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]

Chapter Thirty-One

The Last Day

Drusilla was bellowing.

Well, nothing new there.

“Good God,” Darla sneered proudly as she crossed the room to join Angelus on the settee, rolling her eyes. “I could’ve sworn we asked Lindsey to make a muzzle for her. Did we not, my dearest?”

There was a long, disinterested pause before he glanced up. “I can’t imagine why you’re surprised,” he retorted. “Asking Lindsey for anything nowadays seems to be too much for your favorite playtoy, the consequence of property notwithstanding. He slips up again, I guess we’re just gonna have to kill him.”

She snickered favorably. “That’s your solution to everything.”

“Works, doesn’t it? And I can’t think of why you would complain unless your name is suddenly synonymous with kettle.”

“Oh, lighten up. You’re just pissy because Lindsey grew a pair.”

“No. That I’d respect.” Angelus bounded to his feet the next instant, eyes blazing. “What makes me pissy, sweetheart, is the fact that we’re sitting back and letting them call the shots. I can’t remember when being evil became so goddamn technical.”

“He threatened to call the Senior Partners, didn’t he?”

“Subhuman lawyers. Sounds a bit redundant to me.”

Darla grinned, unable to keep the strands of inherent cynicism from touching her voice. “No, lover. Just means that there’s something else out there that you’d fail to kill.”

He rolled his eyes. “And we’re on this again.”

“I don’t see why it’s necessary to keep her. I never have, but I thought it better to entertain you. After all, you always were rather inventive with torture. But God, Angelus, she’s boring, and she’s used up the last of her batteries. She’s served all the purpose she possibly could.” She glowered at him. “Better to kill her and have it over with. At least it’ll keep us from dying of boredom for another half hour.”

The vampire shook his head. “You don’t get it. You never get it. You think it was bad for you, having that squirming, nasty little what’s-her-name locked inside you. Keeping you from being who you really are? You don’t know the half of it, honey. You were never in love with one of them.”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed and she planted her hands on her hips, demonstratively unimpressed. “I don’t see what this has to do with not killing her now.”

“I’m not finished with her, yet.”

“Honey, you get any more finished, and there’s not gonna be anything left.”

There was a snicker. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Torture the bitch, see what I care. But she’s growing on my nerves.”

“By hanging there?”

“By distracting you.” Darla shook her head in disgust. “Same time different network. It doesn’t matter whose skin you’re wearing, does it? Little mousy Buffy still gets to you. Still manages to crawl through your insides and manipulate your better senses, assuming you have any left.”

Angelus glared at her. “What I do to her is between me and…well, me. I’m owed that fucking much after being subjected to such reeking humanity. All that do-gooder work, and I gotta take it out on someone. Besides, sweetheart, it’s fun. And it’s my business.”

“You kill her, and you can stop worrying about Spike.”

“I’m not worried about Spike. You think I don’t see what he’s doing?”

“I think that your head has been up your ass too long to see anything at all.” Darla cocked her head. “Maybe the big bad Angelus has gone soft over the years.”

“Soft?” he reiterated disbelievingly. “Because I won’t kill her? She’s begging for death. With every little whimper, little moan, little scream that crosses her lips, she submits further and further into what she knows is inescapable. To kill her now would be humane.”

“So, what, you’re just gonna let her live forever?”

His brows perked. “It’s not like she’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Well, no, she’s not. At least not at the rate you’re going. Who knows, Angelus? Maybe the Slayer will even outlive you.”

The moans from the neighboring room were becoming louder and more difficult to ignore, despite any degree of experience the vampires had with such regard. Darla paused heavily before the granted break into another series of criticisms with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “This entire deal has gone to hell,” she decided. “And not when it was supposed to. Wasn’t the entire reason we allowed Spike to join our fun was the assumption that he would keep your lunatic whore preoccupied?”

“Mmm…” Angelus murmured. “If one was looking for evidence, they’d search no further. Of course, I never searched. I just killed them. That boy has done nothing but rub me the wrong way since we let him back in.”

Darla’s eyes narrowed. “He’s still in love with her.”

“With Buffy? Well, yeah, Princess. Welcome to the conversation. He’s never stopped being in love with her, which would be really funny if it didn’t piss me off.” The dark one shook his head, emanating waves of dissatisfaction. “You’d think after a hundred plus years, he’d’ve learned something. Namely that it takes more than a few parlor tricks to make me look the other way.”

“Of course, Sweetpea,” she replied, curling into his side. “It takes the entire parlor.”

“It amazes me that he’s survived this long. Just goes to show what blind luck will do for you.”

“Just kill him,” Darla snickered. “Hell, we’d be doing the world a favor. And as you know, favors are not my strong suit.”

“No. You’re a greedy little consumer.” Angelus cocked his head thoughtfully. “And no. I’m not going to kill Spike. Not yet, anyway. He’s no danger to us. There’s no way he can get her out. Right now, he’s serving a cause. An annoying cause, but it is rather funny to watch.”

“What is it with you and not killing all of a sudden?”

“Darla,” he berated softly. “How could you forget after so many years? I’m wounded. Really. It stings.” He placed a hand over his nonbeating heart as if to testify to the claim, but earned little more than an arched brow in turn. “It’s not the kill. It’s never the kill. The kill is just the reward for the maze you take to get there. Keeping them alive inspires hope. And you know how funny hope can be.”

Finally, he managed to get her to smile. A truly malevolent smile that reeked of the purest intent—no regard of cynicism or incredulous undertones. That was the smile of a believer, and for many, it was the last thing they saw. “Oh yes,” she chided. “Tragically so.”

That could have been it, and likely would have been had Drusilla’s bellowing not extended the confines of her room. The next minute, the raven haired vampire burst into the private chamber of her Daddy and reborn grandmum, eyes wide and hands clutching reverently at her head.

“Oh look, sweetie,” Darla drawled sardonically. “We have a visitor.”

“Now, now,” he warned. “Play nice.”

A smirk crossed her face. “Never.”

Angelus entertained her with a mildly amused glance before returning his attention to his wailing childe. “Dru, honey?” he asked very slowly. “What is it?”

“Colors,” she moaned pitifully. “So much color.”

Darla flopped onto the bed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t tell me she’s been watching The Wizard of Oz again.”

The remark went untended. The younger vampire was shivering slightly, sinking to her knees to rock herself back and forth without reticence. “He’s swimming, Daddy. Swimming. But he won’t take his lollipop. He won’t even give it a good lick for us. All he thinks of is her.” Her hands went to her head. “Ohhhh…he’s angry. My boy. Naughty. So deliciously wicked. Vile. Shhh. Don’t tell or he won’t get any crumpets. It’s a secret, you see. A dark, dark secret.”

In his centuries of experience, Drusilla was perhaps the only being in creation that had ever merited more than a second of patience from Angelus. It wasn’t always so, of course. Often he became too irritated with her ambiguity and gave up, but more over he was fascinated. Always fascinated. The prospect of second sight had always served to pique his interest, and having a constant reminder of his own monstrosity in his midst most assuredly promoted the instance of fortitude where she was concerned. “It’s Spike,” he said, though there was never any doubt. “What’s happened? What do you see?”

“He’s coming,” she replied. “He and that filthy beast. He’s coming for her.” Her eyes fixed on the blonde that reclined luxuriously on the bed. “The other comes for grandmum. Wants to rip her heart out, he does.”

That earned an arched brow. “Someone’s coming for me?” Darla inquired.

“Dirty little demon hunter. Smells of daffodils. Oh, he is not happy with you.”

“Demon hunter?” There was a considerate pause before a long smile drew sadistically across her lips. “Could it be? Oh, this is delightful!” Whatever it was, it was enough to prompt her to her feet. She ignored the blank looks she was receiving, continuing merrily in her enthusiasm. When she reached for her lover’s arm with a devious wink, however, any lapse of hesitation vacated him. There was something so raw about Darla’s countenance when she fixed herself in these moods that was just…delicious. “Angelus,” she said. “There’s a friend I’d like you to meet. May I have the pleasure of introducing you two when he arrives?”

A cool brow arched, despite his curiosity. “A friend?”

She shrugged. “Friends, bitter enemies. Is there a difference?”

“Who is it?”

“Zachary Wright. Little trifling man who’s been hunting me since before you saw fit to kill me for your precious Slayer.” She grinned. “Do you remember the maid in Italy? The woman with her little whelp of a child? She thought she was going to be persecuted for having a baby out of wedlock.”

A slow, frighteningly malevolent smile crossed his lips. “Ah, yes,” he drawled sensually. “I nailed her to a wall and hung the bastard child by her entrails, if memory serves. The little girl was a treat. A little feisty, but a good fight always makes them tastier.”

“Mmmm…it was perfect,” Darla cooed. “Anyway, I did the same thing to dear Zack’s wife.”

“Did you, now?”

“Oh. Very much so. He angered me.”

“A crime to be sure. How so?”

“He refused the dark gift.” Darla shrugged, her eyes gleaming. “He would’ve been perfect, too. He had such raw potential. But he wouldn’t leave that female of his. That…human. So I had her taken care of, hoping he’d come around. He didn’t.”

Angelus tsked and shook his head. “Ain’t it always the way? Lemme guess…he pulled some foolhardy stunt and declared his undying vengeance.”

“Well, I wasn’t actually there for the declaring part, but I know he chased me as far as California. He and his little brat daughter. He might’ve even been in Sunnydale when you…stuck it to me.” A seductive grin crossed her face. “I tell you, he was a nasty bastard. Vengeance changes people. He was brutal. Killing demons as he went along. I was never there, of course, but oh, I heard. He would’ve made such a delightful addition to the family.” Her eyes narrowed as she appraised her favorite childe considerately. “Of course, you could never stand the competition.”

He grinned at her shamelessly. “Only where you’re concerned, baby.”

“He’s coming for you now,” Drusilla told her, rising to her feet slowly. “Coming for you alongside my William. They’re angry little wasps. Oh!” She held up a hand, was still a long minute, then fell into a desolate pout. “Humph. Bad dog.”

“What is it?” Angelus demanded.

“There’s someone coming,” she replied. “Someone who is not my dearest. Someone who seeks to disrupt our happy home. Mmmm…what a great big hammer he has. He’s going to break the Slayer free. Oh, Daddy, don’t let him break the Slayer free! Don’t let him—”

“Someone’s coming to free her?” The thought was ridiculous; the power was something he alone controlled. No one had access to her bindings besides him. Unless…

“Lindsey.”

Darla blinked, confused. “What about Lindsey?”

There was a distasteful snicker. “Your boy’s Christian conscience must be getting the better of him. Only he has the resources, or the motivation, to look into alternative means to get Buffy out. To help Spike get her out. He’s been acting way too…”

“Suspicious?”

“No. Oh no. He’s too clever to act suspicious when there’s reason to be so.” Angelus shook his heavily. “Guess this means I’ll have to kill him.”

The blonde vampire shrugged. “Guess so.”

“But first, to some untended business. As disastrously funny as Spike’s unrequited love might be…” He scowled deeply. “I’m going to make sure there’s nothing for him to find.”

“You’re gonna do it? Kill her?”

A chuckle sounded through his throat. “You make it sound so casual. ‘Kill’ doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m going to do to her. I’m going to make her bleed so much that he feels it through distance. I’m going to make sure he screams for her well before he finds whatever’s left.”

Darla frowned. “What prompted this change of heart? By all means, I don’t want to discourage you, but it does seem rather…sudden.”

“Arrogant presumption will do that to you. The boy forgets who he’s dealing with.” There was a dangerous flicker behind his eyes. “He needs a reminder. And I’m going to give it to him. Loud and clear.”

It was morning in Los Angeles.

Early morning.

“Ugh,” Cordelia groaned as she descended the stairs, rubbing her head as though to wan away an unladylike hangover. “I didn’t even know a 5AM existed. How is this possible?”

“You’re thinking about the 5AM at night,” Wright explained, guiding her to a sofa to ease her comfort. “It’s a difficult transition, I know. Had to make it myself before I started with the demon hunting gig.”

She smiled sleepily with an unsuccessful attempt to muffle a yawn. “Well, you gotta hand it to those visions,” she commended. “They sure are…timely. When did Spike say he was coming by?”

“He didn’t specify. Only that it’d be morning and early. Who knows? For a vampire, that might be three o’clock in the afternoon.”

A scowl befell her face. “Oh, it better not be. I didn’t just not go back to bed for no reason.” She yawned again, collapsing wearily against the sofa. “You think Nikki minded going with the guys to hunt out that Oeuf demon? Is that how you say it?”

He smiled. “No. Oeuf is French for egg. What you saw was definitely not an egg.”

“You know French?”

“I know oeuf, only because of something my cousin told me once. ‘Why do the French only have one egg for breakfast?’” He didn’t even bother to wait for her guess. “‘Because one is an oeuf.’” There was a long pause; her eyes narrowed at him skeptically until he fidgeted his discomfort under her scrutiny. “Anyway, what you saw was a Uvryri.”

“How did I mix that up with oeuf?”

Wright shrugged, an adoring grin on his face that he could do nothing about. “Because you’re Cordelia,” he answered simply, a small smile gracing his lips. For all the blood that spoiled his hands—demon or not—he looked every bit of angelic that moment. It stirred something within her that she did not want to consider, but knew was inevitable, any way she turned. “You’re special like that.”

Special. She was special to him.

Well, obviously. They were, for all accounts, strangers, and yet they had shared so much. And she wasn’t merely considering bodily fluids, though after her ill fated one-nighter the year before, that was a big deal. Cordelia had never given much thought to a serious relationship. Laughably, the only one she had had and maintained for any lengthy duration was with Xander Harris. She was Queen C; there was no doubt about that. But she was drastically undereducated in relationships. Serious relationships. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school, and while torrid, her time with Xander could hardly qualify as serious.

The feelings she was having for Zachary Wright, however, were serious. Very serious. And they had been there from the beginning. From harmless admiration at his physique to equally harmless flirting. Somehow it had become serious. And here she was. Here they were. Feeling all these…feelings. These feelings that went way beyond the physical.

And naturally, being an agent for the Powers That Be, said feelings were very off in their timing.

A very still beat grew between them; their eyes found each other with the same sort of understanding. Bad timing. Healing scars. Things that would never be right even if this turned out well. He was still mourning his wife, but he cared for her. She saw how deeply he cared for her, and it blew her away. Even her parents hadn’t looked at her with that much regard. Wes and Gunn loved her, Angel too—when he wasn’t evil—but there was something completely different in this. In this…being.

He felt it, too. They looked at each other and understood.

“Cordy,” he murmured, barely aware he was speaking until his mouth was well on the way to finding hers.

The entry doors swung open and they pulled away simultaneously, eyes wide.

“Mornin’ all,” Spike greeted, strolling inward. “I come bearin’ doughnuts.”

Cordelia and Zack looked at each other for a second longer, and away on the same. “Ohhh, what kind?” the brunette asked, leaning over the back of the couch.

The vampire flashed a grin. “What else, luv, but Krispy Kreme? I might be evil, but I’d conquer the fires of Hell before darin’ another brand after these li’l delights.” As if to demonstrate, he indulged in a hearty bite and rolled his eyes back dramatically. “Mmm, mmm. I tell you, ‘s an’ orgy in my mouth.”

Cordelia snickered and pulled a syrupy sample out for herself.

Wright arched a brow. “Can vamps taste?”

“Contrary to popular belief, damn straight. Everythin’ enhances when you become a vampire, mate, even your sense of taste.” He took another bite, eyes twinkling. There was definitely something about his air this morning that made whatever the oncoming hours had in store seem superfluous in context. He knew they were getting Buffy back. He knew he was rescuing the woman he loved. And on that note, he turned to the brunette in full anticipation of her question. “Angel never eats because ‘e’s a wanker who believes that humanly food is off limits. Believe me, back in the day, ‘e’d sample a li’l bit of everythin’. Only grew to be a such a bloody bad sport about it when he got himself all souled up.”

The demon hunter snorted appreciatively, managing to wheedle one of the doughnuts from Cordelia’s grasp. He smiled at her. She was like any woman with her sugar; deny she wants it, but hog it till the cows come home when at her disposal. He was blatantly amazed that there were still chocolate-laced delights waiting for an owner to claim them.

His eyes drifted back to the vampire. “You seem to be in a freakishly cheery mood this morning.”

Spike bounced a little on his heels. “What can I say, mate? ‘m wired an’ ready to go.”

Cordelia’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “How much coffee have you had?”

“A pot when I woke up, a pot after I showered, an’ I’m pretty sure I downed another between gettin’ you ungrateful sods breakfast an’ managin’ to get here without burstin’ into flames.”

“Thanks,” they singsonged automatically.

The brunette was shaking her head. “I don’t suppose it’d do any good to tell you that that much coffee isn’t—”

“Good for me?” Spike quirked a brow of interest. “Luv, I live predominately on a liquid diet. ‘F I was gonna start remarkin’ on all the things that would be unhealthy for an average man, I’d look to the smokin’ first off.”

“Ah, but it is much easier to separate a man from his caffeine than from his nicotine.”

Wright looked at her as though she were insane. “Wanna bet?”

She wisely decided to ignore him. It was the most civil thing to do. “So,” she said instead to Spike, slapping his hand as he tried to snatch the last chocolate doughnut before she could stake her claim. “What’s the game plan?”

He scowled at her but continued anyway, supporting his weight against the back of a chair and crossing his arms. “I called Lindsey back last night,” he said. “After you two lovebirds scampered off. Everythin’ is set. All we gotta do is show up.” He turned strategically to Wright, as the bulk of this had nothing directly to do with the Seer. It was professional consideration on both their parts. “’E’ll meet us before we get into the dangerous rot. Then ‘s jus’ a matter of how quick you can pull all your fancy James Bond moves. Lindsey activates the backup, I get Buffy down, an’ we skeddadle.”

A long beat settled through the lobby.

“I don’t mean to put a damper on anything,” Cordelia said slowly. “But…the simple plans always have a catch. A dangerous catch.”

“I know.” There was no want of deception in his tone; he knew exactly what he was doing, what he was risking. But he was determined. He was brutally determined. “This is our best bet…her best bet. We’ve waited too long for anythin’ else. An’ I’m not gonna let another day go by without doin’…somethin’ other than what ‘ve been doin’.” His face crumpled pitifully; he did not weep, and for whatever reason, that shook her more than tears would have. As though he was beyond the pain of regular suffering. Lord knows he had suffered enough for the both of them. “I have to get her out, luv. I jus’…I have to.”

Cordelia pursed her lips sympathetically, covering his sugarcoated hand with her own. The false warmth there was moving in a sense she had never thought possible. For all the good in him, Angel had never been warm. He had never been anything but what he was.

“It’s all right,” she murmured. “By tonight, she’ll be snuggling with you. And by tomorrow, Zack and I’ll make you pay for making fun of us when we were…well, for being us.”

One part of an us. She liked that.

Wright smiled at her though his eyes remained on the vampire. The man had suffered such drastic change over a short amount of time, but she didn’t believe it bothered him. Not where it counted. “Listen to her, man,” he encouraged. “She’s a smart cookie, and a Seer to top all. We’ll get her out.”

Such acceptance. Such complacency. It was no wonder that it couldn’t last.

“No, you won’t.”

The intrusion of the voice was so sudden that everyone jumped, immediately on awares. It didn’t take long to deduce that they were still alone in the lobby—rather, the demon hunter was instinctively drawn to the overlook from the second floor, where Rosie stood with her small hands grasping the rails. She was as white as a sheet and more frightened than he had seen her since infancy. The sight of her brought everyone to a perfected, nearly horrified standstill.

“Sweetie,” her father said cautiously. “Rosalie, what is it?”

But she wasn’t looking at him; her small, eerily knowledgeable eyes were centered on Spike. What she had to say was for him alone.

“They know.” A whisper across eternity. Distantly, there was a shatter and a gasp—as though the world was cracking with such a simple revelation. Something foretold from the beginning.

The child looked at him, heavy and bothered, and he knew she spoke the truth. There was no doubt, no second-guessing. There were no lies; only knowledge.

“She is going to die.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Lasciatemi Moiré

Monday. 5:37 AM


She hung like death and silent night.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Strange. She felt certainty in the air. Knowledge that outlasted no other. Today was the day. The day everything changed. The day she died. The day she lived. Whatever was to happen to her would happen today. It was a dreary state of consciousness. Awaking to know that whatever had transpired the past few days, weeks, however long she had been here would be solidified before she knew rest again.

Buffy would have questioned her understanding if she did not trust it so implicitly. It was there and she knew it was real. She knew everything that had happened thus far was real, and she had no reason to doubt what she already knew.

Spike was coming for her today.

A small smile tainted her lips. Poignant and grieved, but there. Spike was coming for her today.

Spike.

So strange. Not too much time had passed. Not really. If she tried really hard, she could see herself within her mind’s eye taking notes in her philosophy class. Exchanging pleasantries with Professor Spisak, whom she held in the highest regard. Though she knew not how late or early it was, she imagined herself getting up for her ten o’clock after wrestling with the temptation to ditch and sleep some more. Willow would not be pleased if she started slacking. After all, her newfound enthusiasm for education had lent a hand in bringing them closer than ever before. They argued over the French Revolution and debated how the weight of stress affected her occipital lobe.

That night she would patrol. And Spike would be there.

Spike.

When had things changed so drastically? She remembered a time not too long ago when his threats to kill her were as numerous as hers to dust him, should he ever get the chip out. They had fought. They had strained. They had bled. They had attempted to do each other in over and over. They had never been friends; reluctant allies, perhaps, but never friends.

And now…now they were so much more than friends.

The first few days had been plentiful in dreams of him. It had startled her, but she did not deny it. His face was soothing. The promise of his coming for her as authentic as any promise she had ever wished to believe. And when the day arrived that his visits were no longer hallucinations, she had never known such joy. He was really there. Really there to help her. But he never said why.

He never had to. She felt it. She felt it with every fiber of her being. Every touch he willed himself not to give her. Every kiss that he stole from her willing lips. The mingled taste of his tears ran against her tongue. She had only seen him so bereft once before, and even then, the vision in her hindsight could not compare to the grief he bade her now. By some cosmically unfunny twist of fate, he had fallen in love with her. It was nothing that she promoted with smugness or indecency, not did she believe it out of arrogant hopefulness. She merely knew. With every touch, with his outlasting gentility, with the way he wept for her, she knew.

Her feelings for him were muddled and uncertain, but she knew that she had long ago given up hating him. Even before this ordeal. Before anything. He had been by her side in the graveyard, giving her reassurance that she so desperately needed but refused all the same. He had been there from the beginning—from the moment her mother learned the truth about her. It had been Spike at her side. Spike all along.

He was the one who was here. The one who had come for her. The one who was risking everything for a woman whose destruction he had once sought. And he loved her. He had never confirmed it, but denial likewise halted on his lips.

After this, what would happen? Did he really believe that she would revert to form and start beating him up and refusing his humanity? The thought that supposition had logical backing made her hate herself. How could she ever have summoned such an allegation when he had given her more than anyone ever had? When he asked for nothing for himself in return? Beyond the love she read in his eyes, there had also been understanding. Self-doubt. He didn’t believe that it was his touch that she craved. He didn’t believe he was anything to her besides convenient relaxation. He was a ticket to freedom that she would ride every way from Sunday just to drain him of his good graces and leave him for nothing when all was said and done.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The depth of her feelings for him was blatantly terrifying. She had never experienced anything so powerful. So viable. Even with the blinded love that guided her through her affair with Angel, she hadn’t known anything with such potency. She had never trusted anyone so unreservedly. And yes, she was not lost on the irony. The one man she had vowed to never trust now held more of her good regard than any other in her acquaintance.

Buffy did not know if that was love. For the first time in her life, she questioned the possibility of ever having been in love. The notion was ridiculous; despite the pain she had suffered, she remembered well the wealth of feeling she had held for Angel. She remembered how real it had been. How it had clouded every inkling of judgment. How she had braved giving him up in the end. But she had hardly known him before he earned her love. A mere sixteen years to her credit. A child.

How could a child fathom such emotion? How could a child identify it?

Buffy didn’t like it. She hated the thought of admitting the great love of her life into the classification of schoolgirl crush. It negated everything she believed about herself. However, time had taught her infinitely that love did not work without trust. She had never trusted Angel. Never. Not where it counted. It hurt. It hurt to think that something she had given herself so thoroughly to might not have been the real thing. That she could have been so deluded into thinking that she was experienced enough to understand love. She always had the weight of being the Slayer behind her, believing that gave her more maturity than others. And it had, to a degree.

But not where it mattered. Never where it mattered.

What she felt now—this fathomless trust, respect, warmth, candor…this everything—was that love? It was different. It was so different. She knew him. She knew Spike. She knew him in ways she had never known Angel. For his faults, for his goodness, for his anger and insufferable impatience to his kindness and his resilience. He had cried for her when she could not cry for herself.

She had not known Angel when her heart decided that it loved him. She knew Spike.

Buffy exerted a deep breath. It didn’t hurt as it had just a few short hours ago. It didn’t hurt because she had accepted his blood. She had taken his essence into herself. There were powers aside her own at work. The healing agent he claimed he possessed was working wonders. While the larger abrasions ached still, the minor ones were practically nonexistent. She felt stronger than she had in days.

It was more than that. Whether or not he knew it would happen, ingesting what he had given her had allotted some connection, some tap into his feelings. And the wealth there was overwhelming. What he felt and how potently he felt it.

She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such love, especially from him. In the years of their association, she had been nothing but extremely cruel to him. To his body, his feelings, every hint of his regard. There wasn’t a jest that cowered at the prospect of being released. There wasn’t an accusation that hesitated to be hurled. She had done nothing to deserve any of what he gave willingly. She had never been anything but purposefully resentful of him. And now, right now, she hated herself for it.

Was it because she loved him? Did she feel the ache of what she had done because of how he gave her gentility so unthinkingly of himself, or was it something else? Something more?

Nothing more than empty wishes. Buffy wanted what she was feeling to be love. She wanted it so much. But the hesitation buried within kept her in suspense. If it was love, would there be hesitation? Was she forcing herself into a bond that was as forged as hers had been with Angel? Or did she vacillate in acknowledging her feelings in the mindset of being cautious for both their sakes?

She wanted him to love her. The thought of anything else right now was…

Buffy’s eyes went wide with realization. It hit her with a powerful onslaught. Bold. Unexpected. And she knew. There. There it was.

Yes.

Did she…

Yes.

She did.

The next few seconds were compact with an exciting thrill. Something that both warmed her and scared whatever there was left to scare rightly out of its wits. How things had changed. How she had changed. Spike was coming for her. He would get her out. And when he did, they could begin. They could begin as they should have.

He would thaw her where she was cold. Strange. Leaving such a task to a vampire.

Yet if anyone could do it, it was he.

A small smile beset her face. Spike. She loved Spike. She, Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, was in love with William the Bloody.

He was right. Life was irony’s bitch.

“You look happy.” Angelus’s voice stabbed through her delirium with the same impact of a bucket of ice. Not water, just ice. The cold hard of reality. Her eyes fought open against the still nothing in her chamber. The vampire was lounged comfortably at the entry, arms crossed as he regarded her. There was a dangerous glimmer to his physique. Something that he always carried but now wore with pride. She hated that. Hated how he knew just how scary he was. How he could intimidate so effortlessly.

There was something different today.

“Now, from where I’m standing,” he continued, pushing himself up with an arched brow, “I wouldn’t think there’s much to be happy about. I mean, look at you. Stripped of your dignity, your value, hanging there from the ceiling until I decide to come and pay you some special attention. How ‘bout it, Buff? That a happy fate? Or perhaps I’ve been going too easy on you. You see, traditionally, people in your position have very little to smile about.”

“Well,” the Slayer retorted, a bit more snip in her for what it was worth. It took him by surprise, and she was glad. If she kept taking him by surprise, it had every possibility of prolonging her sentence. Giving Spike that much more time to get to her. “You know what they say. ‘Always look on the bright side of life.’”

“I’m surprised you can look at anything at all. Perhaps I was too hasty in deciding not to gouge out your eyes.” His turned his back to her, examining the plethora of goodies that adorned the rack on the wall. “I could always rectify that now. Whaddya say?”

“You’re not here to torture me.”

There was understanding. She knew that. Knew. His countenance was different today. With intent. He had no purpose of touching her and walking away. Oh no. The conviction rolling off his shoulders could not be denied.

Her eyes widened. He knew.

Oh God. He knew.

Her gaze met his with dangerous presumption when he turned to face her again. More strength than she was owed. As though he had sensed the difference in her. Recognized the comprehension, as it were. The knowledge that consigned her to her fate. They remained locked for a long beat before his eyes drifted to her mouth. Spike’s blood had dried and crusted around her lips, and while she had not noticed it, he most certainly had.

“He thinks he’s a fucking hero, doesn’t he?”

Buffy debated playing dumb but knew instinctively that such would not do anything to help. If anything, it had every possibility of angering him further. As if any of it mattered anymore. “He is a hero,” she spat. “He’s more than you ever were.”

Angelus’s eyes darkened considerably. The same grueling sight that had seen the end to more innocents than she wished to consider. Very deliberately, he advanced, marking up her personal space with empty appraisal, his eyes mapping her body to his own sadistic pleasure. “And yet, princess,” he said very, very softly. “He’s not here.”

A sudden sting. Buffy instinctively bit her lip to keep from whimpering as her head whiplashed violently, having nothing to fall back upon. There was more blood on her mouth; her own intermingling with what Spike had left her. The sensation drew a resolute chill through her body and she called upon its resilience to hold her through.

“He’s not here,” the vampire repeated deliberately. “But I am.”

“Go to hell,” she spat.

“Been there, done that.” Something jabbed into her side; sending her forward with an impact of shock that was only maintained by the strength of her manacles. “Honestly, with all the time you have to…well…hang there and think, you can’t come up with innovative ideas? Buffy, I’m appalled.”

Cold air stung the open wound to degrees that almost surpassed the infliction itself. The Slayer was choking for air; keeled forward in a lonesome fashion that did not allow her any room for movement. The strength she had ingested only hours before had seemingly abandoned her on command. All that was left was Angelus.

The feel of her blood trickling down her barren body was nothing she was not accustomed to, but it made her shudder all the same.

“Coward,” she hissed through tears, biting her lip harshly to distract herself from the pain engulfing her side. “Fucking coward. You know what they’ll do to you if you actually go through with it. You know.”

Angelus’s eyes perked with interest. “Coward? Moi?” A hand jutted out with lighting-quick rapidity, inviting itself to an intrusion of the most intimate kind. The Slayer’s eyes widened and she strengthened her teeth’s hold on her lip, forbidding herself from giving him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Despite however much it hurt. “I don’t play by the rules, Buff.” Her name was punctuated with a sharp jab; a whimper threatened to escape her clamped mouth. “And Wolfram and Hart…can’t touch me. You think me afraid of them? Of Lindsey? Of your precious Spike? Hardly, my dear. But I do so love leading them on.”

“And…yet…” she growled through her teeth. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, instinctual rather than emotional. She was not sobbing; they simply couldn’t be helped. “You…you’re the…the one who’s…been…led…in circles.”

The vampire’s hand tightened around her, breaking further and inviting a warm fresh flow of blood. His nostrils flared appreciatively. “Big words,” he appraised. “What did he do?”

Buffy knew immediately what he was talking about; she remained silent.

“Don’t play games with me, sweetheart. You’re hardly in the…” Another agonizing twist. Her body attempted to buck but there was nothing to be done. “…position to try and gain the advantage. Spike made you stronger. How? Did he fuck you, Buff? Can’t imagine why not. After all, you’re hanging there, waiting and helpless. And he’s no different from the rest of us.”

She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. “He’s—”

“Ah. Right.” Angelus’s gaze fell to her crimson-stained mouth, confirming without a word that he had known this all along. It was impossible for him not to, the scent of his grandchilde’s essence floating in the room in an intimate intermingle with his lady fair. “He gave you his blood, didn’t he? Bold move. Bold and supremely stupid.”

A shadow befell her face. Strong, despite the river flowing from her eyes. Despite the quiver in her form. Despite everything that had ever made her who she was—really was. Everything that had been robbed of her. “It was…” she said slowly, “fucking…delicious.”

He released her with a noise of disgust, action laced with force that elicited strangely unintentional pain. Buffy knew better than to sigh her relief when he moved away. When the injuries inflicted allotted a temporary reprieve. She knew. The length of the floor quivered under his hard, angry paces. Odd. She had never thought of Angelus as truly frightening. Sadistic, evil to be sure, but she had never feared him. Not really. Even when she should. Even when he gave her all the reason in the world.

Now seemed to be as good an example as any.

“You think he’s coming to save you?” he spat. “Your knight in tarnished white armor? You think I’d allow that?”

A cough where words should exist. Buffy hated herself for the lapse, but she could no more prevent it than stop the sun from rising. Everything was eventual in the grand scheme of things. “I think…” she said slowly, “…that…you…are not nearly…as strong…as you’d like…me to believe.”

“Brave words from She Who Hangs A Lot.”

“I speak as I find.” Strength coursed through her; a nearly palpable sensation. Spike’s blood. Her blood. Intermingling blood giving her a bit of her own back. He had spoken the truth, and he damn well knew what he was talking about. “If you were so strong…you’d give me a sporting…chance.”

Angelus’s arms crossed with severe scrutiny. “I know my limits, Buff. I’m just having fun finding yours.”

“And-fucking-yet.”

He stepped forward dangerously, all want of threat vanishing to the more powerful whim of action. And that was it. She understood. No more games. No more sparring. Just this. This raw acceptance. He had come here with purpose. He had come here to kill her. He had come here to wound Spike in his presumption and silence her hope without a breath of air to its credit. Silence her newfound love. Silence everything that the grace of goodwill had bestowed upon her in these last few days.

Days that stretched to an eternity.

A long smile drew across his lips when he read her comprehension, his features melting into the demonic face that spurned him. Angel’s fangs had failed to faze her during their courtship and they failed again now. If he meant to kill her, she would not cower. She would not beg. Every minute since awakening, she had anticipated him tiring of the same old torment. Now he meant to put an end to it. He meant to put an end to all things.

And still, Buffy’s mind called out to Spike. He wouldn’t know. Ever. He would never know, much less believe, that she loved him. That she had found solace with that reckoning during her last minutes. Her sister, her mothers, her friends…they knew her regard. All of them. But Spike didn’t.

Her deepest regret.

“Is that what you want, then?” Angelus asked. “Your freedom? That I give you without hindrance.” His fangs neared dangerously, marking the bite she had allowed him out of love a mere two years prior to save his life. Her body tingled with the idiocy of action. And she knew then, in those last seconds, that whatever feeling she and Angel had once shared was as far from true love as anything else to mark the earth. Sacrifice was one thing. Betrayal was a whole new ballpark.

He had been Angelus once before, and still she remained blind to his monstrosity.

She had forgiven. She had rescued him. She had placed him above herself.

Punishment, then. Punishment for her lapse. A Slayer who knew the love of two vampires.

“But as all things…” Suddenly her arms were free, falling with blessed, tender relief to her sides as all the aches and pains that had accumulated over the weeks soared to life once more in throbbing retribution for what she was forfeiting. Her basic instincts screamed at her to fight him. To hit him. Strike him. Kick him across the room. Use that resourcefulness that Spike had given her to escape.

She didn’t. She couldn’t. Her muscles were too sore for action. Too long held in suspension. Too long untended and unused. Too long neglected by god-knows-how-many-lashings and worse. Buffy blinked dazedly as Angelus buried his head in the crook of her neck—and it hit her. Unquestioning. Undoubting.

Knowing was one thing. Understanding was something entirely different.

She was going to die.

“…freedom has a price. You want your release, Buffy, and I grant that. I just hope you’re satisfied with the way things worked out. I know I am.”

And that was it. A pain like no other touched her skin, embedding through layers of tenderized flesh that had once been loved by the same face. Dying screams climbed into her throat, supported with weeks’ silence and suddenly unveiled for the world to hear. It touched every sense. Every nerve. Every inkling of her that could be touched. That rawness. That heat. That blessed vat of nothing.

A blaze of color faded into the void. Feeling drained from her. Completion. She heard someone enter, but did not possess the clarity to identify the speaker. Only that it was female, and she was alerting Angelus that an untamed vampire was on the grounds, and that it was time to leave.

Spike.

Too late. Too late. He was too late to save her. And she lacked the strength to hold on.

Forgive me.

Buffy tumbled down an endless spiral far before she actually fell. And by the time she met the cold of the floor for the first instance since her coming, she did not feel it. Could not. And she remained as that. An object in the room, as lifeless as any other. To be found and mourned, but not saved.

Toxic blackness never to awake. Not saved.

Too late.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Hello

Monday. 5:28 AM


There was a time that Lindsey McDonald could remember when he was the one laughing at Lilah Morgan for her rigid punctuality to match her ludicrously early mornings and equally amusing late departures. He knew it existed; happenings and events were burnt into every shadow of his recollection. There but in deep hiding.

Funny. With all the competing they had done, it took the account both wanted the most to get the childish bickering to finally know end. So much had occurred the past few days that he didn't remember the last time he saw her. The last time she visited his office for the mutual degrading exchange that left neither party at any sort of advantage. She stabbed him in the back and he did the same. A never ending cycle of imagined goodness.

And to think, there had been a day where he wanted all of this.

Lindsey suspected that if he cared, the absence of Lilah's frequent visits would have made him nervous. As it was, he had not given her more than a few seconds' thought since betraying the Order to Angel Investigations.

That was until he looked up and saw her standing in his office.

Then glanced down with much of the same and continued flipping through paperwork.

"So, that's it, then?" she demanded. "No 'good morning'? No 'nice to see you'? Really, after all we've been through together, that hurts."

"I thought it better not to lie."

"Then you're in the wrong business. Not only do we work for evil, we're lawyers."

"Is there something you want, Lilah?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"It's a statement with a question mark tagged on the end. Answer however you like."

A shadow of a smile crossed her face as she stepped forward appraisingly, narrowed eyes giving him a once over he didn't particularly like, but still refused to object. "They know," she informed him. "The Senior Partners. They know what you've been up to."

Lindsey finally glanced up. His eyes were an endless pit of apathy. "Aw, shucks. And after I went to so much trouble to conceal my efforts. Whups. Shame on me."

"You sound pompously secure for a man who has latently signed his own death warrant."

He offered an apathetic shrug. "Well, as you said, we're lawyers."

The woman's mouth formed a line of solemnity, her head cocking with apt consideration. "Was it worth it, Lindsey? Forfeiting everything for the sake of something you can't possibly prevent? I hope so. I'd hate to think you'd live to regret the minute you betrayed yourself, despite how fucking ironic it is."

"There are many things I regret." He dropped his pen haphazardly and leaned back, folding his arms across his belly. "This will never be one of them."

"You sure?"

"Positive." His eyes glimmered mischievously. "Oh, come now, Lilah. Don't tell me you're disappointed. You look like your dog died, and I know it's not for me. After all, weren't you the one that killed the mongrel in the first place?"

She shrugged. "The Senior Partners wanted it dead. It was pregnant."

"Yes, I remember. Odd how the Partners only favor demon spawn that will benefit them."

"It's not odd, dumbass. It's survival of the fittest."

"No one stopped to consider the dog's feelings." He didn't know where that had come from; he wasn't trying to be cute but he didn't believe it, either. And it sounded odd against the air. A statement void but filled with emotion. A contradiction in itself. "Besides, much as I recall, the critter would've been harmless."

Lilah smiled unpleasantly. "All the better to kill it now before it got used to disappointment." She crossed her arms and walked a pace across his office. "I don't think you've considered the consequences of your actions, Lindsey. I really don't. And really, don't feel obligated to try to correct anything, even though watching now would prove ultimately amusing. The Order, while not productive, would have been eliminated if the Partners thought it necessary. Your taking matters into your own hands is going to be considered hostile liability."

His eyes narrowed and his chair moved just a little, following her as she walked the length of what was offered. "Say that again," he suggested, "then ask me if I give a damn."

There was a snort of appreciation. "You doing this because of her?" she asked.

"Do you care?"

"Not particularly."

Lindsey glanced down. "I'm doing this because what's happening to her, what he's done to her, what we did to her is wrong," he said. "I would tell you to not pretend to worry, but I know that's not necessary. Once Spike and his demon hunter arrive, it'll be over. And you won't see me again."

Lilah's eyes sparkled. "Pity." She turned then and made for a haughty exit, walking with dignity and power as always. At the door, however, she paused once more, pivoting to gaze at him over her shoulder. "There is just one more thing."

"Oh?"

"Those tapes you were so interested in...well, I had to take a peek, myself."

Lindsey went very, very still. "And?"

"Something very interesting happened, oh, ten minutes ago. Seems Drusilla's let the cat out of the bag." A nasty smirk was situated proudly on her lips. "Angelus was...well, the term 'madder than hell' comes to mind. He's going to kill her. Well, not to be hasty, he's going to torture the shit out of her, then kill her. About time, too, if you ask me." She turned to leave again and paused once more. "Some of the guys from real-estate and I are going to make some popcorn and watch the show. If you hurry, you can join us."

The last seemed as though she was speaking in slow motion and he was too daft to follow. One minute sitting there, listening to her like a rational person—and then raw impulse overwhelmed him, and he had bounded for the door. Nothing beyond what she had said, simply the knowledge that Buffy was in trouble. That was all that drove him.

It didn't get him very far. The next thing he knew, Lindsey was on the floor with Lilah hovering over him, stun gun in her hand.

"I thought you might try something stupid."

But he wasn't awake to hear her.

Nor was he awake to watch her reach for her cell, punch in a few random digits, and wait.

"Lilah Morgan here. Lindsey McDonald is going to require some very minor medical attention as soon as possible. You will find him on the floor in his office. Be cautioned, his injuries might leave him temporarily delusional, so do not allow him to leave until he has clearance from myself or the Department Head." She nodded perceptibly, fighting the temptation to literally kick him when he was down. Despite their mutual hostility, there was a form of respect that could not go ignored. "One more thing, do not be alarmed if the vampire monitors detect something unusual. I had Spike's authorization stripped last night—we want to know the minute he enters the building." A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "No. I want him to reach her. Just make sure it's done before he does. We don't want him interrupting anything."

5:41 AM

The first beads of daybreak touched the city sometime between departure and arrival. Spike felt it as sure as anything. While avoiding direct contact with the morning sunlight was hardly a challenge, despite the current disparity of his thought process, it occurred to him in some dark region that he was very fortunate. Not many vampires could say they knew their way intimately around a town to a point of undeviating avoidance. Sparks of inherent trepidation snaked across his back, tickled into his senses, and whispered his legs to pump harder, even if he did not need the encouragement.

"You all right?" Wright asked, even if he knew it was unneeded.

Stupid, stupid question.

The peroxide vampire didn't answer. He hadn't said a word, much less composed a thought into logical context since leaving the Hyperion. Every time he tried to speak, the image of Rosie, white as a sheet, interrupted his hindsight. That awful moment when she stood perched over the railing. Distraught. Cold. And certain.

She had been so fucking certain.

The loom of Wolfram and Hart waited ahead. Just ahead. Nothing else.

The demon hunter again. Scraping at his side with eagerness that betrayed a want of feeling. Spike's appreciation for the man had never been greater, but he could not allow himself to stop and consider that now. "We have a plan?"

Inside now. The quiet lobby of a building that was never quiet. Stillness.

That was it. All the solid evidence he needed to confirm what Rosie had said was true, even if he had known it from the beginning. Wolfram and Hart was silent. And yet, he felt the announcement of his presence screaming unheard volumes through the ethereal ripples that connected every molecular fiber and held this house of sin sturdy and unwavering.

He turned to Wright and tossed him a Colt .45 that he had located in Wesley's desk before leaving. The weapon was so small, so alien. Both men were accustomed to rhetoric and ancient tools to do in demons.

This device was meant to spill human blood.

Human.

"Kill anythin' that moves," he said coldly. "That's the soddin' plan. Savvy?"

Zack stared at the gun as though it would bite him, color drained from his face. "I...you want me to shoot people?"

"Not people. These aren' people. They're butchers. Bloody butchers."

"That doesn't—"

"Well, Angel never had a problem with it before he went bad. An' trust me, 'f you find a magical loophole in that warped sense of logic, these blokes must be anythin' but human." Spike's eyes were afire, such that the promise of his own potency frightened even him. He was dangerous to anyone in this state. Driven with the primal need to get to her, no matter what it took. No matter what it cost others. He had never known such raw, unbridled need. And he had never thought said need to coincide with the darkest manifestation of pure outrage he had ever known. "They have Buffy. Don' stop shootin' until I have her out."

"It's too soon," Wright protested. His voice sounded ridiculously conspicuous, even if he was whispering. "We can't know that Lindsey'll be ready. That the Gregori guy you mentioned—"

"I get to Buffy. That's all that matters."

"But—"

"That's. All. That. Matters." The peroxide vampire threw a menacing glance over his shoulder. "Aim for the kneecaps 'f it makes you feel better. But 'f you decide to get stake happy jus' 'cause my conscience seems to be malfunctionin', I swear, Zangy, I will snap your neck in two seconds an' you can't do a damn thing to stop me."

A long pause settled between them—not particularly dangerous, and without having to be told, Wright knew that was revolutionary. Only weeks ago, had someone told him that a vampire would blatantly threaten him to his face and live, he would have scoffed and then gotten into an unseemly bar fight over the vouchers of his good name. But Spike was made of different stuff than the rest of that. He knew, watching him, that had time turned itself around and it was Amber's life on the line, no man could have prevented him from rescuing her. From taking her from that horrible fate.

He would have killed to get her back. He would have spilt human blood and not regretted it. How could he begrudge a creature that was not supposed to feel empathy but did anyway? How was he supposed to tell him that it was wrong to murder those who stood between him and his Slayer? His Buffy.

These lawyers were only human by creed. That was where the line ended.

"We'll get her out," the demon hunter agreed. "Without having to snap any necks...except those that don't belong to me, naturally."

At that, the vampire's eyes softened perceptibly. "I mean it, Zangy. I like you an' the last thing I wanna do is...but I will, 'f it comes down to it. 'F 's you standin' between me an' her."

"I'm not going to stand between you. Beside you, maybe, but not between." He offered a small smile. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Spike stilled a second longer before the roughness in his façade melted for the acceptance waned through contact. A heartfelt, however pained grin rose to his lips, and he tilted his head with gratitude. "You have the worst timin' ever," he decided. "Pickin' now for our sodding Full House moment?"

Wright shrugged. "Better late than never. Just wanted to let you know that I've got your back."

"Hopefully in a purely platonic way."

"Did you not see me with Cordy earlier?"

"I tried to block it out."

"Probably just threatened."

"Zangy, this is hardly the time."

"Right. In that we're agreed." The demon hunter offered a resolute nod. It was comforting to see sparks of similar determination flickering behind his eyes. If he was going in there with anyone, might as well be with someone who shared his plight. "Whaddya say we go get your Slayer so you can prove me wrong?"

Spike flashed a grateful grin. "With pleasure."

Their eyes met with latent understanding. And that was it.

The first steps into alien territory went surprisingly well. While the firm was—for all intents and purposes—seemingly shut down, there was similarly a lack of human interference. It wasn't difficult to decipher that there was something very wrong with this picture; it would be more than foolish to assume that a full track to the bowels of this hell would be without marks of trepidation. Seven levels down. Reaching her circle and fighting their way out again. No other viable option.

"It's so quiet," Wright muttered.

Their steps were not. Spike could not be deterred for any reason. With a crossbow astride his shoulder and a twin firearm curled in his fist, he only had one purpose. The darkness ahead failed to intimidate as did the knowledge of their precariousness. Whatever was planning to leap out of the shadows at him had to infinitely do better than that.

Then he paused, very deliberately. Just like that, the tenor had changed. The threat was withdrawn. And they were truly alone.

Something was different.

"This isn't right."

Zack appraised him with a look. "Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious."

The vampire shook his head. "This is..."

And then he felt it. Through every aching tendon in his body. For every inch of him that lived without life. It touched his unbeating heart with relentless presentation, offering a bended whim more than he could bear on first glance. Loss. Such horrible loss. The pain of muted agony and then nothing at all. The connection he had lived on for days was gone.

Spike's eyes went wide, and a single word whispered through his lips.

"No."

No. It wasn't possible. They weren't too late. They couldn't be too late.

The warmth was gone. That blessed glow of light on his broken entity. Somewhere harbored deep—somewhere that he hadn't known existed. The light euphoric plane that housed his bliss whenever they were together. Whenever he could caress her skin and convince himself of her tangibility. It was fading. It was leaving him.

Then it was gone altogether.

Wright grasped his shoulder worriedly. "Spike?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't. He was barely aware he was there at all.

Buffy.

"Oh God, no."

Though he had always thought the offices of Wolfram and Hart to be unnecessarily large, compiled righteously with the stereotypical endless hallways and spacious rooms that were more barren than filled, the observation had never been more rigid. He knew he was racing. He knew his legs were pumping as hard and fast as they could. And yet, with every step that carried him closer to the corridors that were now embedded in his conscious, his flesh molded to granite.

In those last few minutes—the same that stretched immeasurably to hours without influence—there were very few realities that harbored his understanding. He knew that Wright was behind him, running against the strain of time alike. Screaming at him, demanding needlessly what was wrong. Spike blocked him out. He couldn't think—couldn't feel but for her. The primal stirring that found connection with her was screaming its agony. He wouldn't listen; couldn't. It simply couldn't be so.

Not too late. He would not let them be too late.

Angelus's scent poisoned the air with repugnance so strong he felt he might choke. Despite their previous aversion, Spike had never found anything physically repulsive about him. Not really. Now the essence of his grandsire was enough to blind him. Coated. Everywhere. Tainting the purity that should have been her air. Her ambiance. The platinum vampire searched vainly, seeking, needing...

It was gone.

Gone, but...

And then he realized the fallacy in his own understanding. Angelus's scent was not alone. Its company took part in blood. Her blood.

Buffy's blood.

The scene was so still when he first looked and saw her. Lying on the floor, dead as night. Curled in a discarded pile next to the chains that had been her prison. There was nothing then but that realization. That founded knowledge.

A terrible sound filled the air and bounced off the sound of his weapons hitting the floor. A piercing, guttural wail that pained his ears, striking inerasable marks into his heart. He could not think. Could not breathe—a non-necessity that he fought for. Could not stop himself from racing to her. At her side, he nearly slipped and fell once more, bringing her body into his arms. And breaking.

Breaking.

The room might as well have been unoccupied. He gave no thought to anyone. Not to Wright, who was watching gravely from the doorway. Not to the cameras that had captured their numerous indiscretions. Their stolen moments in time. He held his Slayer to his chest, sobbing relentlessly into her hair, screaming madly at the world that had taken her from him, and cursing himself for being too late. Cursed himself for killing her.

He had killed her.

And so it was. Spike on the floor, Buffy lifeless in his arms, rocking back and forth as unintelligible sobs and broken promises sputtered unknowingly from his lips. She was warm. She was still warm. Still warm. They had only failed her by minutes. He peppered kisses along her faces and felt the taste of her dried tears as they clashed with those that made haven down his own. His hands skimmed her skin, clutching at her, begging her to return. To come back to him. To not be dead.

But it was too late. She was gone.

And he was shattered beyond reckoning.

From the doorway, Wright watched with solemnity that did not know a name. Watched a picture he knew more intimately than any man should. Watched as his grief became someone else's.

Experience mingled with despair. He had never known that the picture could be more heartbreaking than the feel. And in that moment, Spike's pain was his own.

It was frightening how quickly he came to resolution. How quickly morals he had grounded himself on for years were cast aside. But deeper within himself, there was no other viability. Once he had stood aside and watched someone too pure for the planes of earth as she was ripped away from tangibility. Not again. Not twice.

Never again.

Slowly, carefully, he approached. The man on the floor was still rocking her gently, murmuring prayers into her hair. Pleas. Whispers. Promises. He could not see for the river flowing from his eyes, but sight was not necessary.

Not when everything else had been ripped from him.

"'m sorry. Oh god oh god oh god I'm so sorry." Spike was sobbing, lips skimming over flesh that was freshly damp with his tears. "'m so sorry, baby. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn'..." His voice broke again, trembling as he clutched her closer, another hoarse, voluminous cry clawing at his throat. The sound of pain incarnate—never had anything been birthed so raw. "God, don't leave me. You can't leave me. I never got to tell you. I can't...not without. My fault. 'S all my fault. Buffy, baby, please. Please don' leave me. My fault."

Wright pursed his lips, struggling to keep reign over his own emotions. The sight was so poignant, so beautiful, that he felt himself on the verge of tears. "Spike—"

The vampire shook his head, unwilling to allow alien interruption to break into his sorrow. Grief had indefinitely deafened him to the outside world. His body was trembling, his head submerged in golden locks of bloodied hair. His hands finally settled the exploration of her body, curled around her shoulders, caressing emptily for everything she could not feel. "Forgive me," he pleaded hoarsely. "God, Buffy, forgive me."

There it was. A decision. A dangerous decision.

If Wright had ever doubted the validity of Spike's feelings, it was all washed aside. And he could not allow this. He couldn't allow someone who was not a demon to suffer as he had. Not if there was a choice. Not if there was a way to make things right.

But he had to be certain.

"Would you have loved her forever?"

That broke through the haze surrounding them for no particularity. Spike's reddened face glanced upward, shades of grievous offense flashing through his eyes. "How can you...she's everythin' to me. Everythin'...oh god." His head dipped once more, entangling in her essence. Whatever was left of her to be claimed. Whatever he could grasp. "My love. I never got...she never knew. God...she was alone. I let her die alone." His body wracked with another incursion of sobs. "I never got to tell her."

The demon hunter stepped forward cautiously. "I just need to be sure. I'm not going to do this if you're just going to abandon her. If it's not...understand that if you do, there will be no mercy. If I condemn her to...and...I'll make sure you pay for it. Through my children, if I must. With her it's forever. You understand?"

The vampire was looking at him through dazed eyes, only partially hearing him. Nothing that crossed his mouth made sense. He was holding his dead love; there could be no rationality beyond that. Nevertheless, he could not forfeit his honor, and some vaguely coherent part of his psyche must have recognized the threat presented. "Forever," he whispered gutturally. "There is no forever without her."

Wright nodded. "I thought so." The gun dropped from his hand, clammy with his nervous sweat. In its place was one of the many knife blades he refused to travel without—the same he had used time and time again to bring justice to demons that deserved no other fate. "Now then...hold still."

Spike glanced upward, but by then, it was too late. His friend had moved forward with rapidity he could not have anticipated, he could not have evaded, given his current grave lethargy. By the time he realized that the blade was intended for him, it was too late to move. A red swipe cut clear across his throat, and he released a gurgled cough of blood. There was an immediate flounce of enraged betrayal, a hand going instinctually to his throat only to be beaten away with resistance and realization.

The wound was deep, but it was not fatal. Nor was it intended to be.

"Wha..."

Wright was unmoved. His hand went to Buffy's head, encouraging her forward until her mouth touched the newly opened skin. "Very still."

Spike's eyes widened. "No. No! Zangy, no. You can't..." His protest died in his throat, blood loss getting to him even at its minimal level. With his body shut down, fighting the other man off would be ineffectual, if not impossible.

The demon hunter was too foregone in preparation to answer. His hand gently stroked the Slayer's throat until he was satisfied that she was swallowing. Through his years of practice, of hunting and research, he had absolutely no idea if this would work. If it was too late for her or not. But there were truths to be reckoned with; if there was a way to save her, this was it. And he would not rest until he knew that he had done everything he could to prevent this from being her fate.

All for a woman he did not know.

For long seconds, there was nothing save their quiet breaths to counter the sound of her drinking. The long lasting glass of a dead woman. He had to continue to aid her to make certain that the blood was getting into her system—Spike's hands going from opposition to holding her against him. But for everything, she remained lifeless. Gone.

Dead.

A trembling sigh passed through the vampire's lips. "Zangy...I—"

Then something happened. Something that neither man, despite age or experience, could have possibly expected.

The lifeless hands that rested wearily at her sides surged with an unforeseen incursion of supplemented strength. Spike was nearly forced back at the spontaneity of reflex, but his arms drew around her tighter. His eyes widened with alarm, shooting to her own even as her countenance remained unchanged.

She was still dead in every sense of the word.

But she was grasping him with an unwillingness to let go.

And then it touched him. Somewhere deep where the grief was at its turnpike, that outraged sorrow turned to the most mind-numbing pleasure his body had ever known. It was—in a word—staggering. Buffy's hands clamped his shoulders, mouth suddenly animated and caressing his throat in one of the oldest trades known to the natural order. She was drinking the essence of him, feeding on everything that poured from his bleeding flesh, taking him into her in a way he had never thought possible. Spike rumbled a contented sigh that seemed more out of reflex than feeling. His insides were still screaming at the injustice of it all. Of what had been robbed of him. Of what had been ripped from her. However, his fingers coiled around her bloodied flesh, bounding her to him. Despite the wrongness of completion, he could not allow her to stop drinking.

It was new. It was vital. And in those few agonized seconds, it was wonderful.

"Oh God..." he moaned.

Wright merely stood back and watched. Watched the work of his ultimate betrayal proceed without hindrance. Pools of unguided feeling mounted his insides, but he did not wish to consider his actions now. Not now. There would be time for regret when it was over. A man that had once lived to destroy vampires. A man who now made them of his own freewill.

It seemed hours passed before Buffy yanked herself away, falling back into his arms with the same unfettered lifelessness that she had possessed before. As though the exchange had been fragmented by imagination rather than actuality. Wright breathed slowly, steadily, watching her with dangerous conjecture in the mark of his weakened disgrace. Bloodstains marked her mouth. Fresh and alive. Her body burned with newfound warmth.

And slowly, slowly, Spike returned to himself. Gained control.

And stopped when he realized the full of what had just transpired.

"No." He stared at her, curled in his arms, eyes still blurred with tears. "God. God. No."

The demon hunter watched him precariously, his expression grave. "I'm sorry," he said. "I had to."

"What have you done?"

"What I had to."

"No, Zack." The raw, unbidden use of his given name lent them both pause. Spike glanced upward with severity. There wasn't an inch of him that failed to scream his distress. The calamitous fall of presumption. "What have you done?"

There was no answer to give. Nothing that could justify meaning. Not with the sun rising over Los Angeles or the world of darkness that lay at its wake.

No answer. Thus, they simply waited in silence as the city came to life around them. Overpowered. Overwhelmed. One standing, two on the floor. Answerless for all the harsh ugliness the world had to offer. Bearing hard the mark of sacrament. But nothing else.

Nothing else.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Tower of Learning

It was surprisingly simple—leaving Wolfram and Hart constituted nothing more than just that. There was no opposition, no demeaning glances, nothing but airs of haughty normalcy. A lifeless Slayer bound in a leather duster and held tightly in the vampire's arms. Wright walked intently alongside his companion, but the reaction would not sway with difference. There was no reason to hamper their leaving—the damage, after all, had already been accomplished.

They had discovered Lindsey McDonald's office vacant; nothing to the man's credit saved a few packed boxes and a date inscribed in his day-timer with G the LS. Nothing else.
Too late, anyway, to attempt any venue. Too late for anything.

A woman named Lilah Morgan met them in Lindsey's office and diplomatically offered to see them out without dispute. They followed with more of the same. No words. No exchanges. There was nothing to offer.

Spike had Buffy cradled to his chest, wrapped gracefully in the prize marking her kind. It was a Slayer's coat, after all. He had pulled it off a dead one in New York—poetic justice that he should arrange it on another after her passing. Especially since the woman who wore it also owned his heart.

He did not want to think how she would hate him when she awoke. Hate him for not being fast enough. For not saving her. For turning her into what she was meant to destroy. For making her a creature of his own following. She was not meant for this sort of existence; and he had condemned her. It was not by choice, and yet he felt the burden of responsibility.

If she hated him, truly hated him, after what they had shared, he did not know what he would do.

That was all in retrospect. Too late now. He had graced Lilah with a dark, accusing glare and turned his attention back to areas of more noteworthy consequence. It concluded in following Wright when prodded, not to look back.

There was nothing to see should he turn and try.

They were ultimately led to the sewers that Angel had made habit of utilizing prior to his transformation. Their journey was long paced and awkwardly silent—Spike occasionally nudging the Slayer's head with his cheek, inhaling the fullness of her scent. Reassuring himself with her presence. Cherishing these last minutes when he could pretend that she did not hate him. That the stanch respect and trust that had shone behind her eyes when he last saw her would be what greeted him when she awoke. When she returned to him. Before she realized how he had betrayed her.

And yet stillness consumed her—and him in turn. Stillness rendered them both hollowed shells of reason. With each step, the path to the Hyperion seemed to lengthen in context.

It was a cold reckoning of several combinations. The vampire had not spoken since leaving Buffy's torture chamber, and whatever needed to be said would remain indefinitely reserved. Zack wasn't sure what even drove him anymore. The few full glances that they shared were void of any or all emotion. A pure nothingness to counter with everything that had occurred.

Whatever the circumstance, it couldn't last. Silence alone could drive a man insane—in such conditions, the damage was potentially irreparable.

Wright glanced to his friend mindfully. "Spike?"

A few beats of waiting. Then nothing.

"Spike?"

Nothing.

"Spike, for Chrissake, say something."

The vampire's eyes darkened and his jaw set with immeasurable hardness. "There's nothin' to say, Zangy."

"I think there is."

"Yeh. I'd wager so. An' as we all know, you're burstin' with brilliant ideas."

"It was all..." Wright sighed and ran a hand through his ashburn locks. "It was everything...all that we could do. All that I could do."

"You've ruined her." Spike stopped dead in his tracks, eyes blazing with levels of fiery contempt. "You've...how can you not know what you've done? You out of all the bloody people in the fucking world oughta know that. You dedicated your life to this. To..." He fell silent again, the incursion of objection too overwhelming to answer. Instead, he opted for a low but equally dangerous, "You know what you've done."

"It...she..." Zack closed his eyes briefly and paused to gather his bearings. "She will retain her soul. Wes and Cordy assured me that if she was turned, she would retain her soul."

"Right. Small compensation for losin' everythin' else." He willed himself to another standstill, turning to face the other man completely for the first time since leaving. "Wes an' Cordy assured you? Why would they have need to—"

"I wasn't planning this and you know it. It came up in passing conversation. I was worried about what would happen if Angelus turned her. I didn't..." Another sigh painted the air. "I didn't want to have to approach you with the possibility of having to kill her."

There was a moment's pause. Spike's gaze hardened imperceptibly, and he turned to continue without forward offer. "'F she doesn' hate me for the whole of eternity..."

"She won't."

"I din't save her."

"You didn't kill her, either."

"No. I jus' handed her an existence that she's never gonna forgive me for. That...she..." The vampire shuddered with a lingering beat of resented rage. "I can't believe you did this."

"I had to."

"Funny. A vampire hunter forced to make a vampire."

"It had nothing to do with that and you know it. I did it because it meant something for..." Wright shook his head with a deep breath. This line of understanding deserved a far more open approach—meager excuses were meaningless. He had to share reason. "When I lost Amber...it nearly killed me. It probably should have, given how naïve I was at the time. How secure and blissfully ignorant. If I had had the opportunity, I would've done anything to save her. Anything."

There was no missing the subtext of that revelation. Spike made a noncommittal sound, eyes drifting implicitly to Buffy once more. "Sirin' her wouldn't have saved her."

"I know."

"It wouldn't have even been her when she—"

"I know."

"Vamps have the memories an' the—"

"I know. But she would...she was Amber. And I would've done anything..." Zack sighed evocatively. "It's different now, of course. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Anyone except the woman I love. 'S that what this is, Zangy? Gettin' back at me for bein' a vamp at long bloody last?"

He frowned, clearly insulted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"'m not entirely convinced that—"

"You know why I did it, asshole. She's...I couldn't stand to see someone go through what I went through, especially when there was a way to stop it. She's a Slayer. She—"
"She doesn' deserve this. She doesn' deserve an eternity of pain to spare my feelings."

"You have the power to fix it now if you feel that I was that out of line."

Spike stopped shortly and glared at him. Every twitch he betrayed was wrought with disdain. "You son of a bitch."

"Well what? If I did such an injustice to her, kill her before she rises. It'd be the merciful thing to do, wouldn't it?"

There was a long, dangerous pause. Then, slowly with marked resignation, he expelled a deep breath and allowed the tension in his shoulders to roll off in waves. When he spoke, the defeat in his tone was nearly unbearable. "You know I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"That's right."

Wright arched a brow and waited.

"I won't," Spike reiterated. His voice dripped with self-hatred and failure, but he did not waver an inkling from the truth he knew inherent. It was fruitless to deny something that was written so plainly within his eyes. "I won't lose her again. I'm not...I'm too bloody selfish to lose her twice."

"I know."

His head shot up, gaze gleaming with tears laced with umbrage and malice. "Don' do that. Don' for one second pretend you're better than me when you've jus' told me that—"
"I'm not, Spike. We're even. Completely." Zack shook his head heavily and they continued walking. Silence marked with undeclared respect. "There've been a lot of things that I've done and I'm not proud of. A lot. The decision I made back there is not one of them. I might doubt myself, I might hate myself, but I know...I know that it's better to try and save someone from what I went through than sit from the goddamn sidelines. You're a vampire and I hate you for it. You know I hate you for it. But I think I hate you for being a man more than anything else." He smiled when Spike glanced to him in surprise. "It's easier when monsters behave like monsters. When they prove to be men, that's when you question your integrity. I'm not better than you, Spike. I'm the same. We're the same. We're both men with monsters locked inside, and there's not a damn thing either one of us can do about it."

For a few seconds, it seemed the entirety of the Los Angeles underworld to be kept in grim solitude, such that even the rats that frequented the sewers could not be placed. It took only a beat or so in retrospect for Spike's eyes to soften. For any leeway to be allowed from the staunch resolution he had so depended on. It wasn't much, but it was enough. It was enough for both of them.

A sigh coursed through the vampire and his guard slipped without reservation. "You don' know what you've done to her."

"I know," Wright replied quietly. "Just as I know it had to be done. Angelus murdered her because he knew that you were coming for her. I'm not about to give him that advantage."

"This is more than Peaches."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"It's about her. It's also about you. I know suffering well enough to know when it's on the verge of destroying someone. It would've destroyed you. It would've made you into one of them." Zack smiled grimly and turned to continue. "There might be a lot of wrong in what I did, Spike, but neither one of us is gonna fix it. You would've grieved, then you would've lost it. You would've...you would've become dangerous."

A scoff seized the vampire's throat and he arched a brow in offense. "'m already dangerous, Zangy. You forget who you're dealin' with."

"No, I don't. I can't afford to. But I also know that you're a good man, despite being a bad vampire."

"'m not—"

There was a dry chuckle of challenge. "Right. You're not. Come on. Falling in love with the Slayer? Going against your Order? Becoming the honorary leader of Angel Investigations—the crime fighting squadron? Yeah. You're not. Tell that to me again, but this time try to sound like you believe it."

Spike went still for a minute. "'m not the honorary leader."

Zack gave him a look.

"'m not!"

"Right. And everyone's just sitting on their tail ends waiting on word from you because it's so much fun, not to mention productive."

The vampire went rigid for a minute with implication but brushed it off with more of the same. "They jus' knew how important it was to get Buffy out."

"Important to you."

"She's the Slayer, mate! It doesn' get more important than that."

"There would've been others. So is the lifeline of the Slayer." Wright's hands came up in measure of defense when that observation earned a particularly nasty glare. "I'm just saying. I came into this not knowing shit about Slayers, but I've done my reading and Cordy's filled me in on all the gray areas. Slayers aren't meant to grow old, Spike. Buffy's death was inevitable any way you looked at it. Trying to save her, while noble, would've ultimately proven...ineffective."

"Well, thanks to logic, you've taken care of that."

"What I did had nothing to do with her being the Slayer. I had to get her back."

The vampire snorted. "Right. 'Cause you know her so well."

"No. But I know you...better than I'd like to. Buffy is your link to humanity, Spike. I'm not so stupid that I can't see that. She's the reason you're here with me at all. She's the reason you're not the monster you're supposed to be." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "And aside my pettiness, I couldn't risk that you'd revert to form. 'Cause then I'd be forced to kill you."

"You might hafta yet."

"I know."

"'S a part of havin' a vamp as a chum, Zangy."

"I know."

"So you jus' thought you'd spare yourself an' instead condemn the woman I love to an existence that she's gonna bloody well hate me for...for havin' any part of?" Spike sighed and shook his head. "I'd rather 'ave her dead an' feelin' whatever she was feelin' 'bout me toward the end than alive an' hatin' me forever."

Zack nodded. "How selfish of you."

"Bloody right." The vampire grinned wryly at his friend's surprise that he would accept such a calm resignation. "For the firs' few years, mate, I could live with it. I could live with it as long as she's happy. 'F by the grace of God she overcomes her transformation an'...'f she can be happy, that's all that matters."

"Why do I sense a big ole nasty 'but' in that clause?"

"Because there is one. Eventually, mate, her friends are gonna snuff it. Then she's gonna be left alone." Spike expelled a deep, mournful breath, and the sobriety in his countenance betraying everything that he didn't really need to say. "An' when it comes down to that, I don' want her seekin' me out 'cause I'm all she's got left. I don' want her...like that. Whatever happiness she has for the whole of fifty years 's gonna be nothin' compared to the loneliness after that. There'd be no one else for her. No other vamps. No Peaches. No one. I don' wanna be the last resort. Not after what we've shared." He shook his head. "I don' want her to spend the whole of eternity hatin' me for bein' too bloody selfish to give her up. I don' want her crawlin' to me for bein' the only one left. I jus'..."

There was no reason to clarify. Wright understood well enough.

"But you still won't kill her."

"No. I can't." The vampire made a pitiful sound and shook his head. "I can't kill her, mate, an' spare her that. No matter what I...I lost her once today. It nearly destroyed me. Those few seconds nearly destroyed me. I can't do it again."

There was a snort. "What we have here is an ethical dilemma."

"For two blokes who don' really favor ethics, 's a pretty sizey one."

"I don't regret it, Spike. I don't regret what I did. It saved you both." Wright smiled softly. "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe she'll see that."

A pause settled between them. Heavy and coated with incredulity. There was no want of belief. No want of anything beyond solitude. "...Maybe."

There could be no truth in supposition. Both knew enough to see that.

But neither decided to raise challenge. Not to what was already known. Not when they were battling the enemy that sat atop an uphill front. Not when they were out of ammunition.

Not when everything seemed over.

Arrival at the Hyperion went, for all intents and purposes, as was expected. Cordelia nearly doubled over when she saw them standing in the doorway, shielding Rosie's eyes and demanding that she return to her coloring book. As though the child was a stranger to such things. As though she had never before seen a body before. As though she hadn't predicted it with the morning's rise.

There was some comfort in selective ignorance. No one thought to question her.

"Oh my God," she gasped, approaching tentatively. "Spike...I'm so sorry."

The vampire smiled gratefully, too overwhelmed at the moment to explain any further what had happened. To his credit, he tried. Several times. Tried to open his mouth and explain what would come about in the evening. What to expect when the Slayer discovered her fate. But he couldn't say it—he couldn't bring himself to for any reason. Thus instead, he turned to Wright and explained calmly that the demon hunter would fill her in. For the time being, he was going upstairs.

"Why?" she asked.

"To clean her," he explained. "'m not gonna let her stay like this."

And that was all he said—there was nothing else to say. He carried her to the master suite that Cordelia had set up for him the day of his arrival. The same that had gone virtually unused. It was comfortable, even posh, but his attention was far removed. In the adjoining bathroom, he stripped Buffy of his duster, turned the shower on hot, and entered with her in his arms. It was a quick excursion—holding her bare, dirty and abused body against his clad form as he washed the grime from her skin and massaged shampoo into her scalp. Watching the spiral of blood and dirt dance down the drain. Feeling the fresh wounds inflicted on her flesh. Feeling where Angelus had hurt her the most.

Feeling the rage he thought impossible to influx any further instead expand and nearly break his chest.

He didn't linger in the shower; merely dampened her skin and shampooed her hair. Got the worst of her clean before moving them to the tub.

It was a strange angle and he would be the first to admit it. Time and experience had taught him many different ways to care for someone who was otherwise incapable of caring for themselves. He couldn't fathom how often he had tended to Drusilla in a similar manner. Bathing her. Feeding her. Making sure she had all the essentials for survival. Even before Prague, his deranged ex-lover had never possessed the central knowledge on how to care for herself. She relished the kill, no doubt, but she also entertained whims that were far too capricious for her own good. And it had been that way for years—he had accepted the reality that he was her saving grace. Without Angelus and Darla, she wouldn't have survived. And after they were gone, there was no one but him to give a damn.

That had changed, of course. Everything changed.

Spike found himself smiling at Buffy's frozen face, despite the invasion of self-aimed horror that such inevitably bore. Yes, everything changed. He had changed. He had changed so much.

And now he was taking care of the Slayer in a way that he never would have wished upon her. One of the things he loved about her was her ability to not only tend to herself, but also care for others in a manner that succeeded in both vexing him greatly and increasing his admiration for her in massive proportion. He had never wanted to see her so weak. So needy. Drusilla had needed him, and that knowledge had provided sufficient substitution for his desire for her to love him as he loved her. He wanted Buffy to love him completely—not depend on him.

Despite how he tried, he couldn't see beyond tomorrow. Beyond the face of admiration turned into staunch hatred. The thought alone was nearly enough persuasion to lead him to the sun. One could not touch her, make her smile, share the wealth that was her joy and have it turn to ash with the whim of such a fatal mistake.

But try as he might, he could not bear the thought of taking it back. Even his condemnation for Wright's actions had halted resolutely in his mouth.

He had a feeling the night would be a plague of these thoughts. Right now, he had to devote his time elsewhere. Into making sure she woke up warm and loved. That she found the world a better place than the one she had left. That she knew, despite how things might have changed, that she was safe here. With him. And always would be.
Thus he bathed her. Thoroughly. He worshipfully eradicated every stain that befell her ivory skin. He cleaned her cuts and mended her wounds even as he knew her own innate fortitude would serve just as well. The marks of transformation were beginning to claim her. Vampirism in cahoots with her Slayer power.

He smiled poignantly at the notion. The gods themselves do tremble.

It was finished, then. Everything he could have done to make her wake comfortable. To make her reemergence—her rebirth, for lack of a better term, as wholly gentle as possible. He dried her off with more of the same and adorned her in some of Cordelia's things that he found set across his bed. At any other time, he would have found it odd that he hadn't heard her come in. But not now. Not with his thoughts so singular that nothing short of the apocalypse could hope to break his walls.

Spike gently laid Buffy in bed and pulled the comforters to provide falsified warmth. Seeing her alabaster skin set against the white of the sheets was discomforting. She was too pale. She had always been paler than any other normal Californian due to her duties, but her color now was nearly nonexistent. Kept too long from the sun and subject too often to torment and pain. And now this. Lifeless. Dead.

He hated the notion.

How long he sat with her, he knew not. Time had no qualm of passing without his consent. He sat in disturbed silence, watching her for all her stillness, contemplating the hours ahead with such growing dread that he thought it possible for his heart to begin pounding. With each passing second, the threat of her hatred threatened to shatter whatever was left in him to shatter. The proverbial noose tightening around his neck. The same being that didn't need air now depended on it; he felt whatever notion of decency moved within him threatening to leave with more of the same if he did not find some sort of consolation.

The only consolation that could satisfy was through her touch, and he knew she was unreachable.

He had come so close. So fucking close.

But it wasn't about him. It never had been.

Sometime past dark, the door creaked open and the scent of warm blood hit the air. Spike found himself jarred out of whatever perpetual reverie he was destined to relive until she awoke and found himself more than grateful for the disturbance. He turned to the door and was greeted by Cordelia's warm, sympathetic smile. She extended the proffered mug and sat down at the corner of the bed, more than mindful not to disturb Buffy's seemingly endless slumber.

The vampire regarded her carefully before turning his attention to her gift. It seemed forever had passed since he last fed, and he knew he likely would have forgotten to had she not made the gesture. "Thanks," he said hoarsely, indulging a large gulp.

She shrugged. "I thought you could use a friend."

There was a telling snort and he arched a brow. "'S that what we are?"

"Oh, don't. Don't even."

"'m not doin' anythin'."

"Yes, you are. You're brooding." When his eyes widened comically at the implication, she brought her hands up in ode of innocence. "I'm just stating a fact, here. And trust me, I'd know. Hello, worked for a brooding vamp for two years. I think I'm well enough skilled in this level of expertise to pinpoint the signs."

He sniggered appreciatively and took another drink. "That was below the bloody belt, you know."

"Of course. I'm Cordelia. I only aim below the belt. It's the only surefire way to get the point across." There was a shadow of a smile before he melted away to nothingness again, his eyes traveling to the still woman that had been cared for to the extent of his abilities. No matter how he exercised himself, there always seemed to be something lacking. As though more could be done in preparation for her wake, even if he knew it otherwise.

So in danger was he in immersing himself in his thoughts once more that he would have forgotten the other woman's presence had she not placed a warm hand on his knee and jarred him back to the present. "You did everything you could," she told him softly.

Spike couldn't help it; he snickered. "Yeh. Sure did."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"Doesn' matter; I was."

"And again with the brooding. I'm going to need to whack you upside the head every few seconds to keep this from becoming a dangerous habit, aren't I?" She sighed when he didn't answer, detached and overdrawn. "He did what he thought was right. You know how he feels about this."

"Y'know, after today, 'm seriously beginnin' to have my doubts."

"Right. And that's why you made his acquaintance at the wrong end of a crossbow."

"Luv, at my age, you're not lookin' to find many things that I haven't seen the wrong end of." A sigh coursed through his agonized body, and he leaned forward in despair. "She's never gonna forgive me for this."

Cordelia pursed her lips, rubbing his back softly. "Sure she is."

A bitter chuckle rumbled through his lips. "'S not that simple."

"Of course not. But everything's forgivable, Spike. Even for stuck-up Slayers."

"Watch it."

She arched a brow. "You speak as though it's not the truth."

The vampire glanced upward, tormented eyes glimmering with beads of hidden amusement. "'Aven't you ever heard of respectin' the dead?"

"Yeah. Kinda figured that one's a pick and choose type of thing. Selective respect. Wouldn't want to be respecting the wrong sort of dead."

Spike smiled ruefully. "Got that for bloody right." His gaze once again fell upon the Slayer. She remained as she had before. "This is a terrible feelin'."

Cordelia nodded, her hand resuming the artless patterns of comfort that drew across his back. "Being afraid?" She smiled warmly when he glanced to her with astonishment, disliking that he was that simple to read. "It's okay to be afraid from time to time, you know. Even for a vampire."

"'ve never been afraid before."

"Yes you have. You've been terrified since you first came here. Terrified that she'd die." When he stiffened in implication, a sigh of concession rumbled through her lips. "It wasn't your fault, Spike. You did everything you could. Absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent everything you could. I've never seen anyone care for anyone the way I saw you care for her these past few...however long you've been here."

An embittered chuckle rumbled through his body. "Funny how you lose track of time when you're havin' fun, innit luv?"

"That's not how the saying goes, and you're purposefully steering me from my point."

"Din't know you had one of those."

She smirked. "Thanks. My point is, this is the first time that your job saving her has entailed you to do nothing but wait. That's why you're feeling your fear now."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don' like it."

"Well, Pouty McPoutsAlot, what are you gonna do about it? Sit up here and brood?" Cordelia followed his gaze to the bed, where Buffy lay still unchanged. "She'll forgive you."

A choking sob that he didn't even realize he had been harboring spilled from his lips, desperate and unbidden. Funny how emotion could creep up on him of its own entertainment. He had never thought himself so fucking open. "You can't know that. You don' know...God, what have I done to her? She's gonna hate me, Cordy. An' I can't bloody well—"

"Anyone who's seen you at all since you got here knows damn well what you've been going through to get her back. And if you're that transparent to us, then I can't begin to imagine just how much you've revealed during your private time with Buff." She covered his hand with her own, encasing his cold with her warmth. "She'll understand. It wasn't your fault, Spike. She'll have to see that."

He shook his head. "She's gonna hate me."

"Then, frankly, she doesn't deserve you." When his head whipped to her with nearly accusing rapidity, she offered nothing more than a sincere smile. Nothing out of malice or cruel suggestion—it was the truth of feeling. And at that moment, he knew for the first time what it meant to have friends. Real friends. People that would stand by him, through the good and bad decisions. People that accepted him for what he was.

It was spectacular, and only served to terrify him more.

Things were so much simpler when one lived alone.

"I'm gonna head back downstairs," the Seer announced, patting him twice in support before standing once more. "You really oughta come with."

"No. 'm stayin' here." Spike turned back to fully face the bed. "'m not gonna leave her until...'m not gonna leave her."

"Man," she remarked teasingly. "Talk about commitment."

"Cordelia..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll be back up in an hour or so...just to see if you need something."

"Thanks, pet. I appreciate it."

She knelt forward to kiss his forehead, again reveling in the look of shocked wonder her warm actions received. "No prob. Anything's better than sitting around while Wes is in research mode. Something about the girl I saw in my vision earlier."

The vampire nodded noncommittally. "Oh."

"Yeah, it was a thing before...well, it was a thing." She moved for the door. "Remember, we're all downstairs if you need anything."

Spike grinned expressively without facing her. "Kinda hard to forget."

There was nothing in reply, even though he sensed her linger for a few minutes thereafter. It was easy to detect when she left, though his mind was far detached from present to make definitive note about it. It was difficult to consider anything while Buffy slept.

So he sat in silence. Satisfied with that as his fate. Watching her in death.

And waiting.

He ended up on the bed beside her; couldn't explain why fully.

Well, he could. Sure he could. The separation was enough to kill a weaker man—he was feeling it through every unholy strain in his body. The connection their combined blood had forged. Anything and everything. Whatever there was in the world of metaphysics that pulled him to her. Even a few feet at this stage was intolerable.

And if he were entirely selfish—a crime to which he had already confessed his guilt—he would acknowledge that he wanted the opportunity to hold her once while she slept. Just once. Once before the world he had created for them shattered. Before his nightmares became reality. Before he looked into her eyes and saw hatred bounce back at him.

That would come tomorrow. He was allowed this. This peace. This solace at her side. This, if nothing else.

Spike rested then, his hand finding hers. Entwining his fingers with hers, gracing the inside of her wrist with a kiss before moving his tender touch to her temple. He berated himself when he felt his eyes well with tears once more. God knows he had cried more these past two days to satisfy the rest of eternity for the both of them.

And then, there they were; the words he hadn't allowed himself to voice. Not aloud. Not to her. He could hold them back no longer, even if she couldn't hear them. Just once, they had to be said. Just once without the fear of revulsion in return. He needed it. For himself. For her. To satisfy any end out there that remained untied.

"I love you."

There. A weight lifted. Despite what the morrow brought, it was out there. His confession. What had driven him this far. What had prompted him into that self-made inferno. What had served as his cause for everything.

It was more than enough.

With that, Spike's eyes fluttered shut. His hand tightened around hers, depending on that connection. And for the first time in days, sleep apprehended him. He allowed himself this. This rest. This last before the tears the next day was bound to bring.

Rest at the side of the one he loved. A dreamless sleep before the fall.

It didn't seem too much to ask.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Morning Song

“Well, well,” Wright drawled as the doors to the Hyperion whisked open, allowing Lindsey McDonald entrance. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

The lawyer glared at him, rubbing his brow as if to banish himself of an oncoming headache. “Could you possibly think of something a little more cliché, because that just wasn’t cliché enough.”

“I’m sure I could if I tried.”

“Well, for my sake as well as yours, please don’t.” He shook his head heavily, casting a heavy eye to Cordelia, who—of the two—earned the most compassion. “What happened, do you know?”

The question prompted a snicker from the demon hunter. “What? And we’re supposed to believe that you don’t?”

“They didn’t tell me anything, all right? I couldn’t even get clearance to leave the building until an hour ago. By the time I got to my office, my things had been removed and, for all I know, disposed of.” Lindsey chuckled wryly, hand persistent at caressing his brow. There was truth in what he said; his appearance wafted the illusion of a man that had been hit and rolled over with a semi-truck. “I guess I owe Lilah a thank you. In some perverse way, she saved my life.”

Cordelia frowned, motioning him to the vacant plush cushion in the middle of the lobby. “What do you mean?”

“No, no,” the demon hunter interrupted, making a very stringent gesture with his hand. “He’s not staying,”

“Zack, he looks like hell.”

“Thanks.”

Her brows arched in sympathy. “Well, you do.”

“I don’t care if he looked like the Pope. He’s not staying.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Lindsey volunteered, “do I know you?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened incredulously. “Great. That shortens the list to people in this and approximately fifty surplus demon dimensions. Way to help.”

“I do my best.”

“GUYS!” Cordelia held up a hand, her patience notably on edge. “It’s not like fighting’s going to change anything. Quite frankly, I already feel a headache coming on, and if there can ever be a day when I don’t have one, I’d really prefer it to be now. ‘Cause you know. Seer. Headaches. Kinda acts like an accessory to the action figure package.”

As though acting in direct defiance to her decree, Gunn and Wesley strolled into the foyer from the Watcher’s office.

“What’s Evil doing here?” the former demanded.

The Seer tossed an acerbic smile to the ceiling. “Thanks PTB. I appreciate it. Oh, by the way, when I die from severe hemorrhaging, it’s so going to be your fault.”

“Now, now, Gunn,” Wesley said lowly. “We don’t want to jump to any conclusions.”

“Right,” came the disbelieving retort. “We end up with a sired Slayer on our hands and now a spokesman from Hell Incorporated shows up? I don’t really consider that jumping to conclusions. More a very unhappy coincidence.” He crossed his arms and jutted his chin at McDonald, eyes dark and serious. “You gonna talk, bro?”

“Sired Slayer?” Lindsey demanded worriedly, jumping to his feet as he glanced to Cordelia for confirmation.

Wright couldn’t suppress the snicker that climbed into his throat. “Yeah. Like you didn’t know.”

The snippy remark earned a sharp glance of warning from the Seer. “Back off, Zack. He’s telling the truth.”

“And what? Your magic powers tell you so?”

Gunn’s hands went up and his eyes grew wide. “Hey man. Chill. If Cordy says it’s cool, it’s cool.”

There was a moment’s consideration—the demon hunter so swamped with contempt that his eyes refused to bow to even the slightest hint of leeway. The attack was unprovoked and would remain as such, but one could not dismiss the radical strain of tension ringing through his form. In such a state, he was prone to direct his anger at anyone. Even the person in the room that mattered the most. For what was said, he could not help himself. “Oh. Right. Because Cordy’s all wise, all knowing, all powerful.”

At that, the woman in question reeled with a slap of instant offense. Wright nearly felt it before she did, and his expression instantly softened. “I didn’t mean that,” he said softly. “That was out of line. That was…I’m sorry.”

She glanced down, avoiding his gaze. “Sounded like you meant it.”

“I didn’t.”

The lawyer raised his hand. “I’d like to second Cordelia on this one.”

Zack smiled at him unpleasantly. “Well, I’d like to see you castrated. I’ll give you yours if you give me mine.”

Lindsey blinked at him. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t care if you know me. I know you. And I know you’re affiliated with the corporation that murdered my friend’s girlfriend. That’s all I need to know. So take your fucking business elsewhere. We’re out of rooms.”

Gunn frowned at Wes. “We are?”

The former Watcher shook his head. “It’s a metaphor. Albeit, not a very good one, but a metaphor nonetheless.”

“That’s too bad,” McDonald replied, gaze refusing to waver from the demon hunter. “I was so hoping for a vacancy.”

“Tally another notch for the Bad Metaphors Party,” Cordelia muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Sorry. We don’t let ruthless killers stay with a smile and a nod.”

Wesley’s brows arched at that. “Well, actually…”

“It’s all right,” Lindsey said, waving dismissively. “I’m a lawyer; I’m accustomed to hypocrisy.”

That was it. The proverbial breaking point. Wright stormed forward heatedly, flashes of anger coloring his face with such potency that rage could have formed a tangible companion. Not one inch of him failed to ripple with ire. “Fuck the rest of it,” he growled, breaking without precedent and shoving the lawyer with the reserves—the energy he used only on demons. The sort of strength that required years of training to accumulate. The other man fell back with more surprise than anything else, making no attempt to retaliate, despite his nose for it. As if he thought such manners of defense were outlawed to him for what he was and what crimes he had committed.

The accusation came again. Heated. Raw. Black. Completely void of compassion, despite the cries of protest swimming around them. “You murdered my friend’s girlfriend.”

Lindsey found himself on the floor, panting harshly. The desolation that overwhelmed him was brief, all things considered, but enough revealed to merit his sincerity. The marksmanship for genuine regret. It was bad fortune that Wright did not see it. “Actually,” he said, fighting to his feet. “I was incapacitated. I knew too late, all right? I was in my office waiting for Gregori, and the next thing I knew, I was in the medical wing. They had me unnecessarily stabilized for eighteen hours as Lilah pulled every string she could to get me out of there in a taxi rather than a body bag. There was nothing I could do, all right? Not a damn thing.”

“Nice,” Gunn appraised with a whistle. “What I wouldn’t give to have friends in high places.”

“Friends?” the lawyer sputtered indignantly. “Hardly. I don’t know why she did it. I really don’t. Call it professional courtesy, or don’t. Call it whatever the fuck you want.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. What I do know is that I woke up without a job, a car, or an apartment. Everything’s been seized by Wolfram and Hart.” His spread his hands helplessly. “I’m homeless.”

Wesley frowned. “They fired you?”

“I’m saying so. And hey, I’m not complaining. In retrospect, firing me was the tamest thing they could’ve done. I’m surprised, quite frankly, to be standing.”

“Why?”

Lindsey perked a brow. “Why am I surprised to be standing? Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

“No. Why did they fire you? There must have been a reason.”

The answer to that inquiry seemed equally obvious, but there was something in the man’s countenance that betrayed an understanding that he was most certainly not at the advantage here, and cooperation was his saving grace from being abandoned and completely vulnerable. “Because I’m a liability.” He emitted a long, burdened breath. “Because since Buffy was escorted into my office, I have done nothing but torment myself on both my responsibility in her being there and how to get her out. And yes, while my actions were not fast enough, while…while everything I did or didn’t do bit me in the ass…I did try.”

“Yeah,” Wright agreed sharply. “You failed.”

Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, so did you. And…do I know you?”

“He’s a friend,” Cordelia offered.

“Yeah. That I gathered.”

“He’s also somehow gotten the idea that this is his hotel,” Gunn observed. “Yo, man. I like you. I really do. But you can’t just waltz in here and start playing boss. We all voted Wes in. Deal.”

“Well, Charlie,” Zack retorted, ignoring the flare of annoyance that sparkled behind the man’s eyes. “I don’t work for Angel Investigations, and even if I did, at this point, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck.”

“We’re all worried,” Wesley offered softly. “These past few hours have been easy for no one.”

“You can say that again,” Lindsey muttered.

“But bickering amongst ourselves isn’t going to solve anything. I don’t really suspect anyone here to be without some share of the blame for what has occurred.” The Watcher turned his gaze heavenwards and heaved a troubled sigh. “Until Buffy awakes, we do not know what to expect.”

“Except that Spike’ll stay with her,” Gunn observed. “It is not easy tryin’ to get that boy to move.”

Wright cleared his throat and cast his eyes downward. “What…what do you think she’ll…what do you think she’ll do?”

“Besides whup his ass several times from Friday for turning her into a member of the pulseless society? Beats me. I don’t even know this chick.” He turned his attention to Cordelia and Wesley, who were exchanging a series of thoughtful glances. “You guys know her. What do you think she’ll do?”

“Don’t ask me,” the Seer said, throwing her hands in the air. “With as much as I’ve changed since high school, I’m willing to bet it’s double for her.”

“I’m willing to bet it’s not,” the former Watcher countered. “Slayers cannot afford to change, Cordelia. No matter how long they live. Waking in a world such as this where she has been transformed into the very creature she was chosen to kill…I do not envy Spike in his task to calm her. There is a reason Slayers are not turned. It’s a dangerous business.”

“So glad you’re going over the ‘dangerous’ part now,” Wright remarked dryly. “Lord knows it wouldn’t have been good to do anything rash.”

“You did what you thought was right.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how much comfort that does not bring me.”

“Guys,” the Seer said neutrally, stepping into the line of fire. “This is getting us nowhere. Standing around and speculating’s not high on the helpful list. The best thing any of us can do right now is give Spike some peace. I’m sure when Buffy wakes up, the last thing he’s gonna want is a bunch of people around to watch—”

It was times like these that the acoustics in the Hyperion were noted for being superbly underestimated. The first touch of Cockney brogue nearly shook the place to the ground, seemingly emanating from all corners, all walls. It touched the air, soared to a life of its own, and reverberated with haunting stillness even after the tag died without ceremony.

“CORDELIA!”

A long, uncertain moment passed. All eyes fell on her.

“You were saying?” Lindsey asked, arching a brow.

The Seer shrugged. “I could be wrong, you know.”

He awoke slowly, encased in sweetness. Drifting down pathways perfumed with vanilla, sunshine, and Buffy Summers. As though light could manifest itself into a tangible being and accompany him through the woods—an old friend visiting for the weekend. It was a bizarre feeling. Spike rarely dreamed; when he did, the visions produced were so realistic that he seldom knew they were conjured out of falsity until he awoke. He had dreamt of holding the Slayer once, of tasting the sweetness from her lips and hearing her confession of wanting just above his own of love. The same dream that had fueled him for countless miles. 

He knew not how long he had been here; it didn’t matter. Buffy was beside him. She was beside him. He felt her hand in his. Felt the cool satin of her skin. If he inhaled, he would be flooded with her fragrance. It was more than one person could ever ask for; he was asking. He was asking and he didn’t imagine himself ever stopping out of worry of avarice.

Something was squeezing his hand. Very, very gently. Cautiously. As though worried any additional strength would break him.

Spike’s eyes fluttered open. And he froze.

Buffy was looking at him.

Every nerve, every impulse wrought into his system drew to an enigmatic standstill. It was unsettling; watching her remember. Watching realization cloud her eyes. Watching the wondrous understanding flood her perspective.

He didn’t know how long she had been awake, and the notion bothered him.

There were so many things he wanted to do; impetuous senses flooded him without prerogative to action. God, simply seeing her look at him was enough to knock the proverbial wind from his lungs. It was astounding—the clarity behind those eyes that had been all too recently dead. The want of knowledge. The confusion marred only with comprehension. God oh God, this had been a bad idea. Being in the same bed with her while she took her first minutes as a vampire was unspeakably intimate; he felt as an intruder that wished to steal the log from the fire when everything else was already in his possession.

It came slowly. Recognition. He remembered those first few minutes of waking all too well. One of the few things that time and age had failed to whither to its own molding. The fear. The bewilderment. The body’s craving for blood—a hunger unidentifiable until the first sip was ingested. The lack of warmth. The lack of a heartbeat. All the things that mere mortals took for granted every day. Every idiosyncrasy that separated vampires from everyone else.

Buffy’s eyes clarified as she looked at him. Remembered him. Remembered herself. She shifted, and his body flowed with her as though under a whim uncontrollable by earthly forces. Her hand constricted around his until she realized that she was likely hurting him; her touch became soft and torturous.

Oh God…

Spike didn’t realize his own eyes had drifted shut until they shot open when she whispered his name against his lips. When he looked at her, she was close. So close. There was no revulsion in her gaze. Nothing to betray herself for repaid debts. Just simple acceptance. Dazed acceptance.

He realized all too late that she wasn’t with him. Not entirely.

“Buffy?”

She blinked twice at the name before allowing a small smile to cross her lips, snuggling deeper into the pillows. “Spike…” Her hand found his face and the effect of her touch was nearly enough to render him helpless for the rest of his days. How long had he wanted this? He rightly couldn’t imagine a time not wanting it, though he knew it had to exist. Had to. She had not been around forever. And now with everything he had ever craved in his possession, he had to give it back.

Buffy didn’t know that, of course. She wasn’t entirely to herself. Her caresses continued softly, waving ripples over his skin. It awed him when her eyes became watery. As though the contact could stimulate her as it did him. Such things were impossible.

But there were tears. There were tears in her eyes. Her gorgeous, vibrant, alive eyes.

“I’m dead,” she said simply. The understanding there was enough to knock him off the bed if he hadn’t been so thoroughly grounded. However, before he could intercede and explain, she plowed through without objection. “Is this Heaven?”

Numbness swept his body.

“Heaven, sweetheart?”

“It’s warm.” That was likely the comforters covering her body—warmth had no place amongst vampires. It was always artificial. Always borrowed. Always not theirs. “It’s warm. I don’t hurt. He’s gone, isn’t he? Angelus is gone.”

Spike nodded slowly, carefully. “’E’s still around, luv,” he clarified. “But far away from you. ‘E won’ touch you again. I won’ bloody well allow it.”

“You’re here.” She smiled sleepily and the image nearly broke him. God, he must be such a disappointment. Giving her everything she wanted only to rip it away within seconds. “And I can finally touch you.”

Her hand ran lovingly through his unkempt platinum locks. Every move she made, every word she spoke, everything that embodied her as she was made his heart constrict to points that were nearly unbearable. He trembled beneath her exploration, battling the incursion of emotion that threatened to spill forward in all his bumbling glory.

She remained oblivious to his suffering. Her hand ran the length down his stationary arm until finding his once more, linking them together in a way that seemed all too personal. “I’ve wanted to touch you forever,” she murmured, nearing provocatively. “But I couldn’t. Couldn’t…no matter how I reached…I—”

Spike’s vision blurred. “Buffy—”

“You found me, though.”

“God, I—”

“I’m sorry. I tried, Spike. I tried so hard.” Her grip on him tightened needily. “I knew you were coming for me. I knew it. God, I felt it. I felt it and then he was there. And he—”
The peroxide vampire nearly tore himself from her arms. He couldn’t stand that. Couldn’t stand the account of her death. Having lived as he had for the past twenty-four hours, living it through her eyes would likely kill whatever was left of him. Feeling her pain. Her fear. Her expectations and aspirations of him. That blinding faith that had gotten her killed. It was the epitome of selfishness and he hated himself for it.

Nevertheless, he remained as he was. Curled against her. Against his Slayer.

She was going to hate him, and he couldn’t stand the thought.

“Buffy…” he whimpered hoarsely. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please…god, forgive me.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled appreciatively, clutching her to him with sudden possessive restriction. “Please oh god please…”

“Spike—”

He pulled away with more of the same and couldn’t help himself. If this was all he was going to get, he would take it without reservation. His mouth found hers and drew her in—needy and desperate. Kisses intermingled with tears. He could taste the salt of his own sorrow flood with her sanctuary. She denied him nothing; gave him whatever he wanted and more. Pressed herself against him in a manner so intimate he had never, even in his wildest, considered possible.

Spike abandoned her mouth to sample the sweetness of her tears. Her relief. Her trust. Her sacred trust that he had broken in the worst manner. Taking everything he could before she thought to shove him away for what he had done to her. “God,” he cried again. “’m so sorry, baby. I…I din’t mean it. I swear I din’t mean it. I…god, please…”

“What—”

Then he couldn’t stand the separation. They were pressed together, but he needed to feel his arms around her. To swallow her with his being without sullying her any further. His body nearly trembled with respite when she reciprocated his possessiveness, curling her arms under his and nuzzling the hollow of his throat with such delicacy. As though she thought he might break.

Spike pressed a trail of wet kisses up and down her alabaster neck, unable to cease the sobs that had commanded him. “Forgive me,” he pleaded softly. “I din’t mean it, luv. My love. Oh Buffy, forgive me.”

It could have gone on forever—this knowledge of her. Holding her to him without the willingness to forfeit what was not rightly his. And he would have been satisfied.

When he felt her fangs sink into his throat, his body wanted to cry out its pleasure. Logic, however, forced no boundary.

She was a newly risen vampire that needed to feed.

And he had made her thus.

The verification of such knowledge was enough to drive him away. Out of the bed, away from the allure of her kisses and the tempestuous fire behind her embrace. The shades of pained confusion that overwhelmed her was the final piece—he needed nothing further. She wasn’t herself. She hadn’t been since waking. She hadn’t even realized that she had bitten him.

It was not a difficult decision to make. He couldn’t be in the room alone with her like this. She was far too tempting.

So he called for the first person that came to mind.

“CORDELIA!”

It took very little. Panting, he stood at the side of the bed, refusing to look away from his girl. He couldn’t.

Her eyes were filling with tears again. Not the good kind.

“Spike,” she said softly. “Tell me what’s going on. Am I dead? Is…what is this?”

Words and confessions halted mercilessly in his throat. It was fortune that Cordelia answered his call before he lost the last ounce of self.

“Hey,” the Seer said in a manner that was both breathless and entirely too casual for anything he could begin to relate to present circumstances. “What’s up?” It was a futile question; her eyes fell on the bed with curtailed realization. “Oh. Hey, Buffy.”

The Slayer frowned. “Cordelia? What…”

“Cordy, pet,” Spike said, his tone all the indication she needed to know that he was teetering on the edge of reason. “I need to feed her.”

He didn’t want to say blood. He didn’t want to have to acknowledge to both her and himself what it was that Buffy’s body was lamenting.

Fortunately, that was all the explanation required. With a short nod, Cordelia disappeared down the hallway. The silence that followed her absence was some of the darkest—not to mention loudest—he had ever known. He refused to look at Buffy. He didn’t want to risk seeing the understanding there. Her dazedness, her failure to yet grasp at reality…he didn’t want to be the first thing that came under a gaze of hatred when she understood that she wasn’t dead. Not really. That he hadn’t saved her. That he had, rather, condemned her for all eternity.

It was inevitability, as all things were.

“Here.” Cordelia was in the room again before he knew it; a mug of crimson goodness at her disposal. A waft of heavenly fragrance that, for the first time since his death, succeeded to turning his stomach rather than exciting it. He found himself holding it the next minute and knew the rest was up to him.

“Do you need me?” the Seer asked courteously. “I could get Zack if—”

“No.”

“Really, it’s no—”

His eyes flared and his tone became clipped. “No.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Right. We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Her gaze fell upon Buffy once more and she offered a small smile of little compensation. “It’s really, really good to see you.”

Bewilderment flooded the Slayer’s tone. “Cordelia?”

“Cordy—”

“Right.” The Seer held up her hands. “I’m gone.”

Buffy glanced back to Spike, eyes ablaze with uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he promised, stepping forward with the cup of thick liquid red temptation. “Firs’, I need you to be a good girl an’ drink this up for me. Can you do that?”

“I…” Any want of denial halted in her throat as he drew nearer. He had sensed her hunger intensify the minute Cordelia brought the blood into the room; now it was nearly burning him from the inside. If she accepted him, it was over. Everything was over. Any want of denial he had wanted to place between himself and the unhappy truth. She could not know what she was doing to him—what she could do with a look. A touch. The smallest flicker of recognition.

“Yes.”

Yes.

“Right.” Spike neared and gave her the mug. He felt oddly pious tied in with inherent bonds of sacrilege—as though he was finalizing her pollution with something he could undo if he wanted it enough. As though the blood on her lips would signify every mean to every end. Drink of the cup. It is my blood, and is poured out for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

The cup was not filled with his blood; it did not need to be. His blood was already within her. It had brought her this far.

He watched her with sadness that knew no final plunge. Watched as she downed every last, sacred drop.

So it was. If not for the death, if not for the rising, if not for the fangs, if not for knowledge, then definitely for this.

Buffy was a vampire. He made her into his own image.

He had damned her.

Spike collapsed wearily to his knees, hiding his face. She mustn’t see his tears.

It couldn’t last—he couldn’t hide from her forever. Wanting would never make it so. Thus when she implored him, he did not deny her.

She was examining the empty mug with the worst form of knowledge. “What happened?”

There it was.

“I…” he gasped, fighting to his feet. “I din’t mean it, Buffy. I tried. God…you were there an’ you were dead. You had left me. You…” A sigh of defeat rolled off his shoulders. No more lies. “I made you into what I am. You’re a vampire.”

The silence that embraced them was as fatal as any he had ever endured.

Then she blinked. Once, twice, and retreated within herself. “Oh.”

Spike reeled. It was neither casually accepting nor fueled with hatred and demands of repaired glory. Her mind was piecing itself back together. She didn’t understand; she couldn’t understand. Whatever level of comprehension she needed to aspire was blocking her from the truth. From what she had known since she opened her eyes. Since looking at him.

She was living in a dreamworld.

The knowledge broke his heart all over again.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, begging her near. “’m gonna give you a bath.”

She didn’t need it. He did. He needed something to distract himself. Space between them was unbearable even though her presence was nearly noxious to his existence. Now when she could destroy him with a look, a word, a gesture of significance. Still, the fact that she was perfectly clean seemed to escape her, and she nodded her compliance.
Spike decided then that the best way to avoid a breakdown was to continue talking. To console her with words while similarly forbidding himself to think. He began idly chattering about the Hyperion. How her former Watcher and Cordelia were running a nifty little set up. He mentioned Wright and his affinity for weapons. He told her of Rosalie, the amazing little Seer that had tied herself to him. That had become his link to the Powers That Be. He shared his adventures as though reciting a history book. He did anything and everything to keep her occupied as the bath began to draw.

“Sung me a piece down at Caritas,” he was saying as he lifted her shirt over her head, unable to suppress the gasp of pain that shuddered through his body when she immediately trembled to be thus exposed so close to her release. The marks aligning her skin were close to fading, and she looked to him as Aphrodite. He did not tell her that. He wanted to draw her attention as far from herself as possible. To comment on his favoritism to her seemed to be falling very out of integrity. He didn’t care how she was presented to him: she was Buffy. That was all there was to that. “Gunn wanted me to do Billy Idol—ha bloody ha, right?—but I figured I’d stun the crowd with some sentimental rot. Din’t really matter to me what it was. ‘S not like your fortune changes dependin’ on the song you sing.”

She nodded dazedly and turned from him, allowing him to draw her hair over her shoulders.

“Lorne sent me to meet Zangy after that. ‘E was…” Spike trailed off when he realized that he had lost his audience—that whatever delayed attention she had given him was no longer his for the taking. When he looked up to see what had caught her eye, he felt dead blood freeze within his veins.

There it was. There it fucking was.

At that moment, he didn’t know what was worse. The horror on Buffy’s face, or the understanding it protected. That wretched understanding. The knowledge that finally surfaced above her confused lethargy. The same that would seal whatever was left of either of them.

She was cemented on the floor, staring at the mirror with the worst form of realization. Of comprehension. Of truth.

But nothing stared back.

Nothing.