master. He was young for a vampire, all things considered. But God, experience just rolled off his shoulders. The places he had been. The things he had seen.

The people he’s killed.

“’F that was the case,” he was saying, and she had to struggle to remember what they had been talking about, “you woulda been six feet under a long time ago. Not by me!” He stepped back before she could issue the accusation, hands flying up as though someone was holding him at gunpoint. “’d never presume that, luv. I fancy thinkin’ I know you pretty well, but you ‘ave the strangest way of takin’ me out for a spin on the bloody tail-ends. An’ ‘f I don’ say so myself, the fact that I’m still tryin’ to figure you out means all the better for you. Your other local nasties’ll never make it full circle. You’re an ambiguity, Buffy. Lord help us all ‘f someone ever gets to the core of that onion.”

There was a moment of stillness that could not help but ensue in the general randomness that was being paid a compliment, an actual and—weird—heartfelt compliment by Spike. Where had that come from? She hated it when he did that. When he acted as though he were all Average Joe going about his merry way. As though he wasn’t what he was.

It made it harder to hate him, and that was something Buffy enjoyed keeping filed under the Simple heading. Hating Spike was supposed to be like breathing. Natural. Instinctual. Basic. He wasn’t supposed to go all Vamp-Casanova with the bizarre compliments that came from nowhere and the imaginary Lean On Me soundtrack that was not playing in the background, even though it might as well have been.

The words that escaped her, though, hardly followed through to conclusion. Right now she was desperate for any sign that suggested what had happened to her, to her and Riley, to her and all her relationships was not entirely of her doing. She was the Slayer, first and foremost, and she couldn’t have the average life. Including the average boyfriend. It was nice that someone was acknowledging that.

Acknowledging her for what she was.

Even if that someone was Spike.

“Do you mean it?”

It grew unspeakably silent, and Buffy had known many silences. Too many to recount. Never one with the platinum vampire. Spike had never had a quiet note in his life, especially where she was concerned.

He made as though to touch her but withdrew almost instantly, sensing the imminence of her protest. She hadn’t even realized it was there until she felt her voice stop in her throat. There was no friendly touching where she and Spike were implicated. There should be no touching period, but sometimes a punch here or there was of the necessary.

He was looking at her again. “Yeh,” he said finally. Still quiet. “I mean it. Christ, Summers, you’re near impossible to get close to. I should know. Tried foilin’ everythin’ you threw at me from day bloody one, an’ that was three years ago. You’ve outdone yourself. An’ whatever this new bitch has on you…wha’s her name?”

“Glory.”

“Right. ‘F she knew what she was gettin’ herself into, she’d be makin’ tracks.” A smile tickled his lips as though he was proud. “As it is, ‘m sure you’ll see that she gets her arse right an’ properly kicked.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’ll be there. Count on it. Y’think I get my rocks off by watchin’ from the sidelines?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Spike paused and the world stopped with him. “Oh? Wha’s that, then?”

The warning bell she had been ignoring strategically for the past fifteen minutes started blaring. There was no part of this that could result in the area code of good. The last time she let Spike this close, they had been under a spell and, well, doing anything but talking. He didn’t look to be expecting anything of her, but there was a line between them that could be crossed for no purpose. She had placed it there long ago—separating herself from all things of the vampiric nature. After Angelus. After Angel left. There was to be no amity between enemies.

Freakish space becoming an issue.

“I-I don’t know.” Buffy frowned and stepped back. “I’ve—uh—gotta be heading home.”

The response was automatic. The platinum vampire nodded and reinstated her unspoken need for distance. “Right then. Toddle on off. ‘m sure your pals have gotten into some tragic accident without your supervision.”

“Hey—”

“What’s up with you, Summers? You’re all…I dunno…anxious.” He ran his tongue across his teeth, favoring her with a tantalizing leer. “Not very becomin’ to a Slayer. ‘S it ‘cause you’ve stepped down from your almighty horse? Treatin’ me like one of yours? I’ll admit ‘s a li’l disconcertin’, but I’m not complainin’.”

At that, she scoffed, indignant. “Well, up until now, you were acting like a person. Sorry for the lapse. Sometimes I have to be reminded. Trust me when I say that it won’t—”

It took a minute to realize he had seized her arm; another to comprehend the sudden lack of what she had craved so desperately just a minute ago. Distance. There was none. “I act like a person more than you like to notice. Some words of wisdom, luv, keep your eyes open. I might jus’ surprise you.”

Step away. Don’t encourage him. Go home like you should have the minute you saw his exceedingly annoying platinum head. Don’t encourage him.

“Is that so?”

“More than your precious Scoobies, tha’s for certain.”

“Spike, it’s late, go home.”

“An’ especially now that the whelp’s arm’s all rot an’ busted.” He ducked his head to smother a grin. “Only Muck-For-Brains would pick a fight with a bloody troll.”

Inherent defense swelled within her. “He was defending the woman he loves!”

“Who happens to be a very prominent an’ powerful ex-vengeance demon.”

“She’s…” There was nothing to say to contest that. Two years prior, the very same troll-loving Anyanka was happily exacting pain and suffering on every vaguely male-shaped body she came across. Humanity had certainly done a number on her, but when all the superfluous layers were peeled away, she was the same old Anya. The murderous sort. Nothing had happened to her that merited a variation of character.

And yet, it didn’t stop the words from drifting past her lips as though she truly believed them. “She’s changed.”

“Hmmm…how stunningly original.”

“She’s not like that anymore.”

“Oh, so she can be forced to adapt to the likes of your precious mortal coil, but yours truly is shunned from the crowd?” Spike turned away with disgust and began a customary pace, unaware of her searing confusion. “’S all right for those with a pulse to get a li’l sympathy an’ compassion an’ sodding understanding every now an’ then, but when I go out of my bloody way to—”

“What the hell are you blabbing about?”

“You! You an’ the rest of you sodding do-gooders. Treatin’ me like the outed man when I ‘aven’t touched a nummy treat in over a year.”

“But you would if your chip was removed.”

Spike’s brows arched. “Oh, an’ the former demon’s so haughtily above it that she wouldn’t go back to the carnage she so enjoyed ‘f her wanker of a former boss came crawlin’ back on his colossal hands an’ knees to beg her return? You forget, luv, Anya’s killed a helluva lot more blokes than I ‘ave, an’ she enjoyed it every bit as much. P’raps more. What does it take to get in your good graces?”

“Since when have you wanted it?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Man’s got eyes, doesn’ he? Your precious vamp-lovin’ soldier’s run off an’ he’s taken his militia men with ‘im. Way I figure it, I’m sorta stuck like this. Might as well make the most.”

“No. No! Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve made no small game about how very much you want us all dead.”

“I guess your lovable demon-turned-pulser made the transition like that.” He snapped his fingers demonstratively. “No attempts to regain her nasty streak? Her powers? Everythin’ she’d been for the better of a thousand years an’ more? Please, Summers. I’ve only been around for a fraction of the time Anya has, an’ I bloody well know that—”

“We can’t trust you.”

“I’m not askin’ you to trust me. ‘m askin’ you to cut me a li’l slack is all.”

“Why should I?”

He blinked at her. “’Cause I asked nicely?”

“I’m going home. For real this time.”

“Right. You do that.”

“I am.”

And that was that. With a haughty toss of her hair, the Slayer set off intently, relieved when he at last neglected to follow. The counter already had her spiraling down a bizarre influx of otherworldly emotion that she wanted to ignore with every fiber of her being. It had already been a long night, and granted the mass amount of consideration she was now being asked to take, it looked to be at the start rather than its finish.

Yet she couldn’t leave it at that. It didn’t seem right. Forces beyond her control persuaded her to turn once more. And he was there, just as she knew he would be. Watching her walk away with a look of bemusement on his face.

He was so irritating.

“Spike?”

“Pet?”

A beat. “Stay away from me.”

He smiled insincerely. “’Course. I’ll get right on that.”

She should have berated him, should have called him on it, but she didn’t. Despite the need for distance, she knew that rising to the challenge would coincide with another round of verbal combat, and leaving was something of the extremely needed. There was a home to be getting to. A sister to protect.

And she didn’t belong here.

Spike remained stationary long after she left him alone. God, he was strange.

Even for a vampire.

Chapter Three

The House of Usher 

No tragedy, however serious, could hamper the unspoken temperament of the Wolfram and Hart estate. Business went about as usual, and that was all there was to it. No melodramatic boohooing, no survivor’s story, no interview with CNN—nothing. Because this was an establishment built on causing catastrophe, and while unusual, it was no more glanced upon when it happened at home.

It simply happened.

The only truly bizarre thing about the entire ordeal was the selection of those left alive. The two left alive. Two. Just two. Lindsey McDonald and Lilah Morgan, each found under a pile of bodies. Each pulled out by the belated rescuers who responded to an equally belated 911 call issued by the now late Mrs. Holland Manners.

It was just as well. Her husband was dead, too. And without him there was no one to protect her.

Just as well.

Lindsey McDonald had just verified that he had no messages when Lilah approached; spurned by the burnout they were receiving from the wealth of Wolfram and Hart staff. The only two to walk out alive, and they were coated in misgiving. She went on for a few minutes, pausing once when her companion scoffed at a vampire being escorted down a corridor, before returning to her more-than-likely self-aimed tangent.

“No phone calls, no flowers. If I were the nervous type, I’d be nervous. But as it is, I’m just pissed.”

Lindsey rolled his eyes. So typical of her. Thinking the entire grand scheme of things revolved around her and her precious steps to self-promotion. “What did you expect, Lilah?” he demanded. “We’re the only survivors of the massacre. It’s natural that we’re under suspicion.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “You know what I don’t like about suspicion? The part where they find us two weeks from now, dead in some freak accident.”

She had a point there. The firm had its less-than-orthodox ways of dealing with…suspicious associates.

Still, he had to remain optimistic, even if it was ultimately the most foolish thing he could do. “We did nothing wrong.”

Not true, his subconscious warned. Your very existence is wrong. Look at you. At this. This is wrong.

That voice was becoming a real nuisance.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Lilah demanded sardonically. “Because I work for Wolfram and Hart. Responsibility has nothing to do with it. If they’re looking for a scapegoat, we might as well grow horns and start eating garbage.”

He blinked incredulously, resentment growing. “Scapegoat. Scapegoat, Lilah?! They’re the one…”

The rise in his voice was dangerous and she immediately called him on it, sealing the space between them to place a neutral hand on his chest as another lawyer walked by. Once more, they were not spared a guilt-inducing glare. Once more, the feeling of strained camaraderie between the two people in the building that had the most reputable rivalry soared to new depths. Lindsey quieted instantly and likewise hated himself for it. Because he was right. They had done nothing wrong.

For once.

When he continued, his tone was reasonably lower. “They’re the ones that wanted Drusilla brought in. I was just following orders.” A pause. “And I was never supportive of the entire ‘let’s Angelus-ize Angel’ idea. If memory serves, that was you and Holland. Of all your endeavors, how would you compare this failure to the rest?”

“Don’t you dare try to blame me.”

“I’m not. And they shouldn’t either.”

She balked. “And you honestly think that matters? Fine. Indulge your denial. Don’t doubt for a minute someone’s going to pay, Lindsey. And we’re the only ones left.”

He steered them both into his office and stopped dead within two steps.

“Not the only ones.”

The most vampire-ready building in California, perhaps the world, and no one had made mention of how three of the most notorious demons had waltzed through security and, more importantly, into his office. Drusilla had assumed his chair, Darla seated comfortably on top of the desk. Angelus was in the corner, arms crossed and notably bored. Upon first glance, it was more than obvious that being here was not his idea. Just as leaving them alive hadn’t been.

Angel hated Lindsey; Angelus wanted to convey that message personally.

Darla had to sense the tension rolling off her lover—(it was obvious even to the most ignorant observer that they had spent the past day becoming reacquainted in the biblical sense, aside murdering anyone who crossed their path)—and ignored it. Instead, she lolled her head to the side and smiled pleasantly at the fresh face before her. “Lindsey,” she greeted conversationally. “I’ve missed you. Close the door.”

Neither Lindsey nor Lilah budged an inch.

The blonde vampire rolled her eyes and grinned. “Sweetpea, if we wanted you dead, you'd have never have made it out of the wine cellar. Now close the door.”

There was no contesting that. He complied.

“He’s got cow eyes,” Drusilla stated. “Big and black.” She grinned kittenishly and draped an arm across the back of the rotating chair. “Moo...”

Lindsey sighed and decided to aim for the throat. The presence of his most loathed adversary was slightly disconcerting, especially considering Angel’s seeming willingness to end his life when he bore a conscience.

“You spared me,” he said softly. “Why did you spare me, Darla?”

“Being dead for any period of time can impair someone’s judgment,” Angelus answered, eyes glowering. “Of course, if you’re complaining about your current state of non-dead, why, I could rectify that in a blink.”

The vampire in question grinned at his words but did not turn to face him. She was walking toward her intended, a coy look overwhelming her features. “Don’t mind Angelus. He’s always grumpy if he doesn’t get a decent kill in before sunrise, and unfortunately, we’ve been rather preoccupied. And Lindsey, Lindsey, do you really need to ask?” She leaned inward and drew in his scent. “Hmm. I’m in love with you.”

It was foolish sentiment, he knew, but for a minute he believed her. Looking into the depths of her murderous eyes. Imagining that the words were true. That she felt something for him other than a convenient meal ticket. The fantasy ended abruptly when she burst out laughing. Angelus’s chuckles reverberated from his corner, and Drusilla and Lilah were practically cackling.

The laughter ended as abruptly as it started. Darla tossed the other woman a semi-irritated glance. “Shut up, Lilah.”

“Shh!” Drusilla hissed.

“Wouldn’t waste your lack of breath, darling,” Angelus forewarned. “Lilah has a knack for never shutting up.”

Everyone decided to ignore that.

“You’ve put us in a difficult position, Darla.”

“Hmmm, have I? I could have sworn it was the three of us.” She turned back and sashayed to Angelus, grinning wildly and running her hands up his chest. “You played a hand you couldn’t afford, Lindsey. We don’t like being controlled. Although…had I known that Holland was going to give me such a lovely treat, I might have allowed him some leeway.”

“I wouldn’t,” Angelus told her.

“I know, lover. You can be so generous.” She turned back to her audience, resting her back against the other vampire’s chest. “I suppose this is a bit of a dilemma. Choices, choices. Such smart, young lawyers, hungry for their big break and—whups—boss gets eaten. Someone has to step in. Someone promising, pretty, with questionable ethics and twelve-hundred dollar suits that look good on the six o’clock news.”

Lilah’s brow perked. “You think they’ll promote him?”

She made a face of distaste. “Or you. In any case, that’s why you’re here. I’ve decided to keep the line of communication open between us and Wolfram and Hart.”

“What for?”

“I believe we can help each other.” She took one of Angelus’s hands in her own and wrapped it around her middle, smiling at something he murmured into her ear. “And before you ask, it’s power I want. We want. See, during my stint as Wolfram and Hart’s puppet, something occurred to me. I loathe being used. If I recall, there was a fifteen-body-memo to that effect. We plan on being big players in this town, my boy and I. And while you can’t give me what I want, you have the things I need to get it. Money. Connections. And a face to die for.”

Lilah shook her head. “We’re no good to you dead, Darla. The Senior Partners are looking for someone to blame for your massacre.”

“Our massacre,” Angelus corrected with a growl. He yanked the blonde vampire against him tightly, thrusting his hips tellingly into her backside. She mewled a strangled cry of pleasure that everyone decided to ignore.

“Yes, yes,” the woman complied, rolling her eyes. “Your massacre. As in, all of you. Sorry about the ambiguity.”

“Just want to make sure we’re on the same page, here.” He cocked his head curiously. “Which begs the question, and please…stop me if I sound ungrateful.” With a turn, he released Darla and started walking forward, eyes blazing without the added need of vampiric hindsight. He could be just as frightening in his human façade. “Why exactly was the firm so keen on releasing the big bad me? You thought that just because I have a hard-on for anything bloody, I’d bend over backwards and play a second fiddle for your ever-industrious Senior Partners? Please.”

His blonde companion flashed a grin. “As I believe I have clarified, we do not advocate being used.”

“The firm was interested in piecing back together the Order of Aurelius,” Lindsey said. “Though, I must say, you’ve thoroughly dismissed all notion of that brilliant idea.”

Darla frowned quizzically. “Meaning?”

“There was going to a committee…namely you and Drusilla,” Lilah offered, nodding in the aforementioned direction. “Holland was going to have you go to Sunnydale to pick up the last member of your Order…rather, the last of the infamous in your order. William the—”

“My Spike,” the raven-haired vampire murmured. “Our happy family.”

“Hmmm, now that would have been interesting,” Angelus mused. “Last I heard, though, Spike was playing the part of the Slayer’s lapdog.”

“Wouldn’t throw stones, dear,” Darla observed with a smirk.

“A phase I have thankfully outgrown,” he added, tossing her a somewhat irritated glance. “Furthermore, and here’s the really funny part, he has some government chip in his head that doesn’t let him kill. Isn’t that tragically…hilarious?”

Drusilla did not share his humor. She was pouting slightly, arms crossing as she played with the spin-option of Lindsey’s chair. “Not fair,” she complained. “Lock him up and take all his toys away. Naughty Slayer. Stealing him away from me.” She glanced up. “Can we get him, grandmum? Can we go and rescue my William from that nasty, nasty Buffy girl? I won’t abide it.”

“The Slayer was part of the deal,” Lindsey continued. “We wanted her as leverage.”

Darla’s brow quirked. “You were going to bring the Slayer here? How very foolish.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Angelus mused thoughtfully, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I might like to see old Buff. Give her a big, messy, and assuredly bloody kiss for sending me to Hell.” He flashed a grin at Darla. “Not that I’m one to hold grudges, but that does irk me in a way I wouldn’t advocate. And if she’s here—all the better.”

“There’s also word of an impending apocalypse,” Lilah added, ignoring Lindsey’s inquisitive glance. “Holland was interested in its success, and what it could mean for the firm. If the Slayer is in Sunnydale at the time that the Key is activated, she will stop—”

“Okay,” the other lawyer interrupted sharply, blinking. “…what? What Key?”

“Nothing. The specifics are not important. More to the fact that there is more than one reason that the Slayer was wanted in Los Angeles.”

Darla grinned. “You see? I knew that your precious Senior Partners wouldn’t act rashly. To kill both of you would be such a waste, especially with such…colorful ideas floating in the midst. Oh, Dru. I smell a plan.”

“Mmmm…” she agreed. “Tastes like lemon-drops.”

Angelus sighed and rolled his eyes. “Please tell me we’re not really going with the ‘snatch up Spike’ idea? I really, really can’t stand that boy. Last time we met up, he decided to take to me with a crowbar.”

Lindsey snickered. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

The vampire’s gaze flickered. “We could always make the decision for the Senior Partners right now.”

“Down boy,” Darla said shortly. “Wouldn’t want to do anything that might stink of regret come morning.”

“Believe me,” he replied, eyes never leaving the other man’s. “I would never regret a kill this anticipated.” He paused. “Well, let’s just say, I’d never regret a kill. At least one that doesn’t involve some sappy Romanian gypsy virgin.”

“What’s your deal with Spike, then?” Lindsey asked, brows perked. His gaze traveled intently to Darla. “Afraid of a little competition?”

She snickered. “Please. I never supported the siring of that buffoon. Oh no, dear. He was made solely for one purpose.” The elder vampires glanced back to Drusilla, who looked to be having a very animated conversation with an invisible pixie. “To keep our resident lunatic…shall we say…occupied?”

“When I wasn’t taking liberties, that is,” Angelus added with a smirk.

“He’s fun…” Drusilla murmured, clinching her momentary distraction and licking her lips. “Bumpy in all the right places. Oh yeah. Oohhhh…but all alone. Watching and weeping his girl walk on by. Pshhh…” She leaned forward, grasping Angelus by the lapels of his jacket and dragging his ear down to her mouth. “He’s taken.”

The elder vampire’s brows perked at that. “Taken?”

“Dancing. They’re dancing.” At that, she drew to her feet and began swaying to something unheard, eyes closed and an almost euphoric expression on her face. “My Spike loves the dance, but the nasty Slayer isn’t interested. She’s had her supper and is too full for dessert. She doesn’t want to go to bed with an upset stomach.”

Angelus glanced up excitedly, meeting Darla’s eyes. “Did you just hear what I just heard?”

“Spike’s in love with a Slayer.” The blonde vampire snickered and turned away. “Honestly, what is it about this girl that makes the men of our Order slobber themselves silly?”

He shrugged. “She’s got spunk, what can I say?”

“And somehow, Spike’s involvement with a Slayer doesn’t surprise me at all,” Darla concluded, shaking her head. “He always was obsessed with them. Figured it was only a matter of time before he wanted to screw his meal before making it his…well…meal. And the fact that she was one of yours, Liam…”

“I must get him out of the hole. So dark. It’s so dark in the hole.” Drusilla turned sharply back to Lindsey. “Shall we go to Sunnydale, then? Collect my boy and bring him home?”

“Collect the Slayer to make sure home’s where he wants to go,” Darla added snidely. “Come to think of it, there are some things I’d like to say to that vapid cheerleader…before I rip her throat out, that is.”

Lindsey frowned. “Our motive is not for the Slayer’s death…” He turned inquisitively to Lilah. “Is it?”

“Honey, I don’t think you understand,” the blonde vampire answered for him. “If I want the Slayer dead, she’s dead. Wolfram and Hart following us won’t make an itty bitty bit of difference. You’re chasing a tail that won’t end. And anyway, Holland is dead. His vision has been permanently disrupted—”

“No,” Lilah intervened, “it really hasn’t. The contract with Wolfram and Hart goes far beyond the mortal coil. Holland’s association with the firm—”

The vampiress waved her hand dismissively. “Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not here, and you are. Therefore, I’m thinking that as far as so-called ‘special-projects’, the two of you have more say. Though, really, I do thank you for the idea. Seeing little Mousy Buffy again will be…well, I can’t really think of a word.” She turned to Angelus. “And there will be no—”

“Jealous?”

“More like disgusted.”

He chuckled. “Trust me.”

“Angelus, unless I’m wrong, Hell hasn’t frozen over.”

Lindsey smiled quietly to himself. “I believe that we can work together,” he said cordially, stepping forward with an air of diplomacy. “Though I must stress the importance of not underestimating the resources of our firm. Despite however powerful the Order was in the day, Wolfram and Hart is connected to powers that should not be taken lightly.”

“Oh, honey,” Darla retorted, turning to meet him halfway. “Was I not clear enough?” She ran her hands up his mortal chest, playing the fine silk of his tie and tugging him down so that her mouth grazed his. “I have absolutely no intention of taking anything lightly…ever…again.”

And all at once, he was terrified. Not of what she would do—the wine cellar had more than proven that he was no good to her dead. No, the fear that blossomed in his chest had nothing to do with him.

“In the meantime,” Angelus was saying, moving for the door with chipperness that looked altogether unusual on his broad figure. “I think it would be rude if I didn’t visit some friends who are long overdue for a good…talking to. Drop in. Say hello. Rip out their innards. The usual treatment amongst colleagues, wouldn’t you say, darling?”

Darla smirked at him wickedly, and Lindsey’s blood chilled even more. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “In fact…a trip to Angel Investigations is just what the doctor ordered. Just to pass the time, of course.”

“Of course.”

It was her. Her power. The power that she absolved. The power that she flaunted. The power that she held over Angelus, despite his attempts to look the part controllably. There was no denying that she held him around her little finger as tightly as he liked, and more probably tighter. What she was going to do was no longer the question. That, Lindsey knew.

What frightened him was what remained unanswered.

More like, where her line of reasonability ended.

He somehow wagered that he didn’t want to know.

Chapter Four

The Man of the Crowd 

Watching her move was of the world’s simplest pleasures.

Spike stood at the balcony of the Bronze, only half paying attention to the drink in his hand. He didn’t know why he was surprised at the turnout; the popular club was the only place in town to go for anything that wasn’t another wasted night in front of the telly. Still, the horde did grow wearisome after a few years. Bound with the same overgrown faces that only served to attract the younger generation while the older steadfastly remained of their own judgment. The unchanged sort of sentiment that screamed, “Mine! I was here first!” He reckoned there ought to be a post proclaiming: THIS AREA AND ALL ESTABLISHMENTS HEREIN CLAIMED BY THE CLASS OF ’99.

At least it would be to the point.

As it was, the night was looking to be even less eventful than the past few evening’s patrol. Though she would deny it, Buffy had been ignoring him with even more fervor since their trade. She likely figured that since she had crossed some invisible line by letting him in at all, the only way to rectify it was by pretending, again, that he did not exist.

She had a birthday coming up within the next week or so. His Slayer.

She would never be his, of course. He could watch her from the balcony all he wanted, and she would never be his.

Righteous little holier-than-thou attitude…

He had no true reason to be bitter. It wasn’t as though she had ever been within reach as it was. He wasn’t daft—his feelings had a way of changing at random, but he was still the same old Spike. The same that fancied taking walks where old men died at bus stops and little girls were hunted in coal bins. He was a monster.

And she was radiance.

He could never hope to touch her.

Spike sighed heavily and downed the rest of his drink, flinching a bit out of habit. He placed the empty glass atop the banister and moved resignedly for a vacated seat. There was no point driving himself insane with something he could never hope to touch. Watching her was enough to…

Still. Couldn’t.

This was so beyond fucked up.

There wasn’t much he could hope to expect from her; be that as it may, he had been hoping for a little civility. Just a smidge. Idle thoughts of what could come were of the not. Those first few nights after having the initial dream that stirred his deeper subconscious awake to the tidings of his true feelings had been wrought with speculation. An endless ‘what-if’ that drove him rightly out of his mind. He couldn’t help himself. Presenting such feelings to Buffy was preposterous and he would never presume. Not to face humiliation; that much had been done in spades.

It irked him to think of all the exceptions she made, she never once spared a glance in his direction. Angel, Anya, and the Witches…she knew of the things that occurred down at Willy’s and didn’t exhibit an inkling of care. But when it came to him, she was all eyes and ears. She had to make sure he wasn’t doing anything that would merit a visit from her pointy stakes.

All the bloody time.

The only instances that ever valued her attention circulated around when he was acting the part of the Big Bad. Never mind the number of times he had been useful. Saved her life along with the lives of her pathetic pals. Their centric Scooby Gang.

Virtuous little group of judgmental ponces…

If he had any self-esteem at all, he would leave town.

As it was, his night looked to be rightly set in stone. Leave, take a sweep of every cemetery within convenient vicinity in desperation for something to kill, go home, shag Harmony, go to bed. Repeat as needed.

Yeah, this was living.

Spike snickered wryly and rolled his eyes at the inane comment that immediately sprang to mind in rejoinder. He stood once more, casually knocked the glass off the banister in the hopes that it would hit some co-ed, received a small shock for the execution of thought even though it smashed harmlessly next to the bar, and cursed all the way down the stairs.

Before running directly into Xander Harris.

“Bloody perfect.”

“Oh, Evil Undead. You’re in my space.”

He arched a brow. “Right. Sorry. Din’t see you markin’ your territory an’…for the record, I’d rather not. I’m on my merry way. Tootles.”

At that, Xander looked a little forlorn. “You’re leaving.”

It was the sort of statement that wanted to be a question, but wasn’t. Spike’s eyes narrowed further. “Yeh…” he said slowly. “What of it?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Give it up, mate. Now ‘m curious.”

Xander sighed. Heavily. The peroxide vampire could practically see the relief of the man hitting himself upside the head. The thought bore a wide grin to his face. “I was just…with the other night and the pool-shooting. Riley’s of the gone, and you’re sort’ve the only other male-shaped person around my persons that can shoot a decent game. Besides…” He made a face and glanced around. “This is so not Giles’s scene, despite how many times he decides to humiliate himself and us by making the occasional appearance.”

Spike blinked. Hard. “Did…” he began curiously. “Did you jus’ ask me to go a round with you?”

“Pool!”

It wasn’t hard to see his digression; Harris’s only source of amusement nowadays was trying to keep up with Anya and her various quirks, therefore it was impossible not to allow his own mind near the gutter. And though his meaning was perfectly clear, Spike couldn’t help but snag the line that practically begged to be issued. “Oh,” he said, nodding. “You wanna go a round in the pool, ‘s that it. I’d think with the thousand-plus years of experience, the Demon Girl’d know how to keep you interested.”

Xander made a face. “Fine. Whatever. Sorry I asked. Oh, and by the way, let’s never mention that part to anyone. Ever.”

“Give it a rest, mate. I could use a round, myself. You offerin’ to buy the drinks, too, or do I need to knick your cash an’ make like I’m makin’ a grand gesture of sorts?”

To his very rich surprise, Harris responded with a wry grin, signaling over to the table. “On account of this never happening again unless the moon is full or Hell freezes over,” he said, “I’ll buy. Once! That’s it. Everything else is on your ticket.” He stopped to glare. “And don’t think I won’t be watching my wallet, buddy! ‘Cause, oh, it’ll be watched.”

“’Course.”

“Right.”

“Uhh, mate?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

Spike flashed a wicked smile and brought the object of discussion into view, dangling it tantalizingly near his face. “Reckon you’ll be needin’ this.”

It was a rare night when Xander Harris treated any vampire like a human being, especially if said vampire was one William the Bloody.

It was an even rarer night when he had such a good time doing so.

Neither really knew how long they had been playing—score was not something of the kept. They made inane conversation about the drinks, updated food wish lists that included spicy buffalo wings, flowered onions, and peppered fried potatoes that could influence any man’s innards to liquid feces.

Spike laughed heartily when the other man gave the infamous flowered onion a go. “You really need to taste it with the dip,” he advised. “’S bloody brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Xander agreed, choking lightly. “For someone who doesn’t need to…you know…live.”

“Can’t help it ‘f you’ve plugged your arteries to the ‘no-pass’ lane, boy. You’re too young to need that kinda treatment.” He quirked a brow. “Though it is bloody hilarious.”

“And yet.” Harris favored the vampire with a suspicious leer. “You sure you’re not trying to kill me?”

Spike snickered appreciatively and rolled his eyes. “Oh right. Y’got me. My newest evil plan: death by indigestion.”

“It could happen,” he insisted. “Well, it would take a lot of time, a good specimen, and a load of planning, but it’s not like you’ve had the chance to go out and actually be scary over the past year. Between this and Passions, you’ve gotta be bored outta your mind.”

“Oh, I’m outta my mind, all right,” the vampire retorted, circling the table intently as he reached for his cigarettes. “Jus’ don’ know what sort is all. An’ trust me, mate, I’ve toured every bloody alley this pissant settlement has to offer. All for sodding rot.”

“You’d think a town with the reputation Sunnydale has would have a little more to offer its neutered undead society.”

There was another approving chortle. “Yeh. You’d think.” The platinum Cockney lit up and inhaled deeply, studying the position of his next conquest. “So, really, wha’s this all about? You makin’ with the chatties over a game or two…even offerin’ to share the wealth with the neighborly undead. More than jus’ what a good talkin’ to from the Slayer earns, I’d wager.”

“You’re questioning my tolerance of you?”

“Well, now that you put it that way…yeah.” Spike strolled intently to the other side of the table and twirled the pool stick once for good measure. “’S’not the li’l lady, is it? She an’ Red at odds an’ ends again?”

“No. Actually, they seemed to get that resolved.” He paused. “Though that doesn’t mean they’re not trying to kill each other right now for an entirely different matter that I—swearing an oath—have no part of, and therefore cannot choose sides. That leads down the pathway to ugly trolls and bargains that would make you look even more impotent than you do already.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Thanks ever so.”

“I meant the chip.”

“Right.”

“Not that I care or anything.”

“’Course not.”

“Good. As long as that’s clarified.”

The moment froze with sudden tactility, and it occurred to Spike on a not particularly momentous revelation that this was likely the longest he and Xander had gone without threatening to spill blood or reduce one another to dusty bits in…ever. Such awareness nearly merited a deprival, but he knew enough on some innate level that this was the sort of contact that he had been sorely missing over the past months. Moderately intelligent conversation that didn’t include death threats. A notion so thoroughly human that he knew he should reject its every fiber, yet couldn’t make himself back away. The boy was not one he cared to associate with and he very much doubted this encounter would alter that opinion in either direction; it was nice. Accommodating, if not a little bizarre.

And still more than that. Xander was obviously craving contact of the non-female variety. Someone to appreciate his bizarre sense of humor and line of thinking, even if it wasn’t altogether shared or of the other’s respected flavor.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Harris continued. “Anya is fantastic. I love her completely. But sometimes…”

“She’s gotta few screws loose upstairs?”

“Hey!”

Spike cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

“Well, you don’t have to put it that way.”

He raised his hand, as though demanding acknowledgment. “Hello, evil.”

“It’s not even her fault,” the other man noted defensively. “After being a demon so long, a period of adjustment is only natural. There are things that come with…being of the functioning society variety of person that she is trying to be. It just takes time.”

The peroxide vampire blinked with a wicked grin, bringing his cigarette to his lips once more. “Din’t she pop into the mortal coil the year that Peaches an’ the Slayer went separate ways? Way I figure it,” he said, aiming his shot and snickering further when he sank another ball. “She’s ‘ad more than two years to adjust.”

“About the same as you, in other words.”

A self-protective look overwhelmed his features. “She’s had longer.”

Xander grinned tightly. “Yeah, Buffy mentioned that you were on some tangent about Anya and the number of ways we treat her like an equal while excluding our ever-present, apathetic member of the soulless community. The very same that’s plotted our deaths…how many times?”

Spike’s scoff was ineffective; it was impossible to hear anything in such a smothered atmosphere. “Oh, come off it. That’s been at least—”

“Two weeks.”

“Piffle. ‘Aven’t made a decent attempt in at least a month. Maybe two. Tha’s right progress.”

The man held up a hand, chuckling slightly. “Okay, okay. What do you wanna hear? That you’re no longer bad?”

“Oi!”

“Or…you are? I’m trying to keep up. Anyway, I’m here, playing nice. This count for trying?”

Yeah, of course. Bloody trying. Only Xander wasn’t the one he wanted to get close to. The object of his desire was on the other side of the dance floor, undoubtedly grinding provocatively against some brainless co-ed.

Bugger all.

“So is that it?” Spike asked sardonically. “Li’l pity for the capped Big Bad? An’ here I thought you cared.”

Xander smirked. “I would never lead you on like that.”

The vampire snickered favorably. “So the Slayer took to it to tell you all what we chatted about. Nice to know ‘to the grave’ doesn’ even apply to the pulseless ‘round these parts.”

“You asked her not to tell?”

“Well, no…but ‘s the thought that counts.”

“She was kinda wigged.”

Oh, that was interesting. “Was she?”

“Sharing her earthly woes with the Evil Dead? I’d say so.”

Spike grinned. “So she turned around to share her earthly woes ‘bout sharin’ her earthly woes with the likes of me…with the likes of you?”

“Well, yeah. That’s how we work, in case you haven’t noticed.” Harris absently leaned over the table to observe his opponent’s alignment, missing the slightly offed expression that flashed across the vampire’s face. “Sorry for pointing out the obvious.”

A snicker. “Well, ‘f you din’t do it…ehm, don’ exactly ‘ave a follow up for that, but I’m sure you get my meanin’.”

“Consider it gotten. Are you ever going to take that shot?”

“What? Anxious to lose some more?”

“No, I’m getting bored. And, unlike you, I don’t have forever to waste in dingy corners with myelin-deprived non-citizens.”

“Lest I remind you, this entire male-bondin’ exercise was your soddin’ idea.”

“Just take the damn shot, Spike!”

The vampire chuckled softly and chose his angle without reflecting it, circling the table once again in a manner that was, as all things, intentionally condescending. “’Aven’t we gone over this before?” he asked rhetorically. “You show that somethin’ bothers you, an’ I’m inspired to do it. You’re only hurtin’ yourself, Harris.”

“Yeah, well, Myself is getting pretty—”

“Anxious. Right. Caught it.” Spike took his shot and sank another ball, shaking his head. “Jus’ don’ see why you’re all eager ‘bout givin’ up more goods. You jus’ gotta wait for me to take another.”

“It’s not like we bet money.”

“Right. ‘Cause you know, you practically give that away for nothin’.”

Xander sighed and dropped his pool stick. “While you perfect your non-monetary compensating shot, I’ll be refreshing my drink. Notice how I said my drink, thus clarifying any potential misunderstandings concerning the reinstated non-you factors of my budget.”

“You do that,” Spike agreed disinterestedly. “Though I wager you’d prolly get a better response from the barkeep ‘f you have this on your persons.” Again, he flashed a smile and held up the other man’s wallet.

Harris grumbled irately and made a hasty retreat, snatching his purloined takings with an air that suggested more than simple discontent. “Stop doing that!”

Second attempt more successful. The vampire chuckled and shook his head, puffing at his cigarette as he measured his next take. The game was nearing completion and Harris had all but stood at the sidelines for the majority of its bearings. And while not much had come of it, Spike had to admit—however begrudgingly—that he was enjoying himself. With Stay Puft. At the Bronze.

Who would have thought?

“You know what I can’t figure out,” a voice said from behind, prompting him out of his reverie, “is why you gave the wallet back in the first place. Isn’t stealing sort of your thing?”

Spike snickered and pivoted, arching a brow as the object of his desire returned the favor. “I jus’ gave him the coverin’,” he explained, digging into his duster and retrieving the more-important cash with a showy grin. “’E’ll be back for the goods in a minute. How long you been there gawkin’, Summers?”

“You tell me. By last check, you’re still a vampire, right?”

“You askin’ for a demo?”

Buffy made a face. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that and go right to the me ignoring you.”

“Oi now. Tha’s rich. You’re the one who came over here, after all.”

“Sorry. I just saw you and Xander, didn’t hear any loud yelling, and wondered if you two were A) Under a very bad spell or B) Very drunk and forgetting that you hate each other.”

His eyes narrowed. “’S that what’s got your knickers in a twist? Christ, Slayer, we’re jus’ playin’ a round of pool. Doesn’ require your policin’. No need to make a big thing outta it.”

She smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. Rather it was the look he had grown overly accustomed to seeing over the course of the past two years. Bland, irritated, and completely repellent to his entire being. “I just wanted to remind you that a good dusting is still on the menu for any move you make that’s not to my liking.”

“Bloody hell, you must really be bored.” He grinned, taking a seat at the end of the table and tapping the end of his fag lightly against its end. “Patrol still as painfully dull as it was the last time I had the oh-so pleasurable delight of your company?”

A sigh rolled off her body and the counterfeit hostility waned. He wasn’t so daft as to believe it had taken a permanent hiatus, but this was at least progress. It wasn’t often that Buffy stepped down from her almighty horse to admit passage when no true fault was at the ready. “Watchers are coming,” she said. “For reasons that are going to remain well beyond me. They have information on Glory.”

She didn’t seem nearly as happy as she should, given that any leads were of the needed.

Spike gestured emphatically. “And…? Isn’t this a good thing? You are the hero of this bit, last I checked. Information usually leads to—”

“Did you completely go deaf and not hear the ‘they’re coming’ part? As in here? I hate the Watchers. They’re…” She made a face, and he found it adorable. Then he consequentially cursed himself for finding any aspect of her adorable, but the damage was irrefutably done; as was all damage for the rest of his existence. “Every time they come here, they try to have me killed.”

“Oh, my kind of gents.”

Of course, if any of them so much as looked at her in a way he didn’t see fitting, he’d kill them all. Chip be damned. But she didn’t need to know that.

Ever.

When he saw that his teasing wasn’t amounting to the casual candor he had been reaching for, Spike’s expression softened and he took a step forward. “This is jus’ a review though,” he said civilly. “’S not like they’re gonna try to keep you from doin’ your job.”

“I know. It’s just sort’ve…” Buffy paused, frowned, and looked him over. “Dear God, I’m doing it again.”

“Huh’s that?”

“Talking…just forget it.”

Spike froze, looked her over once.

And grinned.

“Slayer,” he cooed, taking a step toward her. “Don’ tell me you’re on the bloody prowl. Whatsa matter? Missin’ Captain Cardboard so rightly bad that you go out to chat up the firs’ vaguely male-scented—”

“If you value your existence, you will stop talking. Now.”

“Oi, I’m just tryin’ to help.”

“I don’t need you or your help.”

“You’re the one who came over here, luv.”

“To make sure—”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me another one. Listen, Slayer, I’m frightfully sorry, but there’s about a thousand other things I’d rather do than listen to you lecture me ‘bout frequentin’ the bar scene jus’ because I suddenly make you skittish. Not my bloody problem.”

A look that could potentially freeze Hell and end world hunger in the same stroke overwhelmed her with such calm passiveness that it startled him into dazed, however unreflective submission. Had it not been for Xander’s random, “Spike! Money! Now!” call, the moment might have had chance to expand.

As it was, the vampire assumed his exit cue with a quick nod to his lady fair.

He didn’t register the shiver that rippled across his skin as he stormed through the doors. In that state, he wouldn’t have recognized its connotations, or the strings of familiarity it inspired within his already fluttering belly.

He was too foregone to notice anything right now.

And was halfway home before things at the Bronze became interesting.